In the second-hand shop, Martin looks again at the porcelain doll. It has blue Murano glass eyes, and real hair. He hands the doll to the shopkeeper, who points at the “no refunds” sign behind him. Martin shakes his head, says it doesn’t matter.
At home, Martin’s footsteps echo on the hardwood floor. He can hear the neighbours fighting next door. He had never noticed, covered by the sounds – happy, sad, then angry, very angry – from his house. He wonders if Nora ever noticed this, but she’s no longer here for him to ask.
Nora appears at the door of his studio. Beside her, two seam-stretched bags. Martin wonders where she’s going. But it’s not the bags that give away the destination: it’s her face, the veins showing under her blue eyes, the sloping curve of her lips.
‘It’s either that thing or me,’ Nora shouts one summer morning pointing at the doll. ‘You have to make a choice.’ Martin doesn’t know what to say. Her question seems so absurd, what choice is there to make? Of course, he’d choose Nora, but then he looks at the doll, at her glass eyes, and before he knows it, his hand is stroking the wavy hair, real hair, and a shiver in his spine stops him from saying the words. From saying ‘I’ll return it, but don’t go away.’
It starts with little things. Martin blames Nora for having moved the doll around, from the miniature wicker chair he bought for her, to the edge of the table, to the top of the stairs, to the windowsill – facing the garden, ready to dive into the paved terrace and crack. ‘You really don’t like her,’ he complains. Nora says: ‘I haven’t touched the thing.’ She says: ‘It’s creepy – those eyes, the real hair. Maybe she moved by herself. Could be cursed for what we know.’
‘Happy Anniversary,’ Martin says. Nora looks at the doll, wrapped with a ribbon. For a moment, Martin thinks perhaps he should have bought her a day at the spa, or a weekend somewhere. ‘Is the hair real?’ Nora asks looking at it, without touching it. Martin would like to say the doll’s eyes are the same colour as Nora’s eyes, and the hair too. Or at least Nora’s hair before that streak of grey appeared on her forehead, the last time they returned from the emergency ward. But something stops him.
Martin wraps the doll. It’s their tenth anniversary, the seventh in this house. Enough time has passed so that if he buys a doll, or any toy, Nora will know it’s meant for her alone. There’s nothing more to jinx.
In the second-hand shop, Martin looks again at the porcelain doll. It has blue Murano glass eyes, and real hair. He hands the doll to the shopkeeper, who points at the “no refunds” sign behind him. Martin frowns, smiles, and asks if the man has a ribbon too, so he can wrap it nicely. It’s a gift.
