Free Soldier Doll by Jennifer Gold Page A

parents’ room and the warmth and comfort of their more generous bed, or whether it might be safer to lie very still in her own bed, lest something—she was never sure what, exactly—catch her in transit. Her mother had always let her into their bed, had always sleepily pulled back the duvet and helped her crawl up. Remembering, Elizabeth feels a twinge of guilt for baiting her mother. Their eyes meet, and Elizabeth looks away first.
    â€œDid I use that one? I’m surprised you even noticed thunder as a kid, what with your father’s snoring shaking the entire house every night.” A smile creeps across her mother’s face, and Elizabeth feels relieved.
    Her father pouts. “I have an adenoid problem. And a deviated septum.”
    â€œEw, Dad! Don’t use words like that.” Elizabeth looks away, embarrassed.
    â€œWhat did I say?”
    â€œSeptum.” Elizabeth reddens.
    Her mother gives her an odd look. “The septum is the cartilage dividing your nose.”
    â€œIs it?” Elizabeth looks abashed. “Never mind, then.”
    Elizabeth hastily steers the conversation back to the soldier doll. “Anyway, as I was saying—it’s strange, isn’t it? About the doll? Apparently the soldier doll from the poem has been missing for, like, a hundred years or something.”
    Elizabeth had felt triumphant informing her parents about the poem. She likes the feeling of knowing something special they don’t know, of having news. It was like bringing home a good report card or gossip, only even more interesting. She also mentioned Boris the enormous rabbit and the bookshop, though she left out Evan.
    â€œI wonder if there’s a way to know for sure?” Her mother looks thoughtful. She’s drumming her fingers on the kitchen table. “Carbon dating or something like that.”
    â€œCarbon dating?” Elizabeth looks puzzled. “What’s that?”
    Her dad pipes up. “It’s a way of figuring out how old something is. It uses radioactive carbon isotopes.” He looks proud to know such detailed scientific information.
    â€œCan we do it at home?” Elizabeth leans forward eagerly.
    Her father laughs. “Afraid not. I might know someone who could help you, though.” He reaches for his mobile phone and pauses, setting it flat on the table, tapping on it slowly with his index fingers like a novice typist. Elizabeth smirks; she’d long ago given up suggesting he use his thumbs to text like any normal person. “Here it is. Madeleine McLeod.”
    â€œThat sounds familiar.” Her mother furrows her eyebrows.
    â€œI met her at that conference in Seattle. Do you remember the one?”
    â€œThe time when you forgot to turn the stove off and left for the airport?” Her mother’s eyebrows are raised, and she sounds like she’s trying to suppress a laugh.
    â€œNo. That was San Diego. Will you ever stop bringing that up?” Her father casts his eyes to the ceiling and folds his arms across his chest, embarrassed.
    â€œProbably not.” Her mom grins at him.
    â€œRight.” He rolls his eyes at her. “Seattle was that conference I went to on artifacts and antiques.”
    â€œThe junk conference!” Her mother brightens. She reaches for a pizza crust and nibbles on it, looking thoughtful. “I remember now. Why do I know that name, though?”
    â€œI contacted her once. About that butter dish.” Her father looks embarrassed again.
    â€œAh. The butter dish incident!” Her mother puts her pizza crust down. Her eyes meet her daughter’s again, and they both grin. Elizabeth coughs into her sleeve; it’s now her turn to make the effort not to laugh.
    When she was in seventh grade, her dad had developed an obsession with the Titanic . It had been triggered by an episode of Antiques on the Road featuring a woman who’d found a menu from the legendary ship.