Je t’aime, ma poupée
The black ink looks fresh against the white paper. Thin letters that curl across the page in handwriting so precise it could very well be traced. I flip it over, as if that will answer the question of what the hell I’m holding, which, obviously it doesn’t.
I found it in the mail, slipped between two junk flyers. My high school French lets me remember 75% of. Je t’aime, I love, ma, mine. Poupée, though, I have no idea.
I’m taking out my phone to translate it when Darren comes into the kitchen, his hair wet from the shower, rubbing his face against the wet towel.
“Anything for me?” He asks. I point to the Amazon package with his name on it. He puts the towel on one of the stools by the kitchen island and reaches for the padded envelope.
“What is that?” He asks, pointing to the note in my hand.
“No idea.”
He takes the paper from my hand. Raises an eyebrow.
“Was it marked for you?”
“No, it was just in the mailbox.”
He squints at the writing, seemingly just as confused as me, but shrugs.
“Probably a mix-up. Or a prank.” He kisses my cheek and walks back to the bathroom, leaving his towel on the stool.
I don’t do anything for a second, but wait until I can hear him brushing his teeth, before going to the trash and picking out the slip of paper. If someone had asked me why, I wouldn’t have a clue. But I flatten it against my thigh and shove it into my pocket.
“I’m leaving!” I call to Darren, grabbed my keys, and my purse, and walk out the door.
*
The drive is uneventful, but I can’t stop my fingers from tapping against the steering wheel. The anxiety wells up inside me, and I’m trying to swallow down adrenaline that makes me want to press the gas pedal a little too hard. In what seems like a minute later I’m sitting in a plastic chair outside a door marked “Dr. Lily Mercia”. I jump when it opens, and a woman in her early 50s with cat eye glasses and a warm smile says my name.
“Ella Cassidy?”
I return the smile as I stand up and follow her into the office. She takes her seat and gestures to the two chairs in front of her desk.
“Well, Ella, what can I do for you today?” Dr. Mercia asks. “You said you wanted to discuss your birth control?”
“My boy-we- well, so I have an IUD.” I inwardly cringe at the words. This isn’t what I was supposed to say.
“Okay,” she looks at me encouragingly, urging me to keep going.
“He…well, he’s been talking more about wanting kids.” My voice feels stuck in my throat.
“So, you want to schedule a removal?” She asks.
“No! Well, I mean–” I stop, and make myself take a deep breath. “Before I had the IUD, everything was awful. None of the pills worked. The IUD was the only thing that helped all my symptoms. I don’t want to go back to how it was before.”
“Well, there’s going to be side effects with any change to your birth control.” Dr. Mercia says. Her gaze pierces me, and I look at a spot on her forehead rather than her eyes. “But if you want to try for a child, a removal would be necessary.”
“Is there anything you can do? Anything to make it easier?” I ask. It’s pathetic. I know.
“How bad was it, off the IUD?” Dr. Mercia asks.
“Bad.” We exchange a look that says all she needs to know.
“And you definitely want to try for a baby?”
Again, it’s like she reads my mind.
“Your boyfriend, you said, is he,” she’s trying to find the right word. Proceed with deliberate delicacy. “Is it more a desire on his part?”
I look at my hands.
“It’s not that I don’t,” I say quietly. “Just not right now.”
Dr. Mercia is silent for a moment.
“Can I have the name of your last OB/GYN?” She asks. “So I can see a more complete medical history.”
I nod and give her the name of my doctor in Austin, from before I moved to Houston.
“How about this,” she says. “Why don’t you tell your boyfriend that I want to see the two of you together, to talk about the process of you coming off the IUD, and if there’s anything we can do to soothe the symptoms? To talk about all the side effects, and what to expect when you do start trying for a child?”
“Do you think that’ll scare him off?” I ask with a weak chuckle.
Dr. Mercia gives me a sly smile.
