Read Online Bury Me With Barbie by Wyborn Senna - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Wyborn Senna
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washer.
17
P.J. damaged the screen lock before the sun came up on Monday and stayed parked, down the street from Time’s home, in a rented Toyota Avalon Touring Sedan. She was not far from the Candlelight Suites, where she had taken a spacious room complete with a kitchen and desk area, where she could work on her laptop.
The rain-soaked neighborhood was intersected by Northeast Oleary, and from there, it was just a short drive to Northeast Sixth. The evening before, she had driven out to the Oak Harbor shore and watched the water lap up on the grainy land. The sand was soft from recent storms and her heels dug into the wetness, leaving a deep set of tracks behind her. The wind whipped her lustrous hair, and she pulled her jacket tight. Farther down the rocky coast, a weathered man fed seagulls from a loaf of bread. With feeble hands, he broke off chunks and tossed them as high as he could into the air.
P.J. decided to walk the other way and eventually found a swing set and play area for children. She sat in a small swing and kicked off, pumping higher and higher as her momentum increased. Her handbag on the ground grew smaller with each arc. Finally, one loafer fell off and she had to stop and hop through wet sand to retrieve it.
Now, as she rested in the white four-door amidst pillows and blankets she had borrowed from the hotel room closet, she felt relaxed enough to nap. She set her cell alarm for two hours and allowed herself to doze.
Two hours later, the beeping alarm brought her out of a deep sleep. She’d dreamt she discovered a trunk buried along the Oak Harbor shoreline and had pried it open to discover prototype dolls and outfits. Her unconscious mind has invented a Barbie with rooted hair, a Skipper wearing a smaller version of Barbie’s Outdoor Life, and a three-doll wedding set including Barbie, Skipper, and Tutti, with Barbie as the bride and Skipper dressed in a larger version of her younger sister’s Flower Girl outfit.
“That was the best dream ever,” she said aloud, reaching for her now-cold drive-thru coffee in the holder in front of her. She re-tied her hair back and sat up straight, re-zipping her hooded sweatshirt.
A few minutes later, as she sipped the cold coffee, she saw Time Taylor. The woman emerged from her home and nudged two poodles back from the door’s threshold.
“Visual confirmation on the dogs,” P.J. said aloud. She felt around in the pockets of her hoodie until she uncovered the cold slices of bacon wrapped in Denny’s napkins.
Time’s stringy blond hair hung around her face as she tried to insert her key in the screen door keyhole without success. She stopped, wiped her chubby hands on her baggy pants, and tried again without success. Finally she straightened up and leaned in to lock the regular door, slamming the screen with a frustrated sigh before heading down the walkway to her car. She started her Ford Taurus and was off in a cloud of exhaust, careening around the corner as if she were in hot pursuit of the very next breakfast BK would serve that morning.
P.J. drank the rest of her cold coffee before she grabbed the canvas tote and empty duffel out of the back seat. Walking slowly up the street, she stopped once to look around before approaching Time’s front door. Then she carded it open and let herself in.
18
The first Monday in February, Caresse and her four-year-old son Chaz discovered a storefront a few doors down from the Salvation Army store on Islay that bore the sign “Monya’s Antiques.” Caresse said they had to go inside, suggesting there might be toys. She was hoping they might have some cheap old dolls to grab.
Quickly, she made herself at home amidst some of the heftier items in the collectibles paradise while Chaz wandered off. The shop owner, Monya, was a woman who spoke in absolutes whenever she felt expansive. She was half Ukrainian, half L’Oreal Intense Red hair dye. She had passed heavy forty pounds ago, and she wore a red and
17
P.J. damaged the screen lock before the sun came up on Monday and stayed parked, down the street from Time’s home, in a rented Toyota Avalon Touring Sedan. She was not far from the Candlelight Suites, where she had taken a spacious room complete with a kitchen and desk area, where she could work on her laptop.
The rain-soaked neighborhood was intersected by Northeast Oleary, and from there, it was just a short drive to Northeast Sixth. The evening before, she had driven out to the Oak Harbor shore and watched the water lap up on the grainy land. The sand was soft from recent storms and her heels dug into the wetness, leaving a deep set of tracks behind her. The wind whipped her lustrous hair, and she pulled her jacket tight. Farther down the rocky coast, a weathered man fed seagulls from a loaf of bread. With feeble hands, he broke off chunks and tossed them as high as he could into the air.
P.J. decided to walk the other way and eventually found a swing set and play area for children. She sat in a small swing and kicked off, pumping higher and higher as her momentum increased. Her handbag on the ground grew smaller with each arc. Finally, one loafer fell off and she had to stop and hop through wet sand to retrieve it.
Now, as she rested in the white four-door amidst pillows and blankets she had borrowed from the hotel room closet, she felt relaxed enough to nap. She set her cell alarm for two hours and allowed herself to doze.
Two hours later, the beeping alarm brought her out of a deep sleep. She’d dreamt she discovered a trunk buried along the Oak Harbor shoreline and had pried it open to discover prototype dolls and outfits. Her unconscious mind has invented a Barbie with rooted hair, a Skipper wearing a smaller version of Barbie’s Outdoor Life, and a three-doll wedding set including Barbie, Skipper, and Tutti, with Barbie as the bride and Skipper dressed in a larger version of her younger sister’s Flower Girl outfit.
“That was the best dream ever,” she said aloud, reaching for her now-cold drive-thru coffee in the holder in front of her. She re-tied her hair back and sat up straight, re-zipping her hooded sweatshirt.
A few minutes later, as she sipped the cold coffee, she saw Time Taylor. The woman emerged from her home and nudged two poodles back from the door’s threshold.
“Visual confirmation on the dogs,” P.J. said aloud. She felt around in the pockets of her hoodie until she uncovered the cold slices of bacon wrapped in Denny’s napkins.
Time’s stringy blond hair hung around her face as she tried to insert her key in the screen door keyhole without success. She stopped, wiped her chubby hands on her baggy pants, and tried again without success. Finally she straightened up and leaned in to lock the regular door, slamming the screen with a frustrated sigh before heading down the walkway to her car. She started her Ford Taurus and was off in a cloud of exhaust, careening around the corner as if she were in hot pursuit of the very next breakfast BK would serve that morning.
P.J. drank the rest of her cold coffee before she grabbed the canvas tote and empty duffel out of the back seat. Walking slowly up the street, she stopped once to look around before approaching Time’s front door. Then she carded it open and let herself in.
18
The first Monday in February, Caresse and her four-year-old son Chaz discovered a storefront a few doors down from the Salvation Army store on Islay that bore the sign “Monya’s Antiques.” Caresse said they had to go inside, suggesting there might be toys. She was hoping they might have some cheap old dolls to grab.
Quickly, she made herself at home amidst some of the heftier items in the collectibles paradise while Chaz wandered off. The shop owner, Monya, was a woman who spoke in absolutes whenever she felt expansive. She was half Ukrainian, half L’Oreal Intense Red hair dye. She had passed heavy forty pounds ago, and she wore a red and
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