His curtness stings. But what right do I have to feel wounded? I made him wait seventeen years to learn the truth about me.
“Okay.” I stifle an apology and study my ragged gown. “It won’t be easy to stay under the radar while wearing asylum clothes. You’ll need to change, too.”
“Any ideas?” Dad asks, then holds up a hand. “And before you say it, we’re not stealing something off a clothesline.”
It’s like he read my mind. “Why not? Motivation always justifies the crime.” I clamp down on my tongue. That’s Morpheus’s reasoning, not mine. It’s both frightening and liberating that his illogic is starting to make perfect sense.
Dad narrows his eyes. “Tell me you did not just say that.”
I push away the desire to argue my point. Justifying crimes may be the law of the land in the nether-realm, but that doesn’t make it lawful to my dad at this moment. “I just meant it would be borrowing, if we bought new clothes later and returned the others.”
“Too many steps. We need a quick fix. Makeshift clothes.”
Makeshift clothes. If only Jenara were here with her designer talents. I miss her more than ever. Over the past month in the asylum, I wasn’t allowed any visitors other than Dad. But Jen sent notes, and Dad always saw that I got them. Jen didn’t blame me for her missing brother, in spite of the rumors that I was in a cult that victimized him and Mom. She refused to believe I’d be involved in anything that would hurt either of them.
If only I deserved her faith.
I wish she was here. She’d know what to do about the clothes. Jenara can make outfits out of anything. One time, for a mythology project, she transformed a Barbie into Medusa by spray-painting the doll silver and crafting a “stone” gown out of a strip of aluminum foil and white chalk.
Dolls . . .
“Hey!” I shout up at the closest Ferris-wheel-firefly chandelier. “Could you guys give us some light, please?”
They roll across the ceiling and stop overhead, illuminating our surroundings. This place was once an elevator passageway where train passengers would wait for rides up to the village after arriving on the train. Distracted parents and careless children left behind toys which are comparable to our size: wooden blocks that could double as garden sheds, a pinwheel that could pass for a windmill, and a few rubber jacks bigger than the tumbleweeds I’ve seen bounce alongside the roads in Pleasance, Texas.
A sign hangs over the toys. The words LOST AND FOUND have been marked out and replaced by TRAIN OF THOUGHT.
Past a pile of mildewed picture books, there’s a child’s round suitcase propped up so the front is visible. The style is retro—pink, cushiony vinyl with a ponytailed girl standing in front of an airplane. Her faded dress was blue at one time. Under the zipper, scribbled in black marker, is a child’s handwriting: Emily’s Dress Shoppe. Sprawled on the ground beside the case is a half-naked vintage Barbie.
“Doll clothes,” I whisper.
Dad squints. “We need things that’ll fit when we’re normal-size, Allie.”
“They grow and shrink with you. It’s part of the magic.”
He glances down at his muddy, torn work uniform. “Oh. Right . . .”
“C’mon.” I catch his hand and weave toward the case, suppressing yelps as the rocky terrain jabs my feet. Dad stops long enough to take off his shoes and help me step into them.
They’re too big, of course, but the tender gesture reminds me of times when I used to stand on the toes of his shoes so we could dance together. I smile. He smiles back, and I’m his little girl again. Then his expression changes from awe to disappointment, as if he’s coming to terms all over again with what I am, what Mom is, and how long we’ve kept it hidden from him.
My stomach feels like it’s caving in. Why did we rob him of such a big part of ourselves? Such an integral part of him? “Dad, I’m so sorr—”
“No, Allie. I can’t hear that yet.” His left eyelid starts to twitch and he looks away, his socked feet cautiously feeling around the debris.
I follow and sniffle, telling myself it’s the dust making my eyes water.
When we arrive at the doll-clothing case, it’s as tall as a two-story building, and the zipper handle is the length of my leg.
“How are we supposed to open this thing?” I ask.
“Better question: How are you supposed to fit into her clothes?” Dad points to the dust-caked Barbie. “You’re barely the size of her head.”
The doll’s irises are painted as if she’s looking off to one side. Paired with her catty makeup, she appears to be sneering at me. Exasperated, I thrust my hands in my apron pockets. My knuckle nudges the conductor’s pen. Digging deeper, I hit the mushrooms and an idea forms in my mind. “Let’s sit her against the case.”