Read an Excerpt
Dolls in the Attic
By Dina Sprenger AuthorHouse
Copyright © 2015 Dina Sprenger
All rights reserved.
ISBN: 978-1-5049-0387-5
CHAPTER 1
Flying
Sometimes, one is able to fly without wings.
The transition from life to death seemed smoother than she imagined. Her long golden hair flowed effortlessly with the breeze. Her pale skin, soft and impeccable, glistened in the sunlight. Her clothes were free of any blood or debris from the wreck. She felt light and airy. The cage was open and she was finally unburdened and free.
Flying through the door, Chancey couldn't believe the amount of people who were squeezed into her home. Her home was her sanctuary, her escape, the only place she ever felt safe and she didn't like visitors. She knew if her husband was the decision maker, the place would've been bustling with people, but no, Chancey had made it crystal clear to him that the nine-hundred square feet of lavender and chamomile smell must remain calm at all times.
Here in this home she created her white picket fence, here she spent hours baking cookies for the neighbors, rarely tasted by her slight frame of ninety-eight pounds. The kitchen was her least favorite room, though she spent hours just staring out its bay window at the birds passing by, wondering what life was about. Chancey Coolidge was a romantic at heart, but the life she built represented anything but.
The house was small, and one could argue if it held any warmth. Chancey hated knick-knacks, and most of the rooms were almost barren, looking as if the family were either moving in or moving out. The countertops stayed clear of any activity going on, as Chancy often shoved any loose papers or odds and ends inside her desk drawer. She always knew it represented her need for control. If the outside were void of chaos, perhaps her insides would feel that way, too. She justified to herself the desolate décor gave her a sense of peace and serenity, and perhaps there was some truth to that; but the fact was Chancey also enjoyed knowing she could pick up and run away at any given moment. She preferred not to have any attachment to things, or even people if she could avoid it.
When she actually married, most were shocked. Getting engaged was a casual pursuit, but Chancey was more of the runaway-bride type. She came from a broken home. Her father left when she was a baby, and she had never gotten to know him. Most of her memories were filled with stories her mother told her, none of which were favorable. She never bonded with her mother either as she had worked three jobs most of Chancey's life. Her formative years were spent in after-school programs. She often sat with teachers doing homework and went home alone to late-night frozen dinners. Her siblings were all much younger as her mother eventually remarried once Chancey moved out. She never became close to any of them, and mostly they called upon her if they needed something.
Chancey was nineteen years old when, living with a boyfriend, she received a call that changed her life.
"Hello?" her cheerful voice announced.
"Hi Sweetie, it's Aunt Cheryl."
After a long pause, she replied.
"Hi Auntie Cheryl. Wow, it's been a long time ..." Chancey's voice trailed, as she suspected the reason for the call.
"I'm so sorry, Chancey. Your dad has passed; stomach flu. I'm so sorry."
Chancey always knew the truth. Her father had a drinking problem, and although her mother may have exaggerated all those years, she knew her dad ultimately died from alcoholism.
Then and there Chancey decided to make something of her life, not to repeat the same mistakes her mother made. She moved out from her boyfriend's apartment and swore she would choose partners differently. She tried dating accountants rather than tattoo artists and musicians as her father had been; but she couldn't help being attracted to the nonconformist, the non-traditionalist, and the bad boy.
Taking one receptionist job after another, in a multitude of industries, usually dating a boss or co-worker, Chancey landed what seemed the best job of all, answering phones at a construction site.
"Finally, I can wear whatever I want! Jeans, cut offs, t-shirts, flip-flops!" she shrieked to her girlfriend over root beer floats.
"And he's hot!" she spoke enthusiastically.
"Oh no, not another one, Chancey," her girlfriend refuted.
"This one's different." Chancey stared off into the distance.
He was different. He was Flip Coolidge.
By appearance, Flip was exactly what Chancey was attracted to, tall and lean, but cut all over. His wavy dark hair and piercing eyes lent itself to mystery, but inside Flip was simple. He said what he meant and meant what he said. There wasn't a lot of depth to the handsome man, but he fell head over heels for Chancey and treated her like a princess, catering to her every whim. It didn't take long for Chancey to move into Flip's place and become his wife. As a chameleon, she quickly learned to do what was expected of her.
