The Distance Between Us

gets visibly upset. Her voice starts to wobble; her cheeks deepen a shade. “I just really want Tina. Is there a way I can order her? Do you have a catalog?”
    My mom, having just said good-bye to her customers, joins us. “Is there anything I can help you with?”
    “You had a doll in here that I want, but now she’s gone.”
    “Tina,” I remind my mom.
    “Did Caymen show you some other dolls?”
    “Yes, but those ones won’t work.”
    “Is there something specific about Tina that makes her special to you?”
    “Yes. My father bought me a doll when I was a girl. The doll was given away when I became a teenager and I have since lost my father. When I saw Tina a few months ago I couldn’t get over how similar she was to my doll. I left without buying her that day but haven’t been able to get her off my mind. I really just want that doll.” A few tears escape the woman’s eyes and she hastily wipes them away.
    I look away, embarrassed for her. Or maybe it’s more. Maybe I’m jealous someone can have that close of a relationship with her father that even after he is gone just the thought of him makes her emotional. When I think of my father I feel only emptiness.
    My mom pats her arm and says, “I completely understand.” But does she completely understand? My mother was disowned by her father. Is she thinking about that while comforting this lady? Does she think about that a lot? Or does she, like me, try to push it into the furthest parts of her mind and hope it never escapes, especially in front of others?
    Mom continues. “I’m so sorry for your loss. Sometimes it’s the little things that bring that special someone back to us in some small way.” She waves her hand toward me and says, “Caymen can be a stickler sometimes, but we can definitely order that doll for you. We can probably even give you an extra special price.”
    I see how it is, make me the scapegoat. But I can handle taking the blame. It’s the fact that my mom is once again not thinking about our financial problems that has me worried. Would this store have collapsed already if not for me keeping her from giving customers too many discounts, letting little girls pick too many clothes for their birthday dolls . . . ?
    “For sure,” I say. “Let me take you to the catalog so we can make sure we’re all talking about the same doll here.” I lead the way and then say, “We require payment up front before we can place the order.” The last thing we need is to order a doll and have the lady never come get it.
    My mom turns to me when the lady leaves. “Caymen.”
    “What?”
    “I don’t believe you were with that customer for a good half hour without finding out why she wanted that doll. We care about people, Caymen. I’ve been around too many people who only care about themselves to raise a daughter who doesn’t think about others, even if they are strangers.”
    My mom’s not so veiled put-down of my father was not lost on me, but her generalization bothered me. Wasn’t it possible that money had nothing to do with the attitudes of the tiny slice of horrible rich people she had been exposed to? “You told me to try to get her to buy one we already had.”
    “Not at the expense of her feelings.”
    “Feelings don’t cost anything. Dolls do.”
    She offers me a small smile and then runs a hand down my cheek. “Feelings, my dear daughter, you will perhaps learn one day, can be the most costly thing in the universe.”
    And that’s the kind of attitude that is going to be the financial ruin of the store.
     
    As I sit in my room later, her phrase plays over and over in my mind. Feelings can be the most costly thing in the universe. What does that mean? Well, I understand what it means, but what does it mean to her? Is she talking about my father? Hers?
    I pull a notebook titled Organ Donor from the top shelf of my closet, flip to an empty page, and write the sentence my mom had said. This is where I keep all the information I have on my dad. I actually know a lot: his name, where he lives, even what he looks like. I’d looked him up on the internet out of curiosity. He works for some big law firm in New York. But knowing about someone doesn’t equate to knowing them. So in this notebook I write all the things my mom has ever said about my dad. It isn’t much. She had known my dad when she was young; it was a short relationship that ended fast. I often wonder if she really knew him at all. She could rarely