Nicole was the first doll I ever bought. I’ll never forget her. Granted, I’m a married man, endowed with masculinity. It behooves me to say that I do not, nor have I ever, nor do I plan to begin collecting dolls. I drink alcohol, eat steak, watch sports, ogle women, and hate musicals. With Nicole, however, it was different.
I
bought her when my wife was pregnant for the first time. I can’t explain it,
but Nicole just peered out at me with those shady eyelashes and braided auburn
hair, like the adoring French ladies who welcomed the American GIs with puckering kisses when they liberated Paris. The pink hoodie and chic jeans she wore made her look terribly out of
place in that hideous corporate packaging she was trapped in at the mom-and-pop
toy shop. My wife didn’t think too much of her, believing it premature since we didn't even know the gender. Such negativity irked me, although she had a good
point. Regardless,
my gut said we were having a little girl, so I stored Nicole up in the attic.
In
the meantime, we experienced a miscarriage.
***
It
was January, several months following the miscarriage when I was going through
the attic one night. There was ice on the roads outside and I had taken the day
off work because I sought to avoid inexperienced, wintery drivers of the south.
My wife was also pregnant again and wanted me to go through old baby stuff.
That was where I came across the brown box labeled BABY and found Nicole, having forgotten all about her. I took
her out and studied her form, freezing in my boxer shorts. Normally, any association with our first baby would have depressed the utter hell out of me, but
I was damn drunk.
“How
old are you, Nicole?” I slurred. Those were my first words to her.
I
imagined Nicole being annoyed because I had cheap merlot on my breath. My
wife hated that I drank so much since our miscarriage, but it was the way I
dealt with it. Regardless, we were expecting again and I planned to quit
drinking when the baby came. I thought about those things, forgot why I’d come
up there, and set Nicole back into the box.
We
had another miscarriage, too.
***
Another
year went by, and I was sifting through the attic in January – again. It wasn’t
icy outside like the year before, but was cold and raining with
temperatures somewhere in the mid-thirties. My wife was also pregnant again, as
I was drunk again. At this point, a vicious cycle was in motion. Whenever we
lost a baby, I became a drunk; whenever we were expecting, I promised to stop
drinking. This time I was very drunk, though. I was so drunk, I forgot that I
was up there to look for baby things and began looking over my old shotgun
instead. It was a Christmas gift as a teenager from my older brother, but never
grew accustomed to using. Other than the possibility of using it to ward off a
varmint from the garbage, or self-terminate, I found no purpose in it so I put
it back. I did, however, see the baby box with Nicole.
“Where
you at, Nicole?” I said aloud, reaching into the box and pulling her out. For
whatever reason, I felt a pang of guilt as if I’d hurt her so I cradled her plastic
body in my arm like a real baby and ran my index finger along the nylon strands of hair. “I’m
sorry, sweetie,” I said, stroking her pretty face. “I didn’t mean to do that. Here,
let me straighten your hoodie.”
“It’s okay,” she said. “I know you’re not like that.”
It may or may not have been the first time I heard her speak. Since
I was so drunk, I’ll never know whether they were audible or extrasensory
words, but she communicated. She also did not speak with the voice
of a little girl; rather, she spoke with the confident, sultry voice of a seductress.
“Really?”
I asked, continuing to cradle her.
“Yes. Hey, is everything okay?”
“Eh.
It’s been another one of those years.”
“I’m sorry. I’m glad you’re up here with me,
though. It gets lonely.”
“I
can imagine.”
“I like it when you cradle me like this,
by the way.”
“I
enjoy doing it.”
“You can cradle me like this whenever you
want, you know. It makes me feel warm in places.”
I
grinned, “Now, now, Nicole…my wife might not appreciate that.”
“She doesn’t have to know.”
“Wait
a minute. How old are you?”
“You asked me that last year.”
“Hmm…I
don’t recollect. Will you tell me now?”
“I’m old enough.”
“That’s
not an answer, Nicole. If I’m going to cradle you like this, you have to be an
acceptable age.”
In
the next moment, I cannot recall of certainty, but I perceived Nicole smiling
at me like a seductress would. It was the kind of smile which calms the craziest of nerves – not that I knew what
it was like to have fully endowed women stare at me.
“I’ll
tell you what,” she said. “Promise to
cradle me at least once within the next year and you’ll learn my age.”
“Just
once?”
“Yes.”
“Geez,
I’m pretty sloshed. It’d be tough to remember.”
“You’ll do fine, cutie.”
I
blushed. “I’ll try my best. By the way, Nicole, you’ve got a very pretty
smile.”
She
flashed me one more, flirtatious, well-endowed-woman smile before I set her
back.
***
The
cycle continued. We lost the third baby, too. Doctors had no answers. We no
longer tried and I no longer cared. My wife said she couldn’t take a fourth
pregnancy loss, although she still wanted a family. I no longer did. I was
numb. It wasn’t that I didn’t love her, because I did, but hoping for a family
after experiencing three miscarriages is like hoping to play guitar again after
three fingers have already been chopped away from your left hand. It’s one of those things,
far from simple. I kept the shotgun in the corner of our bedroom on a regular
basis, not always sure of why I did. Needless to say, I went into the attic.
There
was neither ice nor rain outside this time. It was just a painful, five degrees
Fahrenheit. For a southerner such as myself, that’s a frigid nightmare. Faucets dripped
downstairs just in case. The house was quiet, too, since my wife was staying
with her mother because of something bad I’d done. In September, I’d
met a twenty-three year old woman at the dog park and was spotted having coffee
with her that evening by a work acquaintance of my wife’s. Nothing happened
with the woman, except that we cuddled on a park bench and she kissed me on the cheek (although
I’d be lying if I didn't want her to do it on the mouth since she smelled so incredibly good up close). Long story short,
my wife demanded marital counseling. I refused, so she went to live with her
mother until my head was clear again. Fast forward, I found myself dangerously
drunk and in the attic again in January, talking to Nicole. It
was an appropriate tradition, I thought, going into the attic after these types
of events. When I found the box, I took her out. Like I remembered, she was
beautiful and it was good to see her.
