*****
“Are you trying to say our daughter’s imaginary friend tried to drown her?”
“I know it sounds crazy, but that’s what she said.” Joyce insisted, tightening her white-knuckled grip on the phone.
Brent made a noise on the other end of the line, like a snort of disbelief. “And you believe her?”
“No...not really, but...Taylor’s always been such a strong swimmer.”
“She might have had a cramp.”
A lock of damp hair fell across Joyce’s face, and she blew it away in frustration. “Maybe,” she relented.
“You don’t seriously think it’s black magic, do you?” Brent asked. “You, Miss Logical-and-Rational?”
“It’s just...” she sighed. “It’s too much to be a coincidence, isn’t it? First a little girl. Then this witch doctor guy. Then that other tourist. All drowned. And now Taylor...”
“Hey, it’s just a story. You’ve just spooked yourself with all that research into Paolo Mayo.”
“Palo Mayombe,” she corrected.
“Whatever. The point is you spooked yourself. For someone who turns her nose up at creativity, you have quite the imagination.”
She shot him a glare down the phone line. “Our guide warned us not to touch the dolls. Now I know why.”
“Because one guy was fooling around with those dolls and ended up dead? Did you touch the dolls?”
“No.”
“Did Taylor?”
“She tried to, but I stopped her.”
“So if it really was a curse that did that fat guy in, you’re off the hook. After all, you haven’t incurred the wrath of any spirits by desecrating their sacred dolls.”
“But what about Taylor—“
“An unfortunate accident. I’m glad she’s OK. Just keep a closer eye on her next time.”
Joyce was about to voice her resentment at Brent’s implication of neglect when she heard Taylor’s singsong voice.
She was talking to herself – again.
“Listen Brent, I’ll call back later, OK?” Without waiting for an answer, she hung up the phone, and moved to the bottom of the staircase. Taylor was definitely talking, and she sounded angry, but Joyce couldn’t make out what she was saying. Cautiously, Joyce crept up the stairs, being careful to tread over the step with the creaky board. Taylor’s voice grew stronger, clearer, as Joyce neared her bedroom. The door was ajar, allowing Joyce a two-inch spy gap. Pressing herself against the wall, she peered into the room. At first, all she could make out were the pink and yellow pastels of the floral wallpaper. Then, she spotted Taylor, sitting on her bed, facing the far corner of her room.
“That’s not fair!” she was saying, her face scrunched together in a scowl. “You cheated! That was a really mean thing to do. I was really scared!” Joyce’s limited view of the room did not allow her to see who or what Taylor was talking to. She watched as her daughter stopped, as if listening to a silent response, before crossing her arms and sticking out her tongue.
“You can’t do that!” she said. “You can’t have back something you gave away! That’s Indian giving!” Her arms coiled protectively around her midsection.
Then Joyce realised Taylor was not hugging herself.
She was hugging something in her arms.
Something with dark curly hair and a floral dress.
“Taylor!” Joyce cried, flinging the door open. Taylor jumped, emitting a frightened squeak, her hands already stuffing the doll under her blouse.
“Where...? How...?” Joyce sputtered, overwhelmed by horror, her tongue tripping over the deluge of questions pinging through her mind. Where did that come from? How did she get it? Did she sneak it back from the island? How did she keep it hidden from her for so long?
“I’m sorry, Mom, I’m sorry!” Taylor cried, guilt and consternation twisting her features and colouring her cheeks. “Dora said I could have it, but now she wants it back. She’s acting real mean. She says she’s going to hurt me if I don’t give it back!”
“But I told you not to touch it!” Joyce screamed in a panic. The doll peeked out at her from beneath her daughter’s possessive embrace, its green glass eyes staring back at her, glinting with defiance, with intelligence.
She did not want this thing inside her house.
“Give it to me,” Joyce demanded, holding out her hand.
“No!” Taylor shrank back, tightening her grip on the doll.
“I said give it to me!” Joyce shrieked. She lunged forward, clutching a handful of the doll’s hair. Taylor squealed in protest as she pulled away, hanging on tight to her prize.
“No!” she wailed, tears streaming down her red cheeks. “Let go!”
The tug-of-war lasted just a few seconds before, with a frustrated howl, Joyce tried to gain possession of the doll with a violent yank.
A pop rang through the room as the doll’s head came off. Clumps of grey and brown rained from the hollow of its severed neck, the blood and gore of a decapitated toy.
“What the—” Joyce began, but then the smell hit her – a thick fog of rancid flesh, the stench of decades of rot, encapsulated and concentrated within a tiny vessel, now unleashed in all its nauseating fury.
Covering her face with her hand, Joyce forced back the torrent of bile and vomit threatening its way up her throat. Taylor sat on her bed, still clutching the headless doll, her mouth frozen open in shock at their gruesome discovery.
Everything is clear now...it all makes sense...Joyce thought, gaping at the pile of decomposing flesh and disintegrating bones, mixed with what looks like clods of dirt.
We’ve found the Nganga...the holy vessel...
A tuft of dark hair, still attached to a patch of greying scalp, lay half-buried in the putrid debris. Bleached bones stuck out from the earth and decay, tiny bones, like the bones of a small animal.
Or a child.
Taylor’s imaginary friend...Dora...not Dora the Explorer...
Salvadora...
The drowned girl who wants her doll back.