An Impression of a Life

by Bruce Memblatt

It was the evening.

“Mother, I don’t understand when she left this afternoon she was fine,” Constance said. She pressed the phone against her ear. A cigarette smoldered in the ashtray. A small porcelain lamp on the end table next to edge of sofa barely lit the living room.  

“Very strange.”

“More than strange, Mother, when she came home her eyes were vacant. I tried every possible way to communicate with her, but she just stared into space. It’s a wonder she found her way back to the apartment at all.” She kicked her shoe off. 

“How long have you known her, Constance? How long has she been your roomie?”

“What’s the difference, Mother?” She said as she removed a silver earring. “Oh I see Juliet has roomed with me for almost two years now. I’d know if she had some kind of history.”

“Well then where did she go today?”

“A job. She went for a job, a sitting with an artist who sculpts dolls from clay, or whatever, I believe. Her dolls are supposed to be very exclusive, or something or other I don’t know. Anyway but now the doctor has her in hospital. He’s suspects a coma. He’s not entirely positive though. The entire things seem to be a great mystery.”

“So what happens now, Constance?”

“I ‘m not sure, I for one am going to have a talk with that doll maker tomorrow. Well good night, Mother I’ll keep you filled in.” She hung up the phone. She walked to the bathtub. She turned the faucet. Her dress fell to the floor.

It was approximately eleven a.m. when Constance took off for the doll maker. The day was ordinary, sun was in the sky, maybe it wasn’t. Before she left she slipped into Juliet’s room. She remembered the day Juliet moved in as she neared her bed. What was the last thing she said before she left that morning? She fiddled though her bureau going through combs, keys, photos, memories, papers. She picked up a scarf she gave Juliet for her birthday and stretched it through the air. At the front door, as she turned the lock, it suddenly hit her, a photograph she saw in Juliet’s room of a doll, probably one of that doll maker’s dolls, no doubt. Funny, but it didn’t look all that special. She got on the elevator. She grabbed a cab. A tire screeched. A crumpled newspaper blew down the street.

The doll maker’s studio also served as her home. It was located in the penthouse of a building that overlooked Hyde Park. No wonder Juliet was so thrilled about this job the place was just exquisite, lovely. Even the doorknobs, what was the word she was searching for? Elegant --crystal doorknobs. As she pushed the button on the elevator in the lobby she remembered something the taxi driver said. When they were careening down Oxford Street he mentioned something about odd crimes in Suffolk, missing people, or something. She wished she’d paid more attention. Why did she always do that?  Not listen, an old pattern she could not seem to break. She told herself, other people say important things too, Constance as the elevator climbed to the roof.

The doll maker’s name was Correlate. An over-sized shirt fell loosely over her beaded skirt. The shelves in her living room, and there were many, lining the walls were filled with dolls. Small, large, round, costumed period pieces, modern, antique, colorful, bleak etc. Correlate studiously paced back and forth explaining her process while Constance, sitting on the sofa half- listening, thought about the look in her eye when she answered the door. It was odd, the way she sort of sneered and smiled in the same gesture. No doubt, she looked properly shocked when she gave her the news about Juliet but there was just the hint of a causal air, like she’d been down this road before that gnawed. She spoke like an artistic type, slowly, strategically pausing, with broad gestures to emphasize the significance of her every utterance, accented by bracelets that jangled on her wrists, so like Constance pictured her.

“Like I said Constance, I take impressions and then I scale them down to let’s say doll size. For example, Juliet stood right over there in front of that large shadow box. At the time it was filled with clay. I like to capture models in motion I feel it adds a sense of life to my dolls.” She waved her hands across the shelves.

“Don’t they look lifelike?”

“They have a certain something for sure,” Constance said, wondering, what about Juliet?
Correlate took a doll off a shelf and held it close to Constance.

She hushed.

“Here, Constance look at this one it’s a gypsy doll isn’t she fascinating?  Look at her eyes, it looks like she’s looking back at you doesn’t it?  And I just love the way she holds her tambourine as if it’s just about to fall, can you feel the motion?” She moved her hand in jagged motion, like a ripple. 

“It’s something, what about Juliet’s doll?”

“I haven’t finished her doll yet. I must explain, I don’t make exact replicas of my models but I try to capture their essence so to speak. You may not even recognize her doll when I complete it. I do hope Julia recovers soon. I imagine she’d love to see her doll.”

“Well, I just pray she’s okay, doll or no doll,” Constance said firmly while she crossed her legs.

“Of course, I only meant...” She paused. “When will you see Juliet again?”

“I should be visiting her this afternoon.”

“Please, send her my love, it’s such a mystery. So tragic.”

“I will, whether she hears me or not is another matter,” She said, not fully convinced of Correlate’s sincerity, she seemed concerned enough, but…

“She will, I believe our words matter, I mean, that people in Juliet’s condition can somehow digest what we say.”

