Carmen Speaks.

Last night, I dreamed of your Scarlett O’Hara doll. I don’t know if you remember her because you weren’t allowed to play with her much. Only once, that I recall. I bought her before Samy was killed (which meant we had no extra money), and your grandmother exploded about the cost. Scarlett O’Hara, the first in the Gone with the Wind series by Madame Alexander. I intended to buy all of that collection—Rhett, Mammie, Melanie—but Scarlett was as far as I got. You were never much for dolls, anyway; I must have been doing it for myself. It’s a mother daughter thing, Lorraine. Mothers always try to give their daughters their collapsed dreams, thwarted ambitions, chances missed but shouldn’t be missed again; unfortunately, what we pass on are a hodge-podge of plans impossible to achieve.

            This particular Scarlett was in the dress she wore at the Twin Oaks barbeque, the afternoon she professed her love for Ashley and was mocked by Rhett. The skirt had a hooped rim that caused it to stand out, which was necessary because this costume had bloomers but no petticoats. There are other styles now—I’ve seen them in toy shops, which I sometimes frequent on the days I wonder if I have grandkids—but this Scarlett wore only a set of pantaloons beneath. I reached for the doll and saw that tears had pooled in her eyes. They clung to her eyelashes but when I wiped them away, they formed again.

            I laid her flat on your bed, so the lids would close. This next part may sound odd, but I wanted to see the doll naked. I had an urge to bathe the body, thinking it had stayed on the shelf too long and was dusty; maybe she was crying because she felt unclean. I undressed her and turned her over, moved the arms and legs, but nowhere could I find the slightest smudge. She even smelled clean, and then the pan of bubbles I used to make for you when I took my bath worked its way into my thoughts. You may not remember the bubble pan because you were so young, but you always left the kitchen in a mess, and I had to clean it quickly before your grandmother paid her morning visit. I didn’t want to listen to her fuss; besides, it was a private thing.

            There was no reason to wash the doll, and in my dream, I redressed her, starting first with her hat, of all things, and then her shoes. They wouldn’t fit. I had them on the right feet, I know I did, but just to make sure I tried again. A toe bulged.  A strap broke. Then, words began to appear, some written with bold, black marks, others razor thin. The letters began to fade as soon as they were written, so fast that I couldn’t read the words before they disappeared. I squinted, but it was hopeless. I wanted to cuddle the doll, but her eyes were now open and glittering with malice. I screamed out loud, waking myself and Lyle. I told him everything, and he said when I got over the shock, I should write you a letter and mail it this time.

            This time. 

            You see, I’ve written you many letters over the years, but either crumpled them or X’ed out my thoughts with such a heavy hand that when I wanted to go back and try again, I couldn’t read what I’d written. I’m scared, Lorraine, but the best way to fight fear is with the truth. I’m going to tell you the real reasons I didn’t come back, and I can do this without a drink in sight.

            Even now, I think about that doll’s skin. Is that what happened to you? Did people mark you because of what I did? Did you develop a tough hide so no one can touch you? I hope not.

            I meant to write this letter in one fell swoop, spilling out my past as my once ulcerous stomach used to spill yellow bile. I don’t have ulcers now, but my stomach still knots up occasionally, and it’s knotted now. Why in the hell, you’re probably thinking, can’t she just tell me what I want to know? God, what a self-absorbed woman. I’m going to throw this letter in the trash.

Don’t do it, Lorraine. 

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