“Don’t worry. Listen, you’re 27, right? There’s plenty of time to decide if you want to have kids down the road. There’s no need to rush right now, and it needs to be your decision. Something you really want. You call when you’re ready to talk to me as a pair.”
I nod and follow her as she opens the door to her office back up.
“Thanks,” I tell her, leaving the office. She tells me to drive safely, and I hear the click of her door closing.
I swallow and make my way to the parking lot outside, open the door to my car, and sit in the driver’s seat. I stare out at the sky, taking several deep breaths, trying to figure out what I’m going to say to Darren when I get back home.
I think about the piece of paper from this morning and finally pull up the translator app on my phone.
Ma poupée. My doll.
I stare at the paper for another moment, before rolling it into a ball and chucking it out the window.
*
“She said she has to wait for your records?” Darren said, leaning in the kitchen doorway as I stand in front of the stove making lunch.
“And that she wants to talk to us together.”
Darren scoffs.
“Can’t you just find another doctor?”
“Do you have any idea how hard it is to find a good OB/GYN? Do you have any idea how hard it is to find an OB/GYN,, in Houston, who is actually covered by my insurance?” I don’t mean to snap at him, but I can’t help it.
“Babe,” he says, his voice gentle, and comes up behind me, wrapping his arms around my waist. “I know, I know I’m sorry. I’m just excited. Aren’t you? To start a family.” His fingers trace up to my stomach. “To start our family.” His lips meet the side of my jaw. “Think of how great it’ll be.”
I close my eyes and let myself lean against him. I picture myself pregnant. I picture a gargantuan belly and swollen feet. I imagine having to be rolled out of bed, an adult version of Violet from Willy Wonka. I try to hide my shudder, and he mistakes it for desire. Darren kisses up and down my throat and turns off the burners on the stove. He pulls me closer to him, and I try to breathe. Try to keep a clear head as he slips his hands under my shirt.
It’s not that I don’t like him. I think.
If I had opened my eyes at the moment, and looked out to the right, to the living room window, I might have seen her standing there, gazing up at our apartment. But I didn’t, and I didn’t speak, letting him lead me towards the bedroom.
*
Je t’aime, ma poupée
Two days later there’s another note. I find it on the floor by the front door after coming in with groceries, and by the time I find it there’s a shoeprint from my Converse on top of the ink. It looks like it was ripped off from a full page of notebook paper.
“There’s another one of these,” I tell Darren, poking my head into his office.
“What?” he asks, distracted. He’s got his Switch on his lap, concentrating on whatever race he’s trying to win.
I hold up the paper, and he casts it a glance.
“That’s just trash,” he says with a shrug and turns back to the game. I frown at it. Maybe it was Darren attempting romance, and realizing he didn’t like it. Or that I didn’t like it. But, honestly, I’m not even sure if he recognized that there were words on the page.
“It’s just weird, you know?” I say, “Why are we getting French phrases shoved in our mail?”
“Hey. did you grab pretzels?”
“No,” I try to suppress the sigh in my voice. Clearly, the note is not of concern.
“I’m having the guys over to watch the game tonight, could you please get some?”
“I literally just got back from the store. Can’t you go later?”
“I have a Zoom call in 20 minutes.”
I glare at him, but he’s not looking at me.
“Fine.”
“And beer too! A pack of IPAs?”
“Doesn’t Ben like light stuff?”
“Some of that too, thanks!” Darren says, and I turn back to the door.
I almost barrel into someone when I back out of the apartment, able to duck out of the way just in time.
“Sorry!” she says, reaching out a hand to steady me.
“It’s okay,” I say, and look at up her. She’s a good three inches taller than me, her eyebrows knitted in concern. Her chestnut hair is tied into a high ponytail that drapes down to the top of her shoulder blades. She’s got a couple of empty tote bags on one arm, and her car keys on a carabiner attached to a belt loop on her shorts.
“You sure you’re okay?” She asks, and I realize I’ve been staring.
