Vanishing Acts by Jodi Picoult

reply, I hear the approaching whine of a police siren. Immediately, I am back in Wexton, ten seconds before my entire life fell apart. I run for the car, for Sophie.
The police cruiser pulls in behind my rental, but when the officer gets out, he walks away from me and toward the old woman. “Now, Ruthann,” he says, “how many times do I have to tell you?”
She tightens the belt of her trench coat. “Halíksa'i, you can't tell me what I can't do.”
“This property isn't zoned commercial,” the policeman says.
“I don't see anyone selling anything.”
He flips up his sunglasses. “What's under your coat?” She turns to me. “That's sexual harassment, don't you think?” The officer seems to notice me for the first time. “Who are you? A customer?”
“No, I'm just moving in.”
“Here?”
“I think so,” I explain. “I was looking for my key.” The policeman pinches the bridge of his nose. “Ruthie, get yourself a table at one of those Indian flea markets, okay? Don't make me come back here.” He gets back into his car and zooms down the block again.
The old woman sighs and trudges up to the front door that I've been knocking on.
“Hold your horses,” she says, “I'll get your key.”
“You live here?”
She doesn't answer, just unlocks the door and walks in. Even from this distance, the house smells like sugar burning. “Well?” she calls after a minute. “Come on.” I get Sophie and Greta out of my car, and tell the dog to wait on the stoop. As Sophie and I step inside, Ruthann takes off her trench coat and spreads it over the back of a futon, the heads of the Barbies inside poking out like gophers. Nearly everywhere I look, there is some box of junk or a tin of beads and feathers; glue guns lay like discarded murder weapons on the floor. “I know it's here somewhere,” she says, rummaging in a drawer full of twigs and pencils.
Behind me, Sophie slides one of the dolls out of its resting place in the coat.
“Mommy, look,” she whispers.
This Barbie doll has a miniature pint of chocolate ice cream in one arm and a Sleepless in Seattle video in the other. She wears sweatpants, fuzzy slippers, and has a gun strapped to her hip. A tag around her neck reads PMS Barbie. It makes me laugh out loud. I reach into the trench coat and pull out another doll, Reality TV Barbie. She is wearing a jog bra and wedding veil and is holding a map of the Amazon. She has a half-eaten sheep's eye in her mouth, a fistful of dollars in her back pocket, and a Nike contract tucked into her athletic sock.
“These are very funny,” I say.
“I call them Black Market Barbies. Dolls for girls who don't want to stop playing yet.” The old woman crosses the room and holds out her hand. “I'm Ruthann Masawistiwa, owner and CEO of Second Wind, specializing in possession reincarnation.”
“What's that?”
“Finding homes for what other folks don't want. I'm one big portable Indian pawnshop.” She shrugs. “Your old toaster might be someone else's in-box at work. Your cowboy boot could have a whole next life as a planter for geraniums.”
“What about the dolls?”
“Another rebirth,” she says proudly. “I make them, down to every last accessory. Even the Prozac prescription bottle for Mid-Life Crisis Barbie. I wanted to carve katsina dolls, but only Hopi men can do that–women are supposed to carve with their wombs, if you get my drift. Then again, I don't like being told what not to do.” I shake my head, trying to follow this conversation. “Katsina . . . ?”
“They're spirits, to the Hopi. There are hundreds of different ones–male, female, plants, animals, insects–you name it. They used to visit in person, but now they come as clouds, or up through the earth, for ceremonies that bring rain and snow to the crops, and blessings. Katsina dolls are carved out of cottonwood, to give to children at these dances so they can learn the religion, but nowadays they're also a hot-ticket item for collectors.”