Doorway Conversations

Art by Marlow Amick (2019 archive)

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        This wasn’t a doorway conversation. I felt a shift in the air; the breeze through my open window halted and held its breath like it does before a storm. My mom leaned in the doorway, her toe brushing the line where the hallway meets my carpeted floor. She tested the water. I hoped she’d flinch away from the cold and retreat downstairs. She didn’t. The temperature suited her, propelling her forward into my room to ask, “You excited for your party?” 

        “Yeah.” I sat on the edge of my bed, bouncing up and down as I settled into place. 

        My mom made her way to a cushy corner chair and sat, smoothing out her shirt as she got comfortable. With a strain in her voice, she told me, “I just heard from Aunt Tracey.” 

        I swallowed. “And?”

        She sighed, then said, “Leah’s got the flu. She can’t come tonight.” 

        My chest deflated like a week-old balloon. “Can we pick another day?”

        “What about the girls from school? What’ll you tell them?” 

        My snap bracelet of a spine grew rigid, my grip white on pastel bedsheets. I grew acutely aware of the paper folder in my backpack—the cheap kind that flakes at the edges as if I’d chewed it. My mom had been so excited to hand the homemade invitations to me that I couldn’t bring myself to part with them. Disposing of them like used tissues felt unsanctioned.

        I stared too long; my mom looked from the backpack to me. “You gave them their invitations, didn’t you Soph?” Her voice was the idle hum of a school bus, the kind that sent vibrations up my sticky seat. 

        I swallowed, then mumbled, “Yeah,” under my breath, but by the time the word left my mouth, my mom was on the prowl. She pried open my backpack and took the folder in her hands. Her back faced me, but I knew the look that painted her face. Whenever I got angry, my forehead grew the same distinct crease—it was my birthright. As she turned around, invitations in hand, I squeezed my eyes shut as if I manned a spaceship plummeting toward the Earth. 

        “Soph.”

        I opened one eye, my body curling in on itself in anticipation. I opened the other. 

        No crease above her brow. No wrinkled nose. Just a thin line where her lips once were. “Do they give you a hard time at school?”

        I stared down at my feet. “No.” 

        “Because if they do—”

        “They don’t,” I snapped—it was the truth. I kept my distance and so did my classmates. There was a time when we all sat criss-crossed on the grimy school floors, our backpacks stuffed to bursting with dolls we couldn’t wait to show off. I don’t remember when that stopped and when this began. Giggling, pointing, whispering in circles on the playground as the boys howled and rolled in the dirt. 

        “They’re just not fun.” Not anymore, at least. “Leah and I have fun.” 

        A deep, rhythmic breath. The kind my mom always told me to count and take when I got upset. “That’s great. It’s great that you guys have fun,” she agreed in an airy tone. “But I want you to have something today.” She paused, then said, “You might want to start hanging out with girls your age, too.” 

        “There are  no other girls on our block.” A convenient excuse, one I always kept in my back pocket. 

        “What about—”

        “Weird Becky doesn’t count.”

        “Sophie Marie.”

        I stared at my feet. Until then, I hadn’t realized that I put on the wrong days-of-the-week socks—a mismatched Wednesday and Tuesday. I muttered, “It’s true.” 

        The other girls never invited me or Weird Becky into their circles—but that did not make her my friend. Nobody else believed that, not even my own mother. Weird Becky played football with the boys at recess and wore hand-me-down gym shorts and bright neon shirts. We had nothing in common, not dolls or clothes or favorite Sunday cartoons, but it didn’t matter. Teachers paired us together anyway; our names were next to each other alphabetically—Rebecca Shaw, Sophie Sackman. I couldn’t escape her if I tried—and I did try.

        “I’m sure if you invited her tonight she’d say yes.”

        I scoffed, but it sounded more like a snort. “As if.”

        “I didn’t raise you to talk about other girls like that,” my mom snapped as she rose from her fluffy pink throne. She added, “Rebecca’s a very nice girl.”

        “And I’m not?” I crossed my arms, brow creased. I lifted my gaze from my socks, prepared to fight fire with fire. Only that it wasn’t fire that I found. Just two sad brown wells looking down on me in disappointment. 