I nod. “Yeah, yeah. Sorry. I’m Ella.” I hold out my hand. Her lips twitch as if she’s trying to suppress a smile.
“Willow,” she says, accepting the offered handshake.
“Sorry, I’m running to the store,” I say, not sure why I’m apologizing.
“Me too,” she says, gesturing to the bags.
“You live here?” I say, tilting my head back as a gesture toward the apartment building. It’s more a statement than a question, and Willow nods. “I haven’t seen you before,” I tell her as we walk towards the staircase.
“I’ve been here for a few years now,” she says, “you?”
“We moved here a couple of months ago,” I tell her. “Me and my boyfriend, I mean.”
“Ah,” she says, “Darren, right?”
“Yeah, how’d you know?”
“I’ve run into him a few times,” she says with a tone I can’t quite decipher. “I’ve heard him talk about you, but I didn’t know your name.”
“Oh,” I say, “nice things, I hope.”
“Yeah,” Willow’s nose scrunches a bit. “Sort of. He kinda…”
“What?”
“Listen, I don’t know how serious you guys are, and if I’m out of line, then, I’m sorry.” Our eyes meet, her baby blues piercing through me. “But, he kind of talked about you like how a girl might talk about her Barbie.”
“Huh?”
Willow shakes her head. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said anything.”
“No, it’s not your fault,” I tell her, because I’m honestly not sure what else to say.
Willow splits off from me at the entrance as we get into our separate cars, and I try not to think about what she just said. Ma poupée. He talked about me like a doll.
Maybe, he was trying to show appreciation in a weird, misguided way.
I look towards the sidewalk, at Willow’s ponytail swishing in the wind.
My doll.
I shake my head and put the car in drive.
*
The rest of the work’s a blur, then it’s cleaning the apartment, putting snacks in bowls, making sure the beer is cold enough. Darren comes behind me as I’m passing out another round of drinks to his friends, and wraps an arm around my shoulder, pulling me into his lap.
“She’s perfect, isn’t she?” He says, “going to be a great mom one day.”
I’m saved from having to make an excuse to leave as Darren starts groaning at the screen, his arm falling off of me. I walk away from the group towards the living room, locking the door behind me. I just want to take a shower and go to bed, and decide, screw it. They can walk the two feet to the fridge and grab their own beer for the rest of the night.
When I come out of the shower, a towel around my head and wearing my favorite navy silk robe, I hear something outside the window. I cross the room and glance between the blinds.
It’s Willow, a dog on a leash beside her. I tell myself it’s ridiculous, I’m three floors up, there’s no way she sees me, but it’s like she’s looking right at me. I can’t read her expression from so far away, but I look right back at her.
I hear the guys swear in the other room, and I’m struck by the urge to do something. Something reckless. Something stupid. Something I haven’t done since before I met Darren.
I let the towel slide off my hair and run my fingers through the tangles. Her eyes stay locked on mine; I can’t be imagining that, right?
She tilts her head to the side, almost like an invitation. Or maybe I just want it to be. I gaze at the line of her jaw to her neck and let the fingers of one hand rest on my collarbone as I undo the tie of the robe with the other.
Willow smiles, that much I can see.
I let the fabric fall from my shoulders, still covering everything it needs to cover. Her mouth opens, trying to tell me something. I glance at the TV, checking the sound of the game. It’s too quiet. Is the game over? Is Darren coming back into the room?
I look back at Willow, then back towards the bedroom door, and it’s like my common sense comes crashing into place in my brain again. I slam the curtains shut and quickly tie the robe around myself again. I can hear the guys in the next room; chewing, voices from the TV, beer bottles clattering against the table.
I take a deep breath and back away but don’t dare open the curtains again.
Get a grip, I tell myself.
It’s just a girl. Just an, admittedly beautiful, girl.
I can’t stop the thought of her pressing her mouth against mine.
