Family Storms by V.C. Andrews

washing machine he was repairing, and he just put it into his tool kit. Although it was old, faded, and dusty, I cherished it, because it was one of the only times I could remember that he thought of me while he was working and brought me something. Mama bawled him out for giving me something so dirty-looking and seized it to put into our washing machine. I never saw another doll like it.
    The doll was a sailor girl. Daddy didn’t know what itreally was, but Mama did. She admitted it was something of a collector’s item, because it was a doll depicting a member of the WAVES. She said she had a great-aunt on her father’s side who had been a member of the Women Appointed for Voluntary Emergency Service, which was a U.S. Navy organization during World War II.
    Once it was washed, the blue uniform had faded even more, but I thought it was the most beautiful doll in the world, and when I understood more about the WAVES, I began to fantasize about myself on boats and ships. Even during the struggle, when Mama and I were on the beach selling her calligraphy and my lanyards, I would look out at the sailboats and the bigger ships, and I would recall my fantasies.
    Sailing off toward the horizon always seemed to be an escape from sadness and hardship. Nothing was as promising as the distant horizon. I envisioned myself standing at the bow and looking ahead toward a new life full of brightness and happiness. Mama was always on the boat with me, standing beside me or right behind me, with just as big a smile on her face, just as much hope in her eyes. We would never look back at the dark clouds.
    I thought about my doll now as I looked out at the Pacific Ocean. I had played with it so much and kept it with me so much that the uniform thinned and the doll began to come apart. Mama tried sewing it a few times, but the threads would break. When I was older, I put it aside. Somewhere along the way, with our packing quickly, dragging our belongings along, it got lost. I told myself the doll had gone back to sea, back to that boat, to seek a better place than the places I could take her.
    Now, I imagined her out there, sailing toward the horizon. I could vaguely make out a boat and watched it until I could see it no longer.
At least she’s safe,
I thought. I smiled to myself and relived some of my childhood moments talking to my doll.
    Mrs. March’s return to help me decide what to wear for dinner broke the spell and ripped me out of the happier moments in my past and pulled me back to cold reality. It was as though I had lost my doll again.
    â€œLet’s look for something comfortable for you,” she began, and headed back to that enormous closet. I wheeled myself to the doorway and watched her rake through the garments, pausing at some, shaking her head at others. What was she looking for? How could this be so important? I almost came right out and asked, but she plucked a blouse and a skirt off the rack as if she had found something she had tried and failed to locate many times. I saw the look of delight spread over her face.
    â€œYes,” she said, talking more to herself than to me, “this was it.”
    When she turned and held it up to show me, I nearly fell out of my wheelchair. It was a sailor girl’s outfit. I felt a hot flow move up from my chest and into my neck and face. The words crackled when I spoke. “Why that?”
    â€œAlena was so excited when Donald bought our boat that I went right out and bought this outfit for her. When she tried it on, she didn’t want to take it off. Donald and Kiera were away that evening, so it was just Alena and me for dinner. Even though we were alone, it was a very special night. I remember how talkative she was, how happy, andthis was shortly after she had been diagnosed. Just like you, she refused to be depressed.”
    Just like me?
What had I done to lead her to believe I wasn’t depressed and unhappy? Did she think that just because I