Dolls in the Attic

By Dina Sprenger

The muddied jeep flew off the cliff and Chancey floated above questioning if Rake meant to kill her.
Chancey Coolidge, a forty something stay-at-home mom, trades in her dream for fame and fortune in exchange for her perception of the American dream. Struggling to be noticed by her husband, she ponders her purpose in life, and volunteers at the Humane Society, hopeful her encounter there will prove to be more fulfilling than her relationship with her husband. In search of companionship, she meets Rake, twenty years her junior, and forms a connection she never knew two souls could share. Bonded by their views on life and death, Chancey begins an affair that can only end one way.
On the eve of her passing her husband discovers her poetry, revealing her inner most thoughts and feelings. Mortified her secrets are revealed, her journey as an angel flourishes while nine dolls, tucked away in attics, come to life, as symbols of the abuse and torture Chancey experienced as a child. She relives her pain and torment through these dolls and finally realizes what love truly looks like. While her spirit begins to make amends to her husband, the nine dolls become one.

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse
• Release date: Apr 23, 2015
• ISBN: 9781504903868

Dina Sprenger

“Sprenger’s novel is dark and deeply engrossing. She writes like she can reach inside you. Her protagonist faces our biggest fear…head on. You won¹t put this book down. -Nancy R., Tampa lawyer “Could not put the book down. The idea of healing from an angel¹s perspective is both genius and thought provoking. Middle-aged wellness at its best!” - Jodi Nichols, Business and Wellness Coach

Book preview

Chapter 1

Flying

Sometimes, one is able to fly without wings.

The transition from life to death seemed smoother than she imagined. Her long golden hair flowed effortlessly with the breeze. Her pale skin, soft and impeccable, glistened in the sunlight. Her clothes were free of any blood or debris from the wreck. She felt light and airy. The cage was open and she was finally unburdened and free.

Flying through the door, Chancey couldn’t believe the amount of people who were squeezed into her home. Her home was her sanctuary, her escape, the only place she ever felt safe and she didn’t like visitors. She knew if her husband was the decision maker, the place would’ve been bustling with people, but no, Chancey had made it crystal clear to him that the nine-hundred square feet of lavender and chamomile smell must remain calm at all times.

Here in this home she created her white picket fence, here she spent hours baking cookies for the neighbors, rarely tasted by her slight frame of ninety-eight pounds. The kitchen was her least favorite room, though she spent hours just staring out its bay window at the birds passing by, wondering what life was about. Chancey Coolidge was a romantic at heart, but the life she built represented anything but.

The house was small, and one could argue if it held any warmth. Chancey hated knick-knacks, and most of the rooms were almost barren, looking as if the family were either moving in or moving out. The countertops stayed clear of any activity going on, as Chancy often shoved any loose papers or odds and ends inside her desk drawer. She always knew it represented her need for control. If the outside were void of chaos, perhaps her insides would feel that way, too. She justified to herself the desolate décor gave her a sense of peace and serenity, and perhaps there was some truth to that; but the fact was Chancey also enjoyed knowing she could pick up and run away at any given moment. She preferred not to have any attachment to things, or even people if she could avoid it.

When she actually married, most were shocked. Getting engaged was a casual pursuit, but Chancey was more of the runaway-bride type. She came from a broken home. Her father left when she was a baby, and she had never gotten to know him. Most of her memories were filled with stories her mother told her, none of which were favorable. She never bonded with her mother either as she had worked three jobs most of Chancey’s life. Her formative years were spent in after-school programs. She often sat with teachers doing homework and went home alone to late-night frozen dinners. Her siblings were all much younger as her mother eventually remarried once Chancey moved out. She never became close to any of them, and mostly they called upon her if they needed something.

Chancey was nineteen years old when, living with a boyfriend, she received a call that changed her life.

Hello? her cheerful voice announced.

Hi Sweetie, it’s Aunt Cheryl.

After a long pause, she replied.

Hi Auntie Cheryl. Wow, it’s been a long time… Chancey’s voice trailed, as she suspected the reason for the call.

I’m so sorry, Chancey. Your dad has passed; stomach flu. I’m so sorry.