I let myself imagine she’s racing up the stairs, banging on the door until Darren enters, bursting into the room, and slamming me against the wall. Her fingers pin my wrists, and she calls me a tease as her lips graze against me skin, making me shiver, making me apologize, waiting for me to ask as her fingers trail down and down and —
“Babe!” Darren calls, and I release the breath I didn’t realize I was holding.
“Yeah?”
“Do we have any popcorn?’
“Check the cabinet,” I call back.
I retreat into the bathroom and resume my usual night routine, washing my face with extra cold water.
It’s just been a while, I tell myself. Been a while, and she’s pretty, and that’s fine. A crush is fine. But no more windows. No more of…whatever.
I think about how Darren talked about me. The notes in the mail. His doll.
I don’t want to be a doll.
But that’s not quite true.
It’s that I’m not sure the doll I want to be is his.
*
Je t’aime, ma poupée
Je t’aime, ma poupée
Two more pieces of paper appear over the next few days, ripped out of notebooks with the same loopy handwriting.
He scans through one, but not the other. Says clearly, it’s someone mixing up the mailboxes, and that it’s the writer’s fault for not writing down the name of who the notes were intended for. Tells me it’s silly to get worked up about it.
Then he’s shut up in the office again, and I’m left with what he says are someone’s misplaced fantasies crushed in my fist.
I walk out of the apartment and see Willow in the parking lot. I try to avoid her eyes, but suddenly she’s right in front of me.
“Hi,” she says.
“Hi,” I manage. “Listen, about the other night…”
She shakes her head. “Don’t worry about it,” she gives me a conspiratorial smile. “When was the last time?”
I don’t need to ask her what she means.
“Darren, a week or so ago? Not Darren….3 years?”
“That’s a long time,” she says, as one might say, God, I’m so sorry.
“It’s fine,” I say, “I’m sorry though, I didn’t—”
She reaches for my hand before I can finish the thought, and without asking, she pulls me toward her car.
She opens the backseat door and follows me in. Before I can speak she’s got one hand in my hair and the other on my hip, pulling me close to her.
Her lips don’t touch mine, hovering an inch away. I can feel her breath on my face and am frozen in place. I want to move closer, but hate myself for it at the same time.
“When I first saw you,” she says, slowly tracing her hand up from my hip up towards my ribs, “I knew.”
“Knew what?” I ask, trying to keep her in focus when all I want is to close my eyes and give in. Give in to her and this thing, whatever it is, whatever is driving me into her with the subtlety of a wrecking ball.
She pulls my hair back, making me meet her gaze. I try to reach towards her, to bridge the gap between us, but she holds me still.
“Tell me you’re not his,” she says.
“I’m not his.”
It’s shocking, just how easy it is to do. To follow her command. But there is truth to it. Truth I refused until she made me see it.
“Meet me tonight.” She says. “My apartment. 10A.”
She releases me and lifts herself into the driver’s seat of the car. I slide towards the door to let myself out.
“Ella?” She says, as my feet hit the ground. “9:00. Don’t be late.”
*
I tell Darren that it feels like he’s been stressed from work, and suggest he ask his friends to go out for drinks. Soon he kisses me on the cheek as I wave him out the door to Ben’s waiting car.
The clock seems to tick so slowly, but finally, it’s 8:55. I’ve got a bottle of wine tucked under my arm, and I’m crossing the building to 10A.
Willow answers on the second knock. She thanks me for the wine and crosses to the kitchen to grab glasses. Her dog sits on a brown leather sofa with blue throw pillows, a large TV, and a wooden desk. I’m scanning book titles on the shelves above the desk when she puts a glass in my hand and tilts her drink toward mine.
“Cheers,” she says, her smile growing as I drink.
We’re on the couch, our glasses empty, her mouth on my chest. She’s switching between feather-soft kisses and stinging bites, her hands pressing my palms back, keeping me in place as I shiver under her touch.