“Hey,
Nicole,” I said.
“Hey. I’ve
missed you.”
“I’ve
missed you, too.”
“Is everything okay? You look sad again.”
“We
lost our third baby and my wife has gone away this time.”
“That isn’t nice of her.”
“No,
it’s okay. She didn’t do anything wrong. I did.”
Nicole
gave me one of those looks, bordering on a ‘that bitch’ and an ‘I’m-here-for-you’
look. Regardless, she was offering her shoulder to cry on and I took it. “What did you do you poor thing?” she
asked.
“I
got a bit flirty with a girl at the dog park.”
“Why’d you do that?”
“I
don’t know. Lonely, I guess. We’re not trying for kids anymore, so I wasn’t
thinking. She was pretty and I couldn’t help it. She liked my dog, my cologne,
said I was a nice guy. Maybe it was what I needed to hear. My wife, bless her
heart, is just in a bad way after all we’ve been through. Anyways, we cuddled
and kissed on the cheek, and had some coffee.”
“That doesn’t sound so bad.”
“When you’re a married man, it is.”
“You thought she was pretty, though?”
I
was surprised Nicole gravitated so toward the subject of the girl and
not my extramarital quandary. “Well, of course she was.”
“How pretty was she?”
“Pretty
enough to be an actress…prettier than a lot of actresses, actually. Auburn hair
like yours.”
Nicole
blushed, “I can see why she liked you.”
“I’m talking to a doll right now.”
“I’ll bet she would still give you a chance.”
“I’m
fucking losing it.”
“In fact, I’ll bet if she were here, she
would say that she’d never, ever leave you like your wife did. You could be
together forever with a girl like that.”
“Counseling,”
I said, scrunching my forehead with my fingers. “I should’ve done counseling a
long, long time ago.”
“Why don’t you go back to the dog park on
Saturday? I think she’ll be there. Tell her all those things you told me, and
she’ll love you forever. Don’t even worry that you didn’t come up here and
cradle me this past year.”
“Hell with
this,” I said. “I’m calling my wife.”
I put Nicole back into her box and knew that was it for the vicious cycle I’d embedded
myself in. My wife needed me and I was being selfish. I was an asshole of a royal order. Although I
didn’t want to deal with her mother, my wife was there and we had our vows.
The miscarriages had taken their toll, but they were speed bumps in an otherwise
good marriage. Counseling made sense. I even believed we could consider
adopting again. I set the box in the corner, along with the shotgun from
downstairs, and planned on getting rid of those things on Saturday, assuming
everything went okay with my wife the next day.
***
Saturday
morning, I was drunk. My wife told me she wanted a divorce the night before. An
old flame ran into her at the grocery store a week earlier and heard
her story. Of course, the guy became a shoulder to cry on while I had
procrastinated too long in my decision to seek counseling. I didn’t really yell
or curse. As a matter of fact, I told her I didn’t blame her. I apologized for
all I’d put her through and hoped one day she could have a family like she
dreamed about. For what it was worth, I think I took it pretty well. I got
pretty blue the next day, though. I still had my chocolate Labrador retriever.
My wife would never have parted me with my dog because she knew I’d need him
for the days to come. Below the surface, I'm sure he reminded her of the
dog park anyways, which was where everything had unraveled in our
marriage.
“The
dog park,” I said to myself as I came out my stupor on the couch. I put
a half-a-pot of coffee into me and waited until I was sober enough to drive. I
forgot about my plans to junk the box and the shotgun. I
had no recollections of the night in the attic, nor did I even think about
Nicole. In fact, I only remembered that I once talked to a doll. For that
reason alone, it needed to go.
***
Saturday
evolved into a much better day. I went to the park, let my dog run around with
the others, and cajoled with other dog owners for about an hour. Then I saw her
– the girl I’d come close to engaging in a full-blown affair with in September.
I was nervous, which she seemed to adore. She was as lovely as
I remembered, but something was different about her. For one, she didn’t even have
her dog. I couldn’t figure it out, but her face was as if I’d known her much
longer. It was also as if she knew every sordid detail of what went wrong in my
life over the last three years. Before I knew it, though, we were catching up
over a bite to eat. Then we went for coffee. Eventually, I asked to go to her
place.
“No,”
she said. “Let’s go to yours.”
I
shrugged and took us back. Besides, my dog needed to be at home since he was
tired. She and I sat down to watch The
Truman Show. We cuddled throughout. We kissed before the movie was a third of the way through. We held each other and
may or may not have touched when it was halfway over. We had a lot to drink, too – a
lot. I don’t even remember what happened afterward, but I’ve pieced it
together since. I must have taken her up on her advice to make love to her in
the attic. Not that it was a bad thing, because the deep freeze had lifted and
a few blankets up stairs sufficed quite fine. I was depressed and turned on. But I know now that I must have taken her
up there and done something significant.
***
My
wife came up here to see me the other day. She didn’t find me. I could see her
glancing around in the attic, and heard her calling my name, but she left again.
I guess she took the dog with her. There have been other visitors, including
friends, family, coworkers, investigators, reporters, and even some moving
guys. It’s been a while. Nicole is still here next to me in the box. She’s as
pretty as I remember, talks to me a lot, and I talk back when I feel like it. Neither
of us move much, and I doubt we’re ever supposed to. It’s a quiet
life, it is.
