That Doll! by Matt Micheli

 

Jess loved trinket shopping.

“Look at this Cozumel shirt!” She holds up a white shirt with the word Cozumel glittered across the front. “Your grandmother would love this.”

“Why would my grandmother love that? Why would anyone love that?”

She sighs. “You’re no fun.”

“No. I just don’t like spending money on junk.”

We leave there, pull our shades down to block out the piercing sun, and head to the next shop full of useless nick-nacks.

“Ola.” This lady comes out in this dress, the brightest purple I’ve ever seen.

“Hi,” Jess replies.

This lady starts pointing at this and that, grabs one of those Jesus candles, and presents it to us. I shake my head “no,” trying to cut her off. Jess peers at me.

“What? I don’t want to waste her time.”

The lady sets Jesus back on the counter.

“Stop it, Michael.”

“Stop what? It’s junk.”

We follow this lady around this place full of Jesus and Virgin Mary candles, crosses in every color and size, rosaries. There’s more religious clutter than walking space.

After several wasted minutes of my life, out of nowhere, this tiny doll falls to Jess’s feet. The lady picks it up, dusts it off, and looks it over. She smiles.

“Ah, si. For goo loke.”

“Ah, look honey. For good luck.” Jess bats her eyes at me.

“That ragdoll piece a crap is good luck? Tsss.”

Jess’s eyes burn a hole through me. She turns back to the lady.

“How much?” she asks.

“Oh.” The lady’s smile reverts and this intense look washes over her face. “No. Ees not for sale.” She shakes her head.

“What? There’s a price tag right there.” I point to it.

“No, no. Thees doll, he find you.” She places the doll in Jess’s hands, squeezing them tightly. The lady’s smile returns. Her eyes glimmer. “He’s yours,” she says, slowly elongating the words.

“Well . . . Thank you.”

We leave there and the sun hits us. We pull our shades back down. It’s blistering hot.

“Margarita?” I ask. God knows I need one after following Jess around all day on her little shopping spree.

“Sure.”

We walk into the restaurant, sit down at the bar, and order our drinks.

“Two margaritas, senor.”

The Mexican bartender mixes the drinks and then hands us the two giant margaritas, as big as fish bowls. Jess smiles at me like a kid in a candy store. I smile back. I pull out my wallet and before I get it opened all the way, the bartender stops me and says, “First wan ees free.”

“What?”

“Ees free. Ees free. Next wan,” he tells me, turns, and starts wiping down the bar.

Since when has Mexico become so generous?

“Wow. See honey, maybe this doll ees good luck.” She laughs.

We lose count after . . . I don’t know how many drinks. I feel clumsy getting off the stool. Leaving the bar, we are stammering drunk. Jess wraps her arms around my waist and smiles up at me. I smile back. The aggravation we felt toward each other earlier had lifted.

We get back to our room and walk out onto the balcony facing the beach. It’s going to be sad leaving this place: the aqua-blue pool-like ocean, the glowing orange sunsets, the salty breeze. Down the beach, are the faint sounds of mariachis.

We need to make the best of tonight, so we do. We have dinner down the beach, and talk and talk, just her and me. After a great meal and even better conversation, on the way back toward the room, we take our shoes off. Cold waves run over our feet. We interlace our fingers and squeeze tighter than usual. The moon is high, reflecting off of the vast ocean. I block out the mariachis to enjoy this moment. It’s just me and her. We don’t say another word to each other the rest of the night, but say more in other ways than we’ve said for a very long time.

The next morning, we wake up naked and one. We pack up. It’s time to fly home. We both say how we’re going to miss this place before shutting the door to our room, behind us.

On the flight, Jess sleeps most of the way. She’s got one hand on mine, and the other wrapped around her new doll. I drink some coffee and read whatever magazine they have in the seat pouch. We get off the plane and walk up the jetway. We get through customs much faster than anticipated, as the airport seems almost empty.

“That was quick.” I say, surprised.

“See?” Jess rattles her new so-called good luck doll in my face. Her eyes are sleepy. “It ees good luck.”

“Eet stinks.” I playfully knock it away.

She smiles childishly.

I shake my head at her and sniggering, say, “You’re crazy.”

We get home and unpack. Jess sets her new doll on the nightstand next to the bed. Exhausted, we both lie down for a nap. Jess rests her head on my chest, and she smiles up at me. I smile back. I rub my hands softly through her hair.

When we first got to Mexico, I wasn’t sure we’d be coming back together. We had lived together for two years, and all the small things were starting to get on each others’ nerves. Everything was. There was nothing left to say to each other. There was no passion. There was . . . nothing. We almost canceled the trip but decided not to, both of us thinking that maybe a trip like this is exactly what we needed to salvage what was left of our relationship. The travel there was awkward, silent. At the resort, we were annoyed by each other for a few days, same as at home. But by the final night, we were both reminded of all the things we loved about each other in the first place.

I wake up to hear Jess vomiting and crying from the bathroom. I rush in there to see her head hanging in the toilet.

Oh no, Montezuma’s revenge.

She gags and more vomit comes up. I go fetch her some water and say, “Drink this.”

She does. She sits down onto the floor in a curled up fetal position. Her face displays an expression of agonizing pain.

“Oh, it hurts, Michael.”

“I’m sorry, babe.” I rub her hair. “I love you.” Seeing her in pain kills me.

Her vomiting fit went on for a couple of hours. Once stopped, she lied down. But after a while, her overall condition seemed to worsen and soon after, she stopped responding to me at all. I called 911 and within minutes, we were in an ambulance heading to the emergency room. I grabbed her new doll for good luck and placed it in her hands.

“I love you, honey. I love you.”

Nothing.

After pacing around the waiting room for . . . I don’t know how long, forcing myself to breathe in and out manually, the doc came in to speak to me.

“Yes?” Give me some good news, doc. Come on.

“Sir, you’re girlfriend . . . she contracted some sort of rare parasite.”

“What? Parasite? What is tha…”

“I’m very sorry, sir. She didn’t make it.”

My stomach dropped out of me. I remember shaking my head—the room around me spinning, the floor beneath me nonexistent—and then falling to the floor. Darkness . . .

In that same week, there were four other deaths. They were able to trace the parasite back to Cozumel and then narrow it down even further. They quickly discovered all the victims had been to this one particular shop in Cozumel and all of them had come home with these good luck dolls. Apparently, they were good luck, but not for the people who took them.

The old hymn goes:

Give this doll a new home, in which it will take the owner’s life and future riches. The reaper of this fortune will be the sewer of its stitches.

I remember Jess saying, “See honey, maybe this doll ees good luck.”

I guess she was right after all.

*      *      *

 

Matt Micheli is a transgressive fiction writer out of Austin, TX, author of MEMOIRS OF A VIOLENT SLEEPER: A BEDTIME STORY. His analytical, sometimes satirical, and often times blunt views of love, loss, life, and beyond are expressed through his writing. For him, writing is an escape from the everyday confines of what the rest of us call normal.