Page 11 of Daddy's Bliss

Tandy is quiet as she takes a sip of her tea. “You do that a lot, you know?”

“Do what?”

“Apologize for being yourself. You shouldn’t do that, Bliss.”

Her tone is firm, and I find myself a bit taken aback, but not in an unpleasant way.

“I’m sorry. I….” Then I stop, realizing that I’m about to apologize for apologizing. “Ah, I see what you mean. I guess it’s a habit.”

“I can help you break it.”

A little shiver runs down my spine. The flush in my face spreads down my body to settle low in my belly where it resolves in a series of soft, fluttering pulses.

“Would you like to see the rest of the house?” I ask.

“Sure.” She drains her tea and puts the glass on the mat by the sink. The tour doesn’t take long. She’s already seen the living room with the rag rug on the scuffed wood floors and the overstuffed couch with throw pillows I made myself.

I take her down the hall to show her the first tiny bedroom that I’ve transformed into a craft room. There’s my sewing machine, a small table for cutting cloth, and a shelf holding bolts of thrifted fabric and art supplies. Down the hall there’s the tiny bathroom with outdated pink tile and a Hello Kitty shower curtain. Then we get to the last room. My bedroom is larger than one would expect in such a small house. The window looks out over a tiny side yard I’ve transformed with flowers. The bed is covered in an old-fashioned white chenille bedspread. There’s a small closet and a bookshelf lined with paperbacks and my collection of vintage Barbies.

“These look old,” she says, and I sigh in relief that she’s not judging me for having dolls. “And look at them, dressed to the nines.”

“I make their clothes!” I hear the pride in my own voice.

“Seriously?” She looks at me. “May I?” Tandy is pointing at one of my favorite dolls.

I nod, feeling disproportionately happy that she’s showing an interest in my odd little hobby.

“That’s Mavis,” I say as Tandy carefully lifts the doll dressed in a sixties-style Jackie Onassis-inspired coat and pillbox hat.

“The detail in this outfit is unreal.” She grins at me. “Why didn’t you tell me you were an artist?”

“I’m not sure playing with dolls makes me an artist.” She lifts an eyebrow, and the stern look reminds me I’m not supposed to sell myself short. I correct myself. “Or maybe it does. They are pretty detailed.”

“Where do you get the patterns?”

“I don’t use patterns.”

“Wow. Now I’m really impressed.”

“I have more,” I offer. “There’s a whole box!” I’m so excited Tandy likes them I want to show her the other things I’ve made. I kneel, pulling out a storage box from under the bed. I plop down on the floor, sitting cross-legged as I lift the lid. Tandy kneels on the other side, still holding Mavis. I motion to the contents. I’ve been designing and sewing doll clothes for years, creating a collection that ranges from the Viking times through the Middle Ages, the Regency period, the Victorian era, and onward through the 1970’s. Tandy is the first person I’ve shared my hobby with.

“You could make a fortune with this talent,” Tandy says, holding up a dress from the Antebellum period.

“I dunno,” I say with a shrug. “I mean, it’s for toys.”

“Adults love toys, Bliss. Look at how much people spend on vintage Matchbox cars or train sets. Hell, even LEGO sets are big bucks. I know a guy who has a whole LEGO city in his basement. He’s spent thousands of dollars building it. I’d bet anything there’s a huge market for Barbies, too.”

“There is,” I say. “I just…” I falter, realizing I was about to question how anyone would like these dresses, but stop myself.

“Hey, look at me,” Tandy says. “These are amazing and so are you.”

The flush of pleasure is back, stronger and warmer. Tandy stands and puts the Barbie back on the shelf. She handles the doll like she handles me, gently.

“Thanks for not thinking it’s silly that I play with dolls.”

“You don’t have to thank me, Bliss. Growing up sometimes means giving up what you really love. It’s sad, you know?” She reaches out and brushes a finger across the fabric of a ball gown on the doll beside the one she just put back. “I don’t think it’s healthy spending our life feeling like we can’t have what made us happy when we were little.”

She’s talking about toys, but her words hit hard because I’m thinking of what my parents made me give up. Selma. A first love. The awakening of who I was.

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