Most of the time Chancey lived on autopilot. She went from activity to activity, or rather activities to activities, as she usually multi-tasked. She prided herself in making an appointment on the phone with a doctor, remembering her calendar by heart, fold the laundry, and bake cookies without a timer. She was a perfectionist to a tee and never wasted a minute of the day. Up by five a.m. and to bed by eleven p.m., Chancey ran on adrenaline. Her energy was in a constant fight or flight mode, and despite the pleas from her laid back husband, she found this way of living suited her perfectly. In fact, she felt it beneficial to herself and those around her.
"After all, look at all I get done in a day." She'd often attempt to convince others, or perhaps herself.
Here she was now, hovering above, with all the time in the world, and she remained content. She held no judgments and had no agenda. She understood for the very first time what it meant to exist. She was just a spiritual being. Just forty-eight hours ago, she would have cringed at the sight of so many people in her house, none of who had the decency to remove their shoes, except for Lila, her precious daughter of eleven years of age who followed the rules despite what the rest of the world did.
Lila marched to her own beat. However, Lila knew her mom better than most, and the sweet child kept busy that evening lighting candles and incense of lavender; her mother's favorite.
Chancey smelled the soft fragrance and hoped it allowed Lila to feel her presence.
Flip, Chancey's husband of thirteen years, seemed to have followed most of the rules, as there on the buffet table lay dozens of donuts, bowls of candy, and an ice cream bar as big as Texas. Chancey always joked when she died, she wanted a lavish party filled with all of the sugary treats she craved! She had forgotten to mention not in her home. Chancey chuckled aloud since she knew no one could see nor hear her. She floated about the house observing who had attended. As expected, there was no sign of her extended family, no mother, no aunt, no siblings but it didn't pain her. Instead, she was at ease.
There were countless faces she didn't recognize; yet the place was filled with laughter and stories about her.
"I remember the time she brought cookies over. She knew our niece was visiting. So thoughtful," a tall woman said to the group.
"Me too," announced another. "She was such a quiet spirit, but such a saint."
Chancey was surprised at how well liked she was. The stories of her made her sound quite giving, rather than the selfish egotistical bitch she was told she was all of her life.
She decided to stop in the kitchen, and there on the counter between a bowl of M&M's and pretzels laid her book. Just as she had envisioned, hard bound in black and lavender, approximately two inches in thickness. It must have just arrived from the print shop on the eve of her death. She wondered if Flip knew, if he had peeked, perhaps read it. Desperately, she wanted to grab it, to spare him the pain she knew he would have. She never meant for such bad timing.
He spoke softly, his unkempt hair a mess, his deep hazel eyes fresh out of tears.
"Thank you all for coming. I know how much Chancey was loved by all, but I never imagined ..." His voice trailed off and a man in a suit led him out of the room, but he turned back and continued.
"I'd like to share with you what Chancey didn't get an opportunity to."
With that he picked up the lavender book and continued as he knelt onto a wooden chair in his faded jeans and worn in cowboy boots.
"Chancey wrote a book of poems, and it just came in from her publisher. I know she had intended to share it with us. Please, take a copy on your way out."
Aghast, Chancey urgently wanted to leap across the room and gather the books, but she knew she no longer controlled her life. Her secret was out, and one by one the guests left, carrying her most private thoughts with them. Only one question remained; would her husband, the man who never read anything more than an article from the sports page, take the time to sit and read it?
It was near midnight when Flip tucked Lila in and answered all of her questions. Appearing emotionally drained, he passed out in his daughter's arms amidst her stuffed animals, atop her princess bed. Only moments passed when Lila awakened and quietly slipped out of her father's embrace to pace the halls in deep thought. Slowly she walked downstairs to the kitchen where the bowls of M&M's and Skittles, her mother's favorites, lingered about along with the pretty lavender book.
In a faint whisper Lila read the words on the front of the book, just as they were written, "Years INSanity, by Chancey Rangs Coolidge." She questioned her emphasis on the word insanity and changing her inflection she read, "Years IN Sanity."
She sat for a moment wondering if the words she was about to read kept her mother alive, or if they were what ultimately killed her.
Finally, the book was opened.