“So perfect,” she says, “my perfect doll.”
With my nerves on edge, I can’t imagine that I heard her right.
“What?” I ask.
Her lips meet mine again, and I taste the red wine on her tongue.
“Stay here,” she says, climbing off me. “I’ll be right back.”
I wait until she’s disappeared around the corner before reaching for my phone. Nothing from Darren, which is good. I stand up, looking around the room for my discarded shirt and bra.
I find them both on the desk chair and can’t help myself from looking at the decorations there, the mug of pens, the picture of her dog, the paper…
The paper. Blank half pages torn from somewhere.
I glance over and don’t see or hear Willow. I look back at the desk. My anxiety makes my fingers shake as I slide the blank papers aside. Nothing. I look for a notebook, but there’s none.
Carefully, as quietly as I can, I slide one of the side drawers open a peek, just enough to see it’s full of files. The next is mostly office supplies. I look at the third one, underneath the desktop, that would open into your stomach if you were sitting down.
There’s a small, black leather-bound book. I’m terrified Willow is going to appear any moment, but I have to know.
The handwriting is the same. That loopy scrawl, the precise lines.
Je t’aime, ma poupée
“You weren’t supposed to see the ending, yet.”
I try to turn around, but her arm is around my throat. I try to squirm away from her and manage to get my teeth close to her flesh.
She shrieks as my canines sink into her forearm, and something hits the side of my head. I hear the crack of shattered glass and the world starts to blur.
“No, no,” Willow says, somewhere above me. She pulls me back up and readjusts her arm around my throat before I have the chance to fall.
“There we go,” she says, as the world blackens at the edges. “I wrote it a certain way, you see?”
And then the world is no more.
*
Willow sits on the edge of the hole, gazing at the clear plastic bag sitting at the bottom.
“When he told me about you,” she says, “he said he was so happy he got you away from Austin, and that now that you were here, you’d finally settle down, have babies. Be a good little wife. Well, not a direct quote on that last one, but you know. It was implied.” Willow stands up and pulls the notebook out of her bag.
“But you’d never actually have the spine to leave him, would you? Never actually told him what you did or didn’t want.” She shakes her head. “Maybe if you could, this ending would be different.”
“But that’s the problem with being a doll,” she sighs. “You’re only good for other people telling you what to do. Playing with you as they like.”
She opens the notebook and finds the right page.
Je t’aime, ma poupée
I love your eyes, the fluttering lashes when you look at me,
The blush creeping up your cheeks
I love the sound of your heart beating against your chest
As I pull you close to me
I love your gasps as I touch you,
Frantic breaths of excitement, and nerves
When you don’t know where I’ll touch.
I love the way you say, “Please,”
As you try to breathe against me
I’ve loved you for so long,
Looking at the freckles on your perfect skin
The way your fingers dance against my arm,
Holding you against me
Tightly, then tighter still
Robbing the breath from your lungs,
As I tell you that you’re mine.
And I love to look at you
As you lie so perfectly still,
The moonlight seems to reflect
Off of your porcelain image
While the dirt fills up around you
The way your eyes still look into mine
Your expression imprinted upon your face,
Forever etched in my mind,
Your fear, and your acceptance.
That I have enshrined your perfection;
Made an alter for my love
A place where I can come
And worship your beauty,
Your purity,
Untainted
Forevermore.
Willow tears the paper out of the notebook, and tosses it in the grave, allowing the paper to settle on top of the plastic.
“Like I said,” she says, reaching for the shovel, “You weren’t supposed to see the ending.”
Kirstyn Petras is a Brooklyn-based horror and thriller writer but primarily identifies as caffeine in a human suit held together by hair spray and sheer force of will. When not writing, she trains contortion and aerial hoop, and loves covering her kitchen in flour experimenting with new pastry recipes. She is also the co-host of Dark Waters, a literary podcast exploring all that is dark, dreary, and wonderfully twisted.