        My mom rubbed her temples. She looked away toward the window, but her eyes faltered downward to my hand-painted stool. “You make this so hard for me, you know?” 

        I didn’t respond, mostly because I didn’t know what this was—and because I couldn’t give her the satisfaction. This was the part of the argument where she tried to make me feel guilty. The sadness in her eyes was completely fabricated, just another ploy to get me to concede.

        “If you want to spend your birthday all alone, that’s your choice.”

        “My birthday was yesterday,” I remarked—who throws a party on a Thursday?

        “Whatever, Sophie.” She spoke my name like the angry words boys shouted on the playground, the kind teachers told us never to repeat. She took a step toward the door, then paused, looking down at a stack of cardboard boxes next to my door labeled DOLLS. “Can I take these downstairs?” 

        I lifted my chin higher, shifting away on my bed so that my back faced her. She must have taken my silence for a yes, since I heard the rustling of the cardboard. My anger served as an alibi. I only turned so I wouldn’t have to watch as the boxes faded from view. I hate goodbyes, especially with such loyal friends. 

        I knew she left when my bedroom door clicked shut. Without Leah, there was very little to distract me from just how terrible the day had become. I couldn’t help but gaze at the barren corner of my room, just beneath the window. 

        My corner shelf housed nothing but a small doll shoe and dust. Of course, now that I found the missing shoe, I’d lost the foot to slip it on. Stripped to its bare bones, the lonely corner seemed unnatural; like a tree losing its leaves in the middle of spring. A cloud passed overhead as if the sun mourned the blushed plastic faces and pink buggies that once occupied the space. A wave of sadness pummeled me, and I staggered backward. It washed away my pride and my anger, leaving me with a strange empty feeling. I wondered if the corner felt that, too. 

        The tips of my toes brushed against a stool that read SOPHIE in bubble letters, a stool I once needed to see my driveway, my tire swing, my brother playing in the front yard. I repurposed the stool as I grew, since I could see out the window just fine on my own. No—it’s not a stool. It’s a stage, a doll house, a mermaid cove.

        But no dolls would perform on stage anymore, confined to a stack of cardboard boxes. The stool was just a stool. Defeated, I stood atop it and watched the front yard shift out of frame, replaced by rooftops and blue skies. Looking down, the stool no longer read my name; the letters blocked just right to read SO. I filled in the blanks, but couldn’t answer the stool’s question: so what now?

        I received my first birthday gift the morning before school on Thursday—my real-life birthday. I knew the box’s shape anywhere, and only one thing could be inside. Of course, the Barbie would need a new name. Not Barbie—I could never keep the name Barbie. 

        My fingers tore through the pink paper as my mom watched with wide eyes and clasped hands. When I caught sight of the cardboard box concealed beneath, I froze. Not a doll, at least not a new one. 

        “Go on,” my mom urged with the wave of a hand. 

        So I did, pushing open the lid with the heel of my hand. Sometimes my mom’s friends would pass off their daughter’s old Barbies to me, dolls my mom would wrap in tissue paper for me to open on holidays. 

        That wasn’t what I found. No tissue paper. No knotted hair and missing shoes. Forcing my widest smile, I turned to my mom. “They’re…”

        “Your first pair of heels.” 

        I eyed the shoes, then found the courage to fish them from the box. I could almost see my reflection in the polished toes. The tiny shoes I lost to vacuums and the shadows under shelves had much larger heels. They were pointier, too. These heels—real-life heels—had a thick square wedge built for young apprentices like myself, apprentices with flat fleshy feet. The heels smelled of the fresh rubber tires and shredded plastic training wheels on my first bike.  

        “They’re nice.” I regurgitated similar sentiments as I opened my next few items: skirts, dresses, a makeup pouch. My cheeks hurt as I folded the clothes back into their boxes. 

        “You’re thirteen now.” My mom spoke in a soft coo. “And I just don’t want you playing with dolls for the rest of your life. You understand that, right?” 

