Free Soldier Doll by Jennifer Gold

where they had the nuclear meltdown?”
    â€œThree Mile Island?” Her father looks up.
    â€œNo, the other one. The Russian one.”
    â€œOh, Chernobyl.” Amanda frowns at her daughter. “It was a huge tragedy.”
    â€œI know. Do they export mushrooms?”
    â€œNot funny. Do I need to tell you about the harmful effects of radiation on the body? About the children who got sick? About the—”
    Elizabeth yawns. “Spare me the self-righteous indignation,” she says. Her tone is cutting. “You want to talk about harming children? Let’s talk about eating fast food every day for two weeks! Haven’t you heard about the childhood obesity epidemic? Take a hard look at that grease wheel, doctor,” she says, pointing at the pizza box.
    Her mom deflates, guilty now; her shoulders slump slightly and her cheeks flush pink. Elizabeth knows her mother’s weakness and how to exploit it—how she worries that she’s a bad mom. She’s overheard the conversations with her dad, grandma, and Aunt Elinor: the ruminations over her excessive work hours, the dearth of home-cooked meals, and the prevalence of dust bunnies around the house. Elizabeth feels a cruel sense of satisfaction as she watches her mother droop, like a flower at dusk. She gets the same feeling when she feigns exaggerated disappointment when her mother accidentally breaks the yolks of over-easy eggs.
    Her mother is talking and gesturing, waving her hands as she does when she’s nervous or guilty. “I know. It’s terrible. It’s just been impossible, getting everything unpacked and the new job and getting to the supermarket…”
    â€œI’ll cook tomorrow,” her father suggests, rescuing her. “Something on the barbecue. Chicken?”
    â€œWith vegetables?” Elizabeth looks hopeful.
    â€œGood Lord, Amanda, she’s asking for vegetables.” Her dad fans himself, as if he might faint with shock.
    â€œThat’s how long it’s been since I’ve had a well-balanced meal,” says Elizabeth flatly. “I’m afraid I’m going to die. Or get fat.”
    â€œStop it; you’re making your mother feel bad. It’s only been a little over a week.” Her dad gives her a reproving glance.
    â€œI’m actually craving carrots. What does that say about your parenting?”
    â€œCarrots?” Her mother laughs. “Can I get that on tape?”
    â€œHere we go again with the tape.” Elizabeth snorts. “How’s your gramophone?”
    â€œIt’s a Dictaphone, smarty-pants. And I should start bringing it to dinner.” Her mother takes a large bite of pizza.
    â€œExcellent idea,” her dad pipes up. “Then we could prove you never said anything about the soldier doll.”
    Elizabeth pushes her plate away. The cheese on the pizza is cool now, congealed. It has turned hard and sticks stubbornly to parts of the plate. “What do you guys think about it? The doll, I mean. It’s weird isn’t it, that—”
    The lights flicker, and a crash of thunder shakes the kitchen. The oppressive heat has finally given way to a violent thunderstorm, with rain whipping angrily on the doors and windows with a loud splattering sound, falling almost sideways, as if the house is under attack by an army brandishing water guns and garden hoses. Outside somewhere, wind chimes hit one another with force, sounding more like cymbals. Her mother shifts slightly in her seat.
    â€œYou okay, Mom? You don’t have to be afraid of the thunder. Remember? It’s just angels bowling.” Storms had frightened Elizabeth when she was small. They still did sometimes, if they were at night; the darkness unnerves her. She can still recall being woken by storms as a little girl and the terror she’d felt from the noise and the dark; the internal debate over whether to take the risk and make a run for her