“I do hope so.” She turned her head and stared at the dolls on the shelves for a moment. Strange, but she swore one of the dolls tried to speak to her. Her hands trembled for an instant. She must have been overtired, over-stressed, or over-something.

Correlate touched her shoulder and said. 

“Are you all right, Constance?”

“Yes, “she replied, hesitating, “it just…oh, never mind, it’s been a long day.”

She picked up her purse and began making her way to the door. As she passed through the foyer she thought she heard one of the dolls say come back.

On the way to the hospital, stopped at a red light, Constance saw a poster with Juliet, an advertisement for perfume in a store window. She remembered how Juliet would often confide how when she was young she didn’t believe she was pretty, in fact, far from pretty. Funny, how people see themselves she thought, as the cabbie hit the gas. Still shaken about the voices she heard in Correlate’s apartment she reached into her purse and slipped a Xanax in her mouth.  They pulled up in front. The hospital looked like a hospital, white everything. Sun streamed through the window at the end of a long hall where she stood outside Juliet’s room gathering her composure when a doctor approached her. There was a question she wanted to ask him.

 And she said.
“Doctor if I may, a question? Can clay cause an allegoric reaction, a strong one?”

“Clay? Why do you ask? But, I’m sorry no, clay will not cause an allergic reaction; whatever happened to Juliet wasn’t caused by clay.”He said, adjusting the rim of his glasses.
“I was just wondering because I went to see a doll maker this morning. Juliet had a sitting with her before she fell ill,” Constance sighed, probably a silly question, “and the doll maker mentioned something about making impressions from clay.”
“Odd, I didn’t know live models were used for dolls.”
“Well she is in fact a bit eccentric, an artiste you know? But her dolls are supposed to be very exclusive, or something.”

“Well like I said Constance it can’t be the clay, but we’re continuing to conduct tests on Juliet and hopefully we’ll get to the bottom of this mystery, and soon. Are you going in to see her?”
“Surely, I’m just, you know, taking a few deep breaths out here.”Constance smiled.
“I know it’s difficult for you, of course, if you need anything please, feel free, anytime. We will be in touch.” He said and he straightened his tie. He walked down hall, his head shaking.

As she entered the room she noticed a scent in the air like ammonia, chemicals, something sanitary. She pulled a tissue from her purse. The windows were open, noise from the traffic below roared through the curtains.  Sunlight fell on Juliet’s forehead and just below her eyes sat empty. Will she ever see recognition in Juliet’s eyes again? She wondered as she sat down in a metal chair along the side of her bed.  She should smile, try to speak with her. And she smiled.
“Juliet, can you hear me?” she said, aware of her words, aware of Juliet’s disengagement.

Again.
“Juliet you have to come back to us, fight your way through this, please you can do it.” She said and she held Juliet’s hand as tight as she could. She pinched hard hoping for a flicker in her eyes, even if it was a flicker of pain, but none came.

Again.

“Juliet,” she grinned, “I saw your picture on a poster before for perfume, by a storefront. Your face is everywhere!” She said then she noticed a strand of hair in Juliet’s eyes and she pushed it away and suddenly the future hit her; Juliet, unable to do the slightest things on her own, like the hair she’d just pushed away. Could this be it, forever? She clenched a tissue in her hand before she wiped away a bead of sweat off her brow thinking she’d try something different.
“Juliet I saw your doll maker today. She’s an interesting woman, the reason why I went there was it seems she’s the last person you saw before you fell into this state. Is that true, Juliet?”
And then, why not? She thought before she mouthed the words.

 She grabbed Juliet’s hand and she said.

“On my way out I’m certain one of her dolls spoke to me.”  Suddenly she felt it in Juliet’s pulse, a pull, or something, a sign of recognition, small, but it was there she was certain. The doll maker, what was going on with that doll maker? Juliet’s eyes fluttered. The nurse walked in.  She turned the lights on.

It was the evening.

“Mother I am not crazy,” she cried into the receiver, tossing a glass of scotch in her hand.

“I’m going back to that doll maker first thing in the morning.” She hung up the phone. She slipped into bed, and she lit a cigarette. She took a long drag and she remembered one of the dolls. There was a doll there that did look like Juliet, identical, she was positive she saw it on her way out of Correlate’s apartment in the room just off the living room. The door was ajar. She remembered it. Why would Correlate lie to her? So what if the dolls resembled their models why would that be an issue? The thought simmered in her mind while she fell off to sleep. In a dream she heard doll after doll, hundreds of dolls calling her name.

There was a wicker chair in Correlate’s living room. In it sat a doll of Juliet. When Correlate heard the doorbell ring she threw the doll into the room, the small room adjacent to the living room, and slammed the door shut. Constance was sitting in the living room impatiently waiting for the tea Correlate told her, no insisted, she bring her. What was so important about tea? Everything about this woman seemed suspicious. How to slip into the other room if even for a moment to see if her memory of the doll was accurate. Did she have time before the tea arrived? Should she chance it, or wait for another opportunity? Opportunity is not a lengthy visitor. She flew off the couch and just as she was about to reach for the door knob the tea and Correlate arrived. Correlate, nearly dropping the tray out of her hand, turned and she said. 