        I blinked hard, still standing atop the pink stool. I hadn’t shaken the knot from my stomach, the kind of knot I’d beg my mom to surgically remove from my friendship necklaces with her long, manicured fingernails. That knot twisted tighter as I packed my dolls into cardboard boxes for the last time. All that remained was a singular plastic shoe found under my dresser.

        I tried to explain to my mom that she couldn’t just give the shoe away—not that one. It was a part of the story that Leah and I rushed off the bus to write with our dolls every afternoon. I couldn’t explain that. I couldn’t tell her that no, the shoe had to stay, that shoe was Jessica’s and she lost it on her prom night running from a band of evil saboteurs because she isn’t really Jessica; she’s secretly a princess except that she doesn’t remember who she was before the accident. 

         “It’s Leah’s,” I told my mom instead. “You can’t throw it out.” 

         Not sure what else to do, I fumbled for my pearly white heels, then placed them on the empty shelf next to a discarded Barbie shoe. The shoe would have made a funny chair for a doll. I imagined shoving Jessica inside so her legs rested in the heel. With the strap across her chest, the shoe would look more like a torture device—no, a rollercoaster. I could take Jessica and her friends to the amusement park, and they could ride every coaster until they got sick. But Jessica wasn’t there anymore. Poor Jessica, shut up in the bottom of a cardboard box. With nothing else to do, I pried myself from my room and drifted down the hallway like a ghost.

        According to my mother, she could always tell when I walked down the stairs by the noise. I galloped like a newborn filly, the thumping of my feet making a heartbeat sound against the creaky wood. For once, I hoped to use the sound to my advantage, drawing my mom’s attention as I parked by the glass front door to mope. I rested my head against the bannister and let out a sigh, radiating discontent as I watched cars pass.

        A rusty bike circled the cul-de-sac, commandeered by Weird Becky. I couldn’t help but stare as she rode around and around in circles like the goldfish I won at the fall festival last year—Goldie. The fish only lasted a week in my care. I was more angry than upset since Leah’s fish lived for three months. I summed it up to bad luck. Goldie looked so healthy when I picked her out of the algae-ridden tank at the fair. Something about the little bowl must have sucked the life from her. She wasn’t built to survive like that. 

        Then Weird Becky slowed down—just for a second—as she passed my driveway. She must have caught me staring and thought it best to stare back. Or—worse—she heard every word I said. Her hand slowly lifted from the handlebar to wave. I turned away. 

        “You better not be pouting like that when your grandmother gets here,” my mom scolded from the other side of the wall.

        “I’m not pouting,” I mumbled to no one as my slouch deepened. By the time the words left my mouth, the back door opened, hissing as it dragged against the floor. Shrouded in a cloud of self-pity, I didn’t notice a car had pulled into the driveway. 

         A chirping voice rang out across the house. “So-phie!” Nana turned the corner and caught me sulking on the stairs before I could collect myself. A smile sprouted on my face before I could stop it, a reaction invoked by her presence—like a song you can’t help but remember the words to any time it plays.  

         “My little angel.” Nana held out her arms, then enveloped me in a long, tight hug. She had a particular smell that I could never put a finger on but always recognized as hers. I made the mistake of telling her once that she smelled like the color brown. I meant it kindly, but to her the color invoked images of dirty shoes and dog poop.

        Nana let me go, then turned to my mom. She shielded me behind her back as she asked, “What did you do to her?” 

        My mom didn’t bat an eye. I peered out from behind Nana to see her furiously scrubbing the counter. Her hand moved in circles, cleaning the same spot over, and over, and over. “I’m not doing this with you.” 

        Nana turned to me, but her voice carried much farther. “She’s so serious, your mother.”

        My mom’s hands clenched the sponge. When she caught me staring, she relaxed, then kept scrubbing at the counter. 

        Free from the confines of Nana’s hug, I spotted a pink glittery bag on the couch and sparkly residue sticking to Nana’s dark pants. I knew better than to stare. Though I’d expected a hefty gift, I couldn’t look like I was expecting it. 

        “Go ahead, open it!” Nana clapped her hands together in excitement, giving me the green light to scurry across the floor to the couch. My hands had only brushed the gift—something encased in plastic—but my heart rushed up my throat, washing away the morning’s disappointment. 