Chancey always knew the truth. Her father had a drinking problem, and although her mother may have exaggerated all those years, she knew her dad ultimately died from alcoholism.

Then and there Chancey decided to make something of her life, not to repeat the same mistakes her mother made. She moved out from her boyfriend’s apartment and swore she would choose partners differently. She tried dating accountants rather than tattoo artists and musicians as her father had been; but she couldn’t help being attracted to the non-conformist, the non-traditionalist, and the bad boy.

Taking one receptionist job after another, in a multitude of industries, usually dating a boss or co-worker, Chancey landed what seemed the best job of all, answering phones at a construction site.

Finally, I can wear whatever I want! Jeans, cut offs, t-shirts, flip-flops! she shrieked to her girlfriend over root beer floats.

And he’s hot! she spoke enthusiastically.

Oh no, not another one, Chancey, her girlfriend refuted.

This one’s different. Chancey stared off into the distance.

He was different. He was Flip Coolidge.

By appearance, Flip was exactly what Chancey was attracted to, tall and lean, but cut all over. His wavy dark hair and piercing eyes lent itself to mystery, but inside Flip was simple. He said what he meant and meant what he said. There wasn’t a lot of depth to the handsome man, but he fell head over heels for Chancey and treated her like a princess, catering to her every whim. It didn’t take long for Chancey to move into Flip’s place and become his wife. As a chameleon, she quickly learned to do what was expected of her.

Most of the time Chancey lived on autopilot. She went from activity to activity, or rather activities to activities, as she usually multi-tasked. She prided herself in making an appointment on the phone with a doctor, remembering her calendar by heart, fold the laundry, and bake cookies without a timer. She was a perfectionist to a tee and never wasted a minute of the day. Up by five a.m. and to bed by eleven p.m., Chancey ran on adrenaline. Her energy was in a constant fight or flight mode, and despite the pleas from her laid back husband, she found this way of living suited her perfectly. In fact, she felt it beneficial to herself and those around her.

After all, look at all I get done in a day. She’d often attempt to convince others, or perhaps herself.

Here she was now, hovering above, with all the time in the world, and she remained content. She held no judgments and had no agenda. She understood for the very first time what it meant to exist. She was just a spiritual being. Just forty-eight hours ago, she would have cringed at the sight of so many people in her house, none of who had the decency to remove their shoes, except for Lila, her precious daughter of eleven years of age who followed the rules despite what the rest of the world did.

Lila marched to her own beat. However, Lila knew her mom better than most, and the sweet child kept busy that evening lighting candles and incense of lavender; her mother’s favorite.

Chancey smelled the soft fragrance and hoped it allowed Lila to feel her presence.

Flip, Chancey’s husband of thirteen years, seemed to have followed most of the rules, as there on the buffet table lay dozens of donuts, bowls of candy, and an ice cream bar as big as Texas. Chancey always joked when she died, she wanted a lavish party filled with all of the sugary treats she craved! She had forgotten to mention not in her home. Chancey chuckled aloud since she knew no one could see nor hear her. She floated about the house observing who had attended. As expected, there was no sign of her extended family, no mother, no aunt, no siblings but it didn’t pain her. Instead, she was at ease.

There were countless faces she didn’t recognize; yet the place was filled with laughter and stories about her.

I remember the time she brought cookies over. She knew our niece was visiting. So thoughtful, a tall woman said to the group.

Me too, announced another. She was such a quiet spirit, but such a saint.

Chancey was surprised at how well liked she was. The stories of her made her sound quite giving, rather than the selfish egotistical bitch she was told she was all of her life.

She decided to stop in the kitchen, and there on the counter between a bowl of M&M’s and pretzels laid her book. Just as she had envisioned, hard bound in black and lavender, approximately two inches in thickness. It must have just arrived from the print shop on the eve of her death. She wondered if Flip knew, if he had peeked, perhaps read it. Desperately, she wanted to grab it, to spare him the pain she knew he would have. She never meant for such bad timing.

He spoke softly, his unkempt hair a mess, his deep hazel eyes fresh out of tears.

