Amanda Stevens - The Dollmaker

“It wasn’t like that,” Claire said. “Alex and I were happy for a while. We just drifted apart.”

But even as she denied it, she felt something that might have been the truth tearing at her heart, and the weight of an old loneliness pressing down on her. Sometimes she thought that crushing loneliness must be a little like being buried alive.

A couple walked by on the sidewalk, their forms not much more than shifting silhouettes in the misty darkness. Their hands were linked, their bodies pressed closely together, and as Claire watched them pass beneath a streetlight, moments from her past flashed in her mind like photographs. She thought it strange how memories could lie dormant for years, and then when they came back suddenly, it was as if they’d been there all along. Not forgotten or lost, but lingering on the edges of consciousness, the pain softened by time and experience, but never extinguished. Never completely gone.

“Only one man’s ever made you happy, Claire.”

“Let it be, Mama. I don’t feel much like resurrecting old ghosts tonight.”

“You’re the one who brought it up.”

“We were talking about Alex, not Dave.”

“Dave is your past, Claire. Alex is just a mistake.”

Claire watched the couple on the street until they were out of sight. The mist turned into a drizzle and the temperature started to drop as the rain clouds moved in from the Gulf.

They sat in silence, and after a while Lucille began to doze off. In the dim light from the streetlamp, her face looked soft and peaceful, until her elbow slipped off the arm of the chair and she woke with a start.

“Why don’t you go on to bed, Mama? You couldn’t have gotten much rest last night. You must be all worn out today.”

“I’m a little tired, I guess, but what about you? You’re not ready to turn in?”

“Not just yet. I think I’ll sit out here and watch the rain for a while. If the weather gets bad, I’ll move inside.”

Lucille got up and came over to drop a kiss on the top of Claire’s head. “Don’t stay out here all night, now. You need to get some rest, too.”

“I won’t. I’ll see you in the morning.”

“Good night, Claire.”

“Good night, Mama.”

The door closed softly behind Lucille, and Claire turned back to the street. A few cars went by, their tires sloshing on the wet pavement, but the pedestrians had all scurried inside. The sidewalks were empty and glistening as raindrops pattered against banana leaves, and a cooling breeze whispered through the oak and pecan trees. A dog barked excitedly in a neighbor’s backyard and then fell silent.

The hair at the back of Claire’s neck lifted suddenly; she didn’t know why. She saw nothing unusual, heard only sounds she’d listened to on countless other rainy nights.

But something was different. Something had shifted in her quiet little world, and as she sat alone on her front porch, she felt the darkness closing in on her.

Claire opened her eyes. A noise had awakened her, but she didn’t know if it was real or imagined. She lay in that fragile half-sleep state and listened to the night. The wind had risen since she’d gone to bed, and the live oak outside her bedroom raked against the side of the house as rain slashed across the windows.

Even on a calm night, the house was full of sounds. Claire had never minded the creaks and groans of settling wood, but since Alex moved out, she hadn’t been sleeping well. Everything seemed to wake her these days. Maybe it was because she’d never lived alone before.

She’d married Dave right out of high school, and they’d lived in her grandmother’s garage apartment until splitting up after Ruby disappeared. Claire had stayed on in the apartment for a while before moving in with her ailing grandmother. A year later, Maw-Maw was dead and Claire had found herself married to Alex. She was never quite certain how it happened. Her life back then had seemed like a dream she couldn’t wake up from. One moment she’d been married to Dave and they’d had a beautiful little girl they both adored, and then in the blink of an eye, it had all been stolen on a hot, clear afternoon.

Her daughter’s kidnapping had been the defining moment of Claire’s life. Nothing before or after was ever going to be as important. That was the real reason her marriage to Alex had collapsed. There were times when the weight of her memories had pushed her so deeply into sadness that only the past seemed real to her. Alex had been patient up to a point, but Claire couldn’t blame him for his resentment.

She closed her eyes and tried to go back to sleep. But it was no use. She was wide-awake now. She fluffed her pillow, tugged up the covers, then sighed in resignation.

Rolling over, she stared at the empty space that was Alex’s side of the bed. She pictured him lying there beside her, his brown hair mussed in sleep, his bare chest rising and falling with each breath. She used to stare at him while he slept, wondering why she couldn’t love him the way he deserved to be loved. He was a good man, a good husband. He was everything she needed, everything she should have wanted…but he hadn’t been able to make her forget.

She put a hand on his pillow, remembering the way his skin had felt beneath her palm. Remembering the way he would open his eyes, his gaze deepening as he reached for her in the dark. Remembering how, in those first months of marriage, she’d thought too many times of Dave’s touch.

And Alex had known. He’d pretended not to, of course, but he knew. How could he not? And in time his jealousy had turned into a festering bitterness.

Claire flopped onto her back and stared at the ceiling. The lightning created interesting patterns in the plaster. She tried to picture that same delicate design in a piece of glass. It was a trick she used to lull herself to sleep. She imagined herself slowly turning the blowpipe in the furnace, capturing a bit of honey like glass on the end and continuing to work it evenly so that it didn’t drip off. Step by step, she went through the arduous process, keeping the glass centered as she worked, adding layers and colors and using wet newspapers to control the shape.

Claire was so deep into the imagery that the sound of shattering glass almost didn’t register. And then she bolted upright in bed, her heart pounding in terror.

The sound hadn’t been imagined or dreamed this time. Something had been knocked over and broken.

Someone was in her house.

She tried to convince herself that her mother had probably gone downstairs for a glass of water, or even some warm milk, if the storm had awakened her, too. There was nothing to worry about. No need to panic.

Claire listened for a moment, hoping that she would hear Lucille’s footfalls on the stairs. But when no sound came, she swung her legs over the side of the bed and sat on the edge, one ear turned toward the door.

Another sound came to her then, softer than the first and followed by a stealthy, waiting silence, as if someone somewhere in the house stood listening for her.

It was dark in her room, but Claire didn’t turn on the light. Instead, she picked up the phone and lifted it to her ear. Then almost immediately lowered it. Was she really going to call 911? What if her mother had gone downstairs for some reason? What if the police responded to Claire’s call, only to discover Lucille in the kitchen having a midnight snack?

Besides, Claire didn’t want word of a distress call getting back to Alex. He’d rush over, thinking that he had to protect her, and another argument would ensue. She wasn’t up to dealing with that tonight.

Sliding open the nightstand drawer, she pulled out the pistol that Dave had given her years ago after she’d been mugged on Canal Street. She’d never liked having a gun in the house, especially after Ruby came along, and she’d always meant to get rid of the thing. But now there it was, loaded and ready, a comforting weight in her hand as she disengaged the safety.