Doll. Nicky Singer

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      The night my mother died she gave me a doll.

      “This is for you, beloved,” she whispered, her voice soft and low. “Hold it next to your heart. And I will be with you. Always.”

      And of course I didn’t look at the doll then, because I was looking at my mother. Her big, beautiful, belligerent body calm at last. Hushed on the bed. Her black hair pushed away from her face. Her eyes – ever that startling blue – placid now. Her skin pale, the waxy cream of the candles I lit around her, church candles, fifteen of them. Her choice, as were the roses I’d gathered in armfuls from the garden.

      “Let them be red,” my mother said.

      And they were red. Petals the colour of blood.

      She smiled then. Despite everything she smiled.

      “Light the incense,” she smiled.

      And I did. Cinnamon. Which is for healing but also for love.

      “Healing!” my grandmother exclaimed.

      And I might have riposted “Love!” But I didn’t. I just sat beside my mother and held her hand until I heard her breathe out but not breathe in again. There was a pause in which a clock ticked. Tick. Tick. Then my grandmother came to the bedside, slid my mother’s eyelids shut and everything went dark.

      “Let go now, Tilly,” grandmother said.

      And when I didn’t let go, she leaned down and took our clasped hands (my mother’s and mine, her daughter’s and her granddaughter’s) and prised our fingers apart. She was not ungentle. And I was glad in a way, because I cannot see otherwise how I could have released my mother’s hand. I would have had to stay sitting there for ever.

      “Go to your room,” Grandma said. “I’ll deal with everything here.”

      And I went. Gratefully. The smell of cinnamon still on me.

      It might be five minutes since I left my mother’s room. It might be five hours. I have lost track of time. These things only I know: my grandmother is not in the house; the night is still dark; I’m out on the swing.

      My father put up this swing. Screwed rings into the outstretched limb of a tree and hung the chains. The rings used to be greased but now they’re dry and rusty. They squeak. A rhythmic squeak, in time with my swing. My bare arms are around the chains, like I am hugging them. The metal is cold and so is the night wind. All the hairs on my forearms are standing up in protest. But I don’t care about the cold. In fact I’m glad of the cold. It makes me feel alive. Under my feet the ground is wet. When I was six I wore this patch to mud. I came to swing and swing and tell myself stories. All the stories had happy endings.

      “You’re not a child any more,” says Grandma.

      And I’m not. I’m fourteen years old. But there’s mud beneath the swing once more. I’ve started to come here again. To tell stories – maybe, but also to think. Tonight, I’ve come to look at the doll.

      It’s a small thing, no bigger than my hand, and quite unlike the thousand other dolls my mother made. This doll is not sewn of remnants and jumble fabrics. It’s made out of material my mother wore next to her own skin. Her face (for the doll is a girl, a woman), her hands, her feet, in fact all of her flesh is cut from my mother’s white kid gloves. The long ones. The ones that went to her elbows.

      “Every woman,” said my mother, “should have a pair СКАЧАТЬ