Thank you all for coming. I know how much Chancey was loved by all, but I never imagined… His voice trailed off and a man in a suit led him out of the room, but he turned back and continued.

I’d like to share with you what Chancey didn’t get an opportunity to.

With that he picked up the lavender book and continued as he knelt onto a wooden chair in his faded jeans and worn in cowboy boots.

Chancey wrote a book of poems, and it just came in from her publisher. I know she had intended to share it with us. Please, take a copy on your way out.

Aghast, Chancey urgently wanted to leap across the room and gather the books, but she knew she no longer controlled her life. Her secret was out, and one by one the guests left, carrying her most private thoughts with them. Only one question remained; would her husband, the man who never read anything more than an article from the sports page, take the time to sit and read it?

It was near midnight when Flip tucked Lila in and answered all of her questions. Appearing emotionally drained, he passed out in his daughter’s arms amidst her stuffed animals, atop her princess bed. Only moments passed when Lila awakened and quietly slipped out of her father’s embrace to pace the halls in deep thought. Slowly she walked downstairs to the kitchen where the bowls of M&M’s and Skittles, her mother’s favorites, lingered about along with the pretty lavender book.

In a faint whisper Lila read the words on the front of the book, just as they were written, Years INSanity, by Chancey Rangs Coolidge. She questioned her emphasis on the word insanity and changing her inflection she read, Years IN Sanity.

She sat for a moment wondering if the words she was about to read kept her mother alive, or if they were what ultimately killed her.

Finally, the book was opened.

Page 1

Love me like I need you to

Don’t love me like you’d want

Hold me like I need you to

A prisoner to taunt

Set me free and find me

The way I was when I first found

Naïve and pure my heart was calm

My head it made no sound

My eyes did not speak of pain or fear

My gait innocent and pure

And now I cast a shadow

I can’t help but create war

A silent solitude a world

Of me and only me

No temper tantrum ever helped

To make you come and see

In heaven I will rest my head

My heart will learn of peace

Till then I spend a lifetime

Bound by contract to your lease

You do not know how to be my prince

I’m foolish to think you could

My soul must seek this angst

My spirit feels it should

A child who grew up way too quickly

A teen who’s still a kid

An infant needing basic love

In grown up gear I’ve always hid

And when my time for wrinkled skin

Comes crashing in with wind

The roar of waves will take my pain

And all my madness will learn to mend

Love me like I need you to

Don’t love me like you’d want

Hold me like I need you to

A prisoner to taunt

It used to be so easy

Before I had so much

A lonely time with nothing

Allowed my spirit such

A way that now is lost

Locked up without a key

Of all the things I ever

Liked about me

Private tears that will never mark

History will not live on

Opportunity strikes only once

Mine is forever gone

Once upon a day I had a plan

My dreams smelled sweet like flowers

I breathed fresh air no matter where

In dark and dusty showers

And now my lists are only filled

With tasks fit for a mom

My only solace lies in fantasy

That I’ll live another life when this one’s gone

Chapter 2

Deborah

The thick stuffy air made one feel they needed oxygen to move any farther. The low ceiling required ducking to creep inside the small enclosure called an attic. With every step, the floorboards creaked and unsettled dust moved about.

Despite the many antique pictures that leaned against the wall and floor, with their shattered glass upon the worn out wooden floorboards, it felt barren and dark. There was no denying it was dark, yet with close inspection the corners of a 1920’s desk, with its drawers half open, revealed bits of lead from a modern day pencil. It was clear the desk had been used since 1920, yet it sat with an energy telling of a story long ago, when times seemed happier and hopeful. The sun shined through the nailed down boards of the window shutters, disclosing flecks of dust dancing in the air, yet as stifling as it was, there was a chill in the air; a sense of a black hairy spider crossing one’s path and climbing upon one’s head as if arriving home; a chill that neither child nor adult should feel; not even a doll.

Deborah lay against the wall waiting. She was a chubby doll, brought home on a spring afternoon. She never minded being chubby. It suited her. It allowed her to be free of trying to be perfect for some child who never really cared. Her short red curly hair intended to be lush and bright, now looked frizzy and frazzled. Her face was full of freckles; not the kind across a nose people call cute; not the kind