Free Soldier Doll by Jennifer Gold Page B

She’d unearthed it from under a pile of junk at a local garage sale. As the audience oohed and aahed, John sat on the edge of his recliner, entranced by the spectacle of this woman’s success—in contrast to his own regular disappointment—in hunting down valuable antiques. After that, her father had become convinced that there were Titanic memorabilia lurking in every flea market and yard sale on the West Coast.
    â€œIt was a huge ship,” he reasoned. “I should be able to find something.”
    â€œJohn, it sank. As in, underwater.” Her mother would look at him, amused, and shake her head. “You’re being irrational.”
    But her dad refused to give up. “You’re just being negative,” he would say stubbornly. And one day, he’d presented them with a silver-edged butter dish with the signature red-and-gold White Star Line logo on it. White Star Line was the company that had owned the famous ship. “There!” he’d gloated, placing the dish gently on the kitchen table as they crowded around. “Have a look at that!” Now, he blushes at the memory. “How was I supposed to know it was a fake?”
    â€œJohn, you bought it on eBay from an anonymous seller. It didn’t even look real.”
    â€œIt did so.”
    â€œThe logo washed away in the sink, hon. With water.”
    â€œAll right, maybe. She was really nice about it though. Dr. McLeod, I mean. When I took it her to be authenticated.”
    â€œWhat does she do, Dad?” Elizabeth is finished her pizza. She is lining up her mushrooms in a neat little row, dragging them around her plate with her fork.
    â€œShe’s an archeologist and historian. Twentieth century.” He reaches for the last slice of the pie and picks at the cheese. It strips off easily now, in a single sheet. He folds it into his mouth and discards the now-naked crust back into the empty box.
    â€œSo, you think she would know about the doll?” Elizabeth says.
    â€œPossibly. It couldn’t hurt to ask, anyway. Should I send her an e-mail?”
    â€œSure, Dad.” Elizabeth thinks of Evan. He hasn’t been in touch with her yet on Facebook, but she hasn’t checked in—she glances at the clock—two hours. She would check again soon. “Thanks.”
    The lights flicker again and then go out. The screen of her father’s phone projects a beam of light onto the ceiling from the center of the table, as if they are gathered around a virtual bonfire. Elizabeth waits for the lights to come back on. Nothing. “Now what?” She thinks of Facebook and Evan and sighs, annoyed at the fickleness of electricity.
    â€œIs that ice cream you bought still in the freezer?” asks her mother.
    â€œYeah,” Elizabeth replies. She’d bought some earlier in the week. “Well, some of it. Why?”
    â€œWell, we wouldn’t want it to melt, would we?” Her mom is grinning pointedly.
    â€œYour mother’s right, Liz.” Her dad rubs his hands together in anticipation. “We don’t like to waste food in this family.”
    Elizabeth stands up. “Where did we put the bowls again?”
    â€œJust grab three spoons, honey.” Her dad waves his hand dismissively.
    â€œSeriously?” Elizabeth gapes at her father. He is not the spoon-in-the-ice-cream-tub kind of person.
    â€œWhy not?”
    Elizabeth opens the freezer and finds a half-eaten container of pralines and cream in the relative blackness of the kitchen. She finds some spoons in a pile of unpacked silverware on the counter.
    Elizabeth slides the spoons across the table and peels back the lid, intentionally swiping the underside with her fingers and licking them. “Me first,” she says, picking up her spoon and digging in.
    . . .

    â€œIt’s room 223.” Her father holds the stairwell door open for Elizabeth. “I think this is the second floor.”
    Elizabeth