        My hand wrapped around the contents of the bag, then scooped the plastic case onto my lap. My shoulders slumped forward as it settled into place, heavier than I expected. Not a doll, but a blue heart-shaped box with a red lid. Nana waved me onward, encouraging me to open the hatch.

        By then, my mother had rounded the corner to watch the ceremony. I didn’t turn around, but I could see her leaning in the doorway with her folded arms. Her voice crept over my shoulder. “That isn’t…” 

        “Your mother’s old jewelry box,” Nana affirmed. “Look,” she reached around me and scooped up a plastic charm necklace ridden with everything from plastic shoes to plastic frying pans. She turned to my mom. “You used to love this one.”

        I couldn’t help but giggle as Nana reached around my neck and clipped it in place. The plastic rattled like a baby’s toy—a ridiculous-looking thing. “Really?”

        My mom’s cheeks turned pink. “It was all the rage when I was a kid.” She shifted her weight, then said, “Nana would never let me out of the house with it on.”

        “That’s not true.”

        “She said it made me look like a baby.”

        “I would never say that.”

        My mom laughed, but the noise didn’t carry itself like a laugh. It was sharper, like a dainty bark. “No, you did. It wasn’t fitting for a young woman. That’s what you said.” 

        “Well, God forbid I try to help you.” For good measure, Nana added, “I won’t do it again.” 

        My mom gritted her teeth and looked away. “What do you say, Soph?”

        “Thank you,” I chirped. 

        “Of course, my love.” Nana flashed a warm smile, then leaned down toward me, beckoning for me to lean closer. “So serious. All the time.” 

        I couldn’t help but laugh. Not because it was particularly funny, but because Nana drew a line in the sand between the two of us and my mom. My mom must have seen it since she squirmed, then retreated to the kitchen. 

        “Did you know your mom plays make-believe for a living?” Nana whispered like the girls in my class would. Her hushed tone instilled a sense of comradery in me I’d never felt before, a rush of adrenaline. I understood why my classmates had taken to the hobby. 

        “Really?” I leaned closer, waiting for more. In all honesty, I didn’t know what happened behind closed doors in my mom’s home office—I’d never been inside. Whenever I asked her to drive me to Leah’s, she would tell me she was busy writing. Writing what, I hadn’t the faintest idea. But I did know that she’d packed up all my dolls and thrown them in her office closet. Never in a hundred years would I have guessed she stole them for herself.

        Nana nodded, then added, “And she had it so good at the office.” 

        I looked through the kitchen doorway and back. The sight of my mom walking past washed away the thrill of the gossip. I couldn’t picture my mom sitting on the floor of her home office with my dolls—I didn’t want to picture it. The shoes and the makeup kit were all a decoy so she could steal what she really wanted.

        Hiding behind the thin walls and her bottle of Windex, my mom asked, “Are you staying for dinner?” 

        I perked up, tilting my chin up at Nana. I hadn’t realized how dire my situation grew until my mom mentioned dinner. If she left, I would lose my buffer—my shield. Alone, I didn’t stand a chance against my mom. 

        Nana let out a sigh, then said, “No, no.” She began to back away from me, waving a hand as she said, “You’re much too busy for me, I’m sure.” 

        I followed Nana as she made her way into the kitchen, then hoisted myself up onto a barstool by the counter. “Come on, you gotta stay,” I implored, keeping my voice light and bubbly to mask my desperate plea.

        “It’s fine, really, I don’t want to be in your mother’s way.”

        My mom pursed her lips into a thin line, tucking them against her cheeks. She glanced down at me, then forced a smile when she caught me staring. My mom wouldn’t fool me—not anymore. She wanted Nana to leave so she could isolate me. This was just another ploy in some scheme of hers. The dolls were only the beginning. Before I knew it, my mom would drag me straight to Weird Becky’s house and leave me there forever.  

        “I invited you for dinner,” my mom reiterated. When she turned over her shoulder to smile at Nana, her lips twitched into something else, a different kind of smile. “I wouldn’t have done that if I didn’t want you around.” 

        “Yeah, stay with us!” I pleaded, eyes wide. 