“Please, sit down on the couch. Were you looking for a bathroom?”

Constance paused for a moment and said. 

“Yes, I was looking for the bathroom if you don’t mind.”

“It’s right down the hall in the other direction. Here I’ll put the tea on the coffee table. Hurry back.”She said anxiously setting the cups on the table.

On her way to the bathroom Constance glanced back at Correlate trying to gauge her, just what was she up to? She opened the bathroom door and quickly shut it, and then she crept down the hall silently watching Correlate. She was just pouring the tea into the cups, nothing out of the ordinary. Maybe there was a bit of shakiness in her hands, but after all she had surprised Correlate with her visit, perhaps she was over-reacting. She coughed and pulled her dress up and walked back into the living room, closing her purse as if she’d just left the bathroom. Then she thought she heard it again, a doll’s voice calling her name, in a muffled sound.   

“Here sit down, drink up. So tell me why did you come back today is Juliet improved?”

“Well frankly I was hoping you’d clear up something for me, if you don’t mind Correlate?”She said as she took a sip. Then it occurred to her, another idea, and she said.

 “As a matter of fact, Juliet has improved, we’re very hopeful.” She smiled, and as she finished her sentence a stunned look fell over Correlate’s face.

“Are you all right?” Constance continued, taking another sip and then setting the cup down on the table. 

“ I’m fine”, Correlate said, she hesitated, as the saucer clinked in her lap,” but why are you lying to me?” She finished and a sudden look of anger crossed her lips.

“What do you mean is there a reason why Juliet couldn’t improve?” Constance said, feeling a wave of drowsiness overcome her. 

“You’d better put that cup down before you drop it, Constance.” She said firmly and then she stood from her chair. 

“Why would I drop it?”

“Because your tea was drugged,” she smiled and she started to quietly laugh, “hearing voices lately Constance?” 

Constance pulled herself up off the couch nearly falling to the floor and she began to make a run for the door. My god what was happening she wondered, she anguished, as she fell to the floor. She looked up and saw Correlate standing over her.

 And Correlate said.

 “You like dolls don’t you, Constance?”

“No, “Constance cried.

 Suddenly she felt Correlate pulling her arms, holding her up, and then she sensed her walking her across the room, her legs dragging. She could barely keep her eyes open as the doll maker continued. 

“I have to tell you about my dolls, the reason why they’re so exclusive. Well, you’ll see.”
She dragged and pushed Constance up against the shadow box and slapped her across the face.  Constance could hardly feel the slap but she felt the clay against her skin, as Correlate pressed her against the box. 

“Where was I? Yes, Constance, my dolls are special because of the impressions. These are no ordinary impressions. I capture the identity of my models, in every sense of the word, like I told you before they are lifelike. Hold tight, soon you’ll be in the doll’s room with your good friend Juliet. Thought you’d trick me, Constance?” 

“You are mad.” 

Were the last words Constance could utter before she felt a sensation like a thousand tingles. It was as if she was dying, or had died, and her soul had left her being. She could see her body standing against the shadowbox,  and then Correlate pulling her body, walking it/ her across the room, hanging her purse around its shoulders as it left the apartment, as she left the  apartment. Emotionless, she watched as if in a dream her body walk out the door. Then she saw Correlate’s hand coming toward her. Her hand was huge, she felt so tiny as Correlate picked her up and carried her into the room adjacent to the living room, the doll’s room. Then she heard the voices surround her.

“I am Vera I am doll number 3.”

“I am George I am doll number 12.”

“I am Eunice I am doll number 50.”

“I am Daphne I am doll number 300.”

“I am Juliet I am doll number 2000.”

“And you are now Constance doll number 2001.” Correlate grinned.

© 2010 Bruce Memblatt.  All rights reserved.

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ABOUT THE AUTHOR

 

Bruce Memblatt lives in New York City.  His stories have been featured in Aphellion, Static Movement Danse Macarbe, SNM Horror Magazine, The Horror Zine, The Piker Press,A Golden Place, Eastown Fiction, Short Story Me! Viola Beadleton’s Compendium of Seriously Silly and Astoundingly Amazing Stories  and The Feathertale Review. His short fiction eBook “The Painter” was released by Gypsy Shadow Publishing in February 2010. His short story, “Parndora’s Surprise” has  been published in the anthology from  Pill Hill Press, Pandora’s Nightmare: The Horror Unleashed. He writes a series for The Piker Press based on his short story, “Dinner with Henry.” The first installment appeared on March 8, 2010. His short story “Victim Number 13” has been accepted for publication in the summer 2010 issue of Strange Weird and Wonderful magazine.