Free Replacement Child by Judy L. Mandel

different food behind the little glass doors and pick whatever you wanted, then put the right number of nickels in the slot and slide open the little door. Everything was wrapped in wax paper. As soon as one thing came out, another went in. I saw people working behind the glass when I took my peanut butter and jelly sandwich.
    My Tiny Tears doll with the wooden head came along with me. She was a great comfort. Just the week before, I had cracked her head open on the basement steps. My father brought her to his doll “operating room” and fixed her. He painted her head to have brown hair just like mine. Thinking of that made me want him with us even more.
    Over the next two days, my mother was on the phone a lot talking to my father. I tried to hear, but she pulled the phone into the bathroom.
    After Radio City, I asked when we were going home.
    “Soon,” she said, which told me nothing. “Soon” could mean hours, days, or weeks.
    In a couple of days, we did go home. My father was waiting at the bus stop, smoking a cigarette with his lips all squeezed together. When he saw us, he threw down the butt like a dart and stamped it under his shoe. He ran over to us and hugged my mother for a long time.
    M Y FATHER ’ S WRITINGS are in a different folder. There are fewer pages, and the sparse information is written in his neat, almost calligraphic style. His notes to me focus on getting the facts straight: . . . that may be pertinent to whatever story you might write.
    He wrote about the other two crashes that occurred within the four-month period surrounding ours: one in December of 1951 and one in March of 1952.
    When a plane hit in March of ’52, he and my mother were still homeless from the accident, staying in a hotel.
    We were preparing for bed when we heard on the radio that another plane crash had just taken place not far from the hotel. We dressed and went to the hospital to relieve Linda’s nurses in case they would be needed.
    My father’s notes to me are filled with contradictions, a veritable fugue of internal conflict. In one version, he muses about the miracles of that day; my mother wearing a flammable apron that never caught fire and Linda’s survival against the odds. Other times he rants on the injustice of a God that would let this happen to his family.
    He was clearly touched, though, by the outpouring of the community:
    We were completely wiped out except for the clothing on my back, but the response from the public and generosity of relatives was, for me, overwhelming. Calls came in from people in all walks of life, offering donations of blood, skin for grafts, and clothing. One Elizabeth policeman and another good friend took up a collection to help us in the immediate emergency and we were able to buy clothing we needed just then.
    M Y SISTER ’ S NOTES tell the story of her many surgeries, of friends who saw her through, of how she struggled to fit in as she got older.
    Then, there were the thinly disguised love notes to me from all three:
    Our youngest was our joy.
    You gave me a reason to escape the pressures of the outside world.
    The most precious gift I ever received, my baby sister.
    One of God’s special children.

chapter nineteen

    JANUARY 22, 1952 (DAY OF THE CRASH)
    9:00 AM
    D R . C OHEN LIFTED Linda’s tiny chin upward to see her face in the light, turning her cheek from side to side to examine her. It tickled, and she giggled at his touch.
    “It’s a very minor procedure to remove a birthmark like this. It’s only a discoloration, no raised skin or deformation. I can do it on an outpatient basis. Very quick, very routine,” he told my mother of the strawberry mark on Linda’s right cheek. She said she would discuss it with her husband and get back to the doctor soon.
    Linda was so pretty, my mother thought, it would be a shame for the birthmark to mar her face. Appearances mattered. It could affect her whole life, even whom she married or what kind of job she got.
    After the