Page 1
Love me like I need you to
Don't love me like you'd want
Hold me like I need you to
A prisoner to taunt
Set me free and find me
The way I was when I first found
Naïve and pure my heart was calm
My head it made no sound
My eyes did not speak of pain or fear
My gait innocent and pure
And now I cast a shadow
I can't help but create war
A silent solitude a world
Of me and only me
No temper tantrum ever helped
To make you come and see
In heaven I will rest my head
My heart will learn of peace
Till then I spend a lifetime
Bound by contract to your lease
You do not know how to be my prince
I'm foolish to think you could
My soul must seek this angst
My spirit feels it should
A child who grew up way too quickly
A teen who's still a kid
An infant needing basic love
In grown up gear I've always hid
And when my time for wrinkled skin
Comes crashing in with wind
The roar of waves will take my pain
And all my madness will learn to mend
Love me like I need you to
Don't love me like you'd want
Hold me like I need you to
A prisoner to taunt
It used to be so easy
Before I had so much
A lonely time with nothing
Allowed my spirit such
A way that now is lost
Locked up without a key
Of all the things I ever
Liked about me
Private tears that will never mark
History will not live on
Opportunity strikes only once
Mine is forever gone
Once upon a day I had a plan
My dreams smelled sweet like flowers
I breathed fresh air no matter where
In dark and dusty showers
And now my lists are only filled
With tasks fit for a mom
My only solace lies in fantasy
That I'll live another life when this one's gone
CHAPTER 2
Deborah
The thick stuffy air made one feel they needed oxygen to move any farther. The low ceiling required ducking to creep inside the small enclosure called an attic. With every step, the floorboards creaked and unsettled dust moved about.
Despite the many antique pictures that leaned against the wall and floor, with their shattered glass upon the worn out wooden floorboards, it felt barren and dark. There was no denying it was dark, yet with close inspection the corners of a 1920's desk, with its drawers half open, revealed bits of lead from a modern day pencil. It was clear the desk had been used since 1920, yet it sat with an energy telling of a story long ago, when times seemed happier and hopeful. The sun shined through the nailed down boards of the window shutters, disclosing flecks of dust dancing in the air, yet as stifling as it was, there was a chill in the air; a sense of a black hairy spider crossing one's path and climbing upon one's head as if arriving home; a chill that neither child nor adult should feel; not even a doll.
Deborah lay against the wall waiting. She was a chubby doll, brought home on a spring afternoon. She never minded being chubby. It suited her. It allowed her to be free of trying to be perfect for some child who never really cared. Her short red curly hair intended to be lush and bright, now looked frizzy and frazzled. Her face was full of freckles; not the kind across a nose people call cute; not the kind on a small child making one guess he or she might be a bit precocious. No, these freckles were dark and raised. They were freckles that frightened everyone except Deborah. She couldn't see her face; yet there they were; imperfectly placed around her eyes and chin and even several down her neck. She always wondered why she itched so much. Perhaps it was an illness from lack of care. She was never washed, never combed, never ever pampered like a doll should be. Her red and blue checkered jumpsuit torn and worn along the seams lent itself to the assumption it had been taken on and off a thousand times along the way. A one-inch hole in the back near the zipper indicated it was a forceful changing, rather than one out of concern or love. One black, plastic, patent leather shoe fit loosely on her right foot. The torn strap hung as if someone someday would repair it. That day was long ago. That day would surely never come. The left foot was bare, with pink sparkly polish peeling from its nails. It was a contradictory sign that perhaps someone had once cared, once tried, and failed.
She had originally come with a backpack full of goodies. Inside was a small fuzzy bunny with a carrot. The bunny even had a matching blanket, soft and cuddly. Lost along the way, the backpack now carried only one thing, pebbles of all sizes and shapes and colors; pebbles that were light by nature, but heavy even in small quantities. The irony made Deborah frown, as she knew she bore the baggage of large rocks. All she had seen and heard in her small lifetime was enough for any doll; enough to know that she should resign to be grateful to be among the rubbish lying in that attic. She couldn't deny it was here she felt most comfortable. It was here she was safe from frantic movement and spontaneous chaos. Though she knew her truth, she was tired of thinking, and most days recoiled in a corner to fantasize of what life would have been had she not grown up in that house.
(Continues...)
Excerpted from Dolls in the Attic by Dina Sprenger. Copyright © 2015 Dina Sprenger. Excerpted by permission of AuthorHouse.
All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
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