Kaleidoscope (7 page)

***

The thrift store looked more like an antique shop; its knick-knacks and old furniture severely outnumbered the amount of clothing and other goods within the small, privately owned business. Low wooden counters with shelves beneath them stretched along, parallel to each other, to create three aisles within the store in its front. The back portion of it had been reserved for a cash register desk, an enormous wall of pictures and frames, and a few rows of miscellaneous clothing, organized by where it was  worn on the body.

My own misery began to crawl away into my mind as I looked around. I was fascinated with the surfaces populated with so many...things. There were all types: wooden clocks and book ends, cooking gadgets (some newer, and some antiques), and a plethora of small ceramic figurines in all shapes, colors, and sizes. They seemed to have a society of their own within the thrift store, overtaking mostly the far left aisle, farthest from the entrance. One could get lost just looking at all the different figurines for hours.

I could hear Mom in the distance speaking with an attendant, making pleasant, idle chit-chat as I perused the racks and rows of items. I wasn't looking for anything in particular—I was more just noticing the interesting variety of objects and wondering how they came to be in their environment. Honestly, I felt a bit bad for the figurines as I wandered towards them. I know that sounds silly, but I imagined how it must feel to be new and prized, then to fade a bit with age, become forgotten, and finally be abandoned through no fault of their own. Sometimes perspectives change, or needs change...sometimes people move and they have to get rid of some stuff to accommodate a smaller space. It was discouraging to think about.

As I continued walking, my eyes  fell on a group of what appeared to be lawn gnomes, nestled together in a choir-like group on one of the shelves beneath a counter. I bent forward to look at them; they were all of different colors and sizes. It was obvious that they didn't go together at all, but they were grouped in their similarity to make a rather motley group of gnomes.

Among them was one gnome in particular. He was the smallest of the group, and he was certainly the happiest of them all. Others were painted with smiling expressions, but this little guy was so happy that his eyes squinted almost completely shut. His gentle, earthy color scheme contrasted sharply with the bright blues and reds that decorated several of the larger figurines.

I carefully picked him up, inspecting the detail that someone put into crafting this small thing. Holding it felt right, and suddenly I had a strange affinity for this figurine, an attachment that I often felt to random objects I identified with. It was a weird phenomenon, and most people didn't believe me when I said I could “feel” a history behind a material object, but I really felt like I could.

I looked around, spotting my mother thumbing through some of the sweaters on a rack of clothing. “Mom,” I called to her, walking towards her at a fast pace as I spoke. “Can I get this?” I held the small gnome out as far as my arm would let me, right in her face.

She ignored the annoying way in which I presented it and glanced at the figurine from out of the corner of her eye. “Why sure honey, you can get the...er...” she paused to inspect the object in my hand. “...is that a lawn gnome? Well, I've seen you ask for weirder things...go ahead and hold onto it, I think I'm going to buy this sweater.” She brushed her long, golden hair off of her shoulders and held a purple sweater with orange embellishments up to her bosom. “What do you think?”

“Well, I've seen you buy weirder things,” I said with a smile.

***

I don't know how long I'd been lost in my reverie, but when I came out of it, Mom was staring at me in a concerned fashion, offering the figurine for me to take and appearing to have been trying to do so for a decent amount of time. I lowered my eyes and gingerly took it in my palm, turning the figurine with my fingers on both hands and inspecting it, just as I had done that first day that I got him. It still felt the same, three years later. I was relieved to discover this, and a smiled faintly.

“I...I completely forgot I'd ever even asked you to buy this for me. Until now I mean.”

“But you remember now,” Mom said, both as a realization to herself and to finalize it, as if by not acknowledging my memory that the instance might slip away. To be honest, I felt the same way myself.

“Thanks Mom, you've been really helpful,” I said in earnest, crawling from the worn armchair. “I should probably go write this down, in case I forget. Also I need to find a place for this little guy.” With that, I made my way up the stairs, my mother staring after me. I'm sure she was flooded with relief that there was hope for her crazy daughter, after all.

“If I don't see you before you go to bed, then goodnight honey,” she called after me.

“Goodnight.” I quietly shut my bedroom door behind me.

CHAPTER EIGHT

That evening, I did my best to write everything down with as much detail as I could in the few pages I had left. My journal, as diminutive as it was, had been nearly filled up; only one or two pages of blank paper remained after I'd retold my exciting memory of the thrift store. That meant that Ms. Orowitz would want me to give it to her when I saw her again on Tuesday.

I fretted for a moment, hoping I wouldn't have some other revelation while she had my journal where I'd be forced to delay writing about it in the mean time.
But really...how likely was that?
Given that tonight was the first time I had seemed to remember anything significant in recent years, it didn't seem likely that more would follow suit any time soon.

I stowed the journal away on my nightstand and glanced at the small gnome. I'd named him Phillip and perched him on my windowsill. My hope was that by placing him there, his presence would remind me that my memory did exist somewhere. I also hoped, in my strange way, that allowing him to see the scenery and the days passing by would make up for the fact I had completely forgotten about the figurine's existence. I had relegated him to a life of solitude among other stored knick-knacks for so long in Mom's closet.

I knew it was a silly concept, and it seemed ridiculous even as I thought about it. However, feeling like a confused and apathetic shadow to the world, watching it pass you by from the outside and feeling more alive inside your own head, was no small matter. When something comes along that you can cling to, something which makes you feel like you're somehow a part of what's going on around you, you hold on to it. Whatever it is, you hold on in the fear that if you let go, it will all slip away and you'll become a shadow again.

It's why I enjoyed painting so much. Creating something was empowering, but it was also grounding to create something that other people acknowledge. It made it real, and as a result, made me present.

So what if this gnome was important to me? I didn't care because it felt normal to place importance on something, even something that seemed as insignificant to the casual observer as a ceramic figurine  I got at a thrift store when I was fourteen years old.

              I laid my head to rest in the darkness of my room, broken only by a sliver of moonlight as it snuck through the drawn mini blinds, closed to the cold. The room reverberated with silence, and my mind reeled in the possibilities of what could happen from this point forward.

Unlocking one memory was a big deal—I didn't know if I  placed too much importance on it or not, but wasn't that the whole goal behