The Sleeping Doll

And puts you in charge of the house. He makes you Mommy. He gives you power, which you never had before. And he hooks you in with that.”
    Tears dotted Linda’s eyes. “It wasn’t like that.”
    “You’re right. It was worse . Because then look at what happened. The Family breaks up, we go to jail and where do you end up? Right back where you started. With a domineering male figure again—only this time, Daddy’s God. If you thought you couldn’t say no to your real father, think about your new one.”
    “Don’t say that,” Sam began. “She’s—”
    Rebecca turned on her. “And you . Just like the old days. Linda and I go at it, and you play Little Miss United Nations, don’t want anybody upset, don’t want anybody making waves. Why? Is it because you care about us, dear? Or is it because you’re terrified we’ll self-destruct and you’ll be even more alone than you already are?”
    “You don’t have to be like that,” Sam muttered.
    “Oh, I think I do. Let’s take a look at your story, Mouse. Your parents didn’t know you existed. ‘Go do whatever you want, Sammy. Mommy and Daddy’re too busy with Greenpeace or the National Organization for Women or walking for the cure to tuck you in at night.’ And what doesDaniel do for you? He’s suddenly the involved parent you never had. He looks out for you, tells you what to do, when to brush your teeth, when to repaint the kitchen, when to get on all fours in bed . . . and you think it means he loves you. So, guess what? You’re hooked too.
    “And now? You’re back to square one, just like Linda. You didn’t exist to your parents, and now you don’t exist to anyone . Because you’re not Samantha McCoy. You became somebody else.”
    “Stop it!” Sam was crying hard now. The harsh words, born from a harsh truth, stung deeply. There were things she could say too—Rebecca’s selfishness, her bluntness bordering on cruelty—but she held back. It was impossible for her to be harsh, even in self-defense.
    Mouse  . . .
    But Linda didn’t have Sam’s reticence. “And what gives you the right to talk? You were just some tramp pretending to be this bohemian artist.” Linda’s voice shook with anger, tears streaming down her face. “Sure, we had some problems, Sam and me, but we cared for each other. You were just a whore. And here you are, judging us. You weren’t any better!”
    Rebecca sat back, her face still. Sam could almost see the anger bleeding away. She looked down at the table, said in a soft voice, “You’re right, Linda. You’re absolutely right. I’m no better at all. I fell for it too. He did the same thing to me.”
    “You?” the woman snapped. “You didn’t have any connection with Daniel! You were just there to fuck.”
    “Exactly,” she said with a sad smile on her face, one of the saddest that Samantha McCoy had ever seen.
    Sam asked, “What do you mean, Rebecca?”
    More wine. “How do you think he got me hooked?” Another sip of wine. “I never told you that I hadn’t slept with anybody for three years before I met him.”
    “You?”
    “Funny, huh? Sexy me. The femme fatale of the Central Coast? The truth was a lot different. What did Daniel Pell do for me? He made me feel good about my body. He taught me that sex was good. It wasn’t dirty.” She set down the wineglass. “It wasn’t something that happened when my father got home from work.”
    “Oh,” Sam whispered.
    Linda said nothing.
    Downing the last of the wine. “Two or three times a week. Middle and high school . . . You want to hear what my graduation present was?”
    “Rebecca . . . I’m so sorry,” Sam said. “You never said anything.”
    “You mentioned that day in the van, when we met?” Speaking to Linda, whose face was unmoved. “Yeah, we were there for three hours. You thought we were fucking. But all we did was talk. He was comforting me because I was so freaked out. Just like so many other times—being with a man who wanted me, and me wanting him, only I couldn’t go there. I couldn’t let him touch me. A sexy package—with no passion inside. But Daniel? He knew exactly what to say to make me feel comfortable.
    “And now look at me—I’m thirty-three and I’ve dated four different men this year and, you know, I can’t remember the name of the second one. Oh, and guess what—every one of them was at least fifteen years older than me. . . . No, I’m not any better than you guys. And everything