        But Nana continued to wave her hands as she grabbed her pocketbook from the counter. Again, she said, “No, no. I’ll get out of your hair.” She waved to me. “But happy birthday, Sophie!” 

        My mom flattened her hands against the counter, then hung her head as she said, “Bye, Mom.”

        “Bye, Nana.” I slouched over the counter, my farewell escaping me like the cry of a wheezing plastic chicken.  

        I could hear Nana’s car start from the kitchen. Force of will couldn’t lure her back into the house, not with my mom determined to alienate me. She wanted to watch me squirm alone on my birthday. I could see it in her eyes as she leaned against the counter. A quiet anger burned in her, like the revving of a distant engine. She huffed, then threw the Windex bottle under the sink. After mumbling a grievance under her breath, she walked away. I didn’t see where she went, but I heard the glass door slide shut from the living room.

        If it wasn’t for Nana, my mom would have executed her plan flawlessly. She would have stolen my dolls without a fight, all so she could lock them up for herself, playing make believe as Nana suggested. If I wanted to take back what was mine, I needed to get in and out of the office before my mom came back inside. 

        I slid off the stool onto my toes, careful not to make a sound as I crept across the creaky floorboard and down the hallway. By then, I knew precisely which boards would give me away. The slightest misstep would alert my mom of my intentions; she had hearing like an owl. I was certain she could spin her head around like one, too, except I’d never caught her. In slow motion, I rested my hand on the doorknob then pushed it forward, revealing the dreaded office. I crept inside and turned on the light. 

        A desk with a large monitor. An electric kettle. Plants. Stacks of boxes—my boxes—right where I thought they’d be. Upon further inspection, I realized the tape hadn’t been touched. The Barbies remained indefinitely trapped in their cardboard cages. I reached for them, the tips of my fingers brushing the boxes. My mom couldn’t stop me if I tore them open and made a run for my room. If she did, I’d keep coming back down to the office. I could find out what happened to Jessica once she realized who she was, and I could decide whether or not she’d take back her throne and who she’d have to battle to get there. 

        But I didn’t open the box. I just stood there, staring, as if the dolls had faded far away to a place I could never follow. I was riding my bike again, wheels sweeping across the driveway as my balance drew a long “S” shape on the pavement. If I leaned too far one way, I would fall. I developed a discipline—like a callous growing from a plump red blister. I felt myself blistering then, a well of redness and pain, as I reached toward the boxes. My hands clenched the handlebars, bracing for impact. 

        But I didn’t fall. I caught myself before I could hit the ground, before I could pry open the boxes. Somewhere over the past day, I developed a new discipline. Except, when I rode my bike in perfect, unwavering circles, my parents clapped and cheered from the sidelines. Smiles bloomed on their faces and mine.

        The plastic necklace grew heavy around my neck the longer I hovered. Until then, I’d forgotten that I still wore it. I reached for it, my hands flying to my neck as if I’d been choked and only just caught my breath. I unclasped the plastic hook, the charms swaying back and forth as I lifted them from my chest. 

        A wave of embarrassment hit me as I looked up from the necklace. I never realized how big the windows in my mother’s office were. Large panes of glass stretched from floor to ceiling, more like a fishbowl than a room. Luckily, no one watched from the other side, just Weird Becky riding in circles in the cul-de-sac. She either didn’t mind the monotony of her drive or couldn’t figure out how to stop. For the first time in my life, pity swelled in my chest for her. 

        “You okay?” 

        I jumped at the sound of my mom’s voice, my hand clenching into a fist over her plastic charm necklace. I scrambled to conceal the plastic charms behind my back. With my shoulders hitched up to my ears, I said, “Fine.” 

        She stood in the doorway again, arms folded to her chest and shoulders hunched. Her body asked for permission to enter, even if her words would not. “What’s going on in here?” 

        “Nothing.”

        “Nothing,” she repeated. I heard the familiar creaking of the doorframe. She was leaning again. “Do you ever say more than one word?”

        I opened my mouth to say yes, but figured I’d better not. Instead, I said, “Nana told me your job is make-believe.”

        “She loves a good story, your Nana.” My mom sighed, her eyes resting on a stack of notebooks next to her computer. “We get it from her, I think.” 

