“Why don’t you just get new ones?” she demanded, yanking off one boot and throwing it into a corner. “These are falling apart. They smell.”

“Why do you think?” her mother replied wearily.

For Pin, all that was over. She could pull her shirts on over her head. Her trousers had sensible buttons, the kind that didn’t need a buttonhook. Her boots laced up. She never needed to bother with her hair, except to cut it.

“Pin…?” Gina murmured, eyelids drooping. Pin set aside her mother’s clothes and helped her lie down. Gina whispered, “Thanks,” eyes dark in her sunken face as Pin lay next to her, watched her mother’s chest rise and fall. After a long time, her eyes fluttered open to stare at Pin.

“I miss my daughter,” she whispered.

“I do, too.”

Gina shook her head. “Not Abriana.”

Pin drew closer. She began to cry. “Oh, Ma,” she said. But her mother was already asleep.

Chapter 34

Chapter 34

HE SLEPT SOUNDLY, as he always did afterward; woke and lay on his side to gaze at the form beside him. Early morning sunlight brought out minute imperfections in her face, spots where a bit of grime or soot had permeated the unglazed porcelain. He pushed back the blanket and rearranged her dress, tugging it down to cover her spindle-shaped legs and soft torso stuffed with excelsior. He preferred the cool smooth touch of her bisque limbs and cheeks to the soft places, except her hair. He buried his face in her ringlets. They had a sweet grassy smell, nothing like human hair at all. He wondered sometimes if the company had substituted horsehair, but that would have been difficult to curl.

He roused himself and put on clean clothes, a new shirt and the pink seersucker suit and jacket he hadn’t worn in two months. He got a basin and cloth, returned to the bedroom to clean her. When he finished, he picked her up, her porcelain chin on his shoulder, and carried her to the other room. He set her in a chair, carefully arranging her legs so they hung over the edge, fluffed her hair, straightened her dress. Turning, he went to the windowsill and plucked a small round tin from his shaving bag, a pot of rouge. He dabbed a bit on his fingertip, returned to the doll, and ran his finger across her mouth, tracing her lips. With a handkerchief, he wiped off his finger, stood back, and reviewed his work. Mouths often lacked definition in photographs, but he wanted her to look lifelike, not whorish.

Satisfied, he turned and retrieved his camera from beneath the bed. He spent the next few minutes adjusting the doll’s limbs, trying to make her resemble the girl as he remembered her, not in the boat but earlier when, replete with ice cream, she’d finally accepted first one lemon drop, then a second.