        “What do you mean?” 

        “Well, Nana’s right, that’s what I mean.” My mom dodged around me, then flipped open one of her notebooks. “That’s what I do in here. That’s what you did with your dolls, yeah?”

        All I could muster was “I guess.” Two words. 

        I peered over her shoulder, but couldn’t make out her handwriting in the notebook. Words upon words upon words. Three different colors of ink. Stories bound in leather. Behind me, stories bound in cardboard. I fidgeted with the charms, running my fingers over a small plastic boombox. I caught my mom staring down at my hands, so I surrendered the necklace to the desk. 

        “I had no idea she held onto that thing.” My mom shook her head, a soft smile on her face. “You know, I bought another one just like that for my doll.” 

        Though I tried with all my power to uphold a front of adolescent angst, a chuckle slipped my defenses. At the sound, my mom laughed along. 

         I still couldn’t shake the image of my mother and a doll, matching necklaces and all. My mom sprawled out on the carpet playing make-believe. My mom at age thirteen tucking the same necklace under her shirt to hide it from Nana. It seemed as tangible as a pot of gold at the end of a rainbow: my mom as a girl. 

         I couldn’t help but ask, “You played with dolls?”

         “I did, yeah. With the dinosaurs.” But her smile faded as she looked down to the dolls, then to me. “Nana used to say I’d never have stopped if she didn’t donate them.” 

        Donation. Not hoarding them for herself. A childish assumption, and I wasn’t a child anymore. Only children played with dolls, and I stood on the other side of that line, a line drawn jaggedly in the sand.

        “And that’s not good?” I asked, staring at the boxes. 

        I could tell I stumped her. Her brow creased as she thought, a hand drifting to her mouth as if feeding herself words, then returning to her side. “That’s just how it is. A part of growing up.” 

        We stared together at the sand. I assumed my mom had drawn the line, but she toed it alongside me. Either one of us could have washed it away—it was only sand. A simple swipe of the hand would have done the trick. Either she’d hand me my boxes, or I’d take them myself and run. Yet we sat and we stared, watching the waves roll up to it, each closer than the next but never close enough. 

        My mom’s eyes settled outside the window as an escape. “Poor Rebecca.” 

        Against my better judgment, I turned. There Becky was, riding in circles. If she’d rode straight on, she might have made it all the way around the world. “What’s wrong with her?” I asked. I didn’t mean to sound snotty, but most words did from a thirteen-year-old’s mouth. 

        “Her mom told me she’s not playing baseball anymore. The league won’t let her.” She shrugged. “Something about a cutoff for girls. Just Girl Scouts or softball now.” 

        By then, I knew Becky’s schedule by heart. Fall-ball started, but her cleats weren’t slung over her handlebars, nor her bat bag over her shoulder. I tried to picture Becky sitting in a circle in the outfield with the other girls, picking flowers or drawing in the dirt. The pieces didn’t fit, like that one time Leah’s dog chewed up the last piece to our brand-new puzzle. It should’ve fit—it had every right to—but it didn’t. 

        “I know you don’t want to hear this, hon,” my mom began, but the punchline hung in the air around me—I already knew before she finished, “but maybe you should ask Rebecca if she wants to come over tonight.” My mom studied me as she tucked her hands against her chest. She tilted her head, waiting for an outburst. 

        “What’ll we do?” No dolls. No baseball. Neither of us had anything to offer. 

        “Well, that’s up to you guys to figure out.” My mom shrugged to appear indifferent, but a smile peeked out from the corners of her mask. In the dim light of the office, she almost looked proud. 

         “Yeah?”

         “Yeah.” She waved me on. “Go ahead. I’ll be right behind you.” 

        I smiled, and with it surrendered whatever petty battle I waged. But when she thought I walked away, my mom reached for the thick plastic necklace on the desk, taking it in her hands. I couldn’t see her expression from the doorway, just her figure set against the afternoon light. With the window behind her, it looked like Becky circled around her head like birds did in cartoons. She set the necklace down on top of her notebooks, protecting whatever stories the pages preserved. Or—maybe—those stories preserved the necklace and the girl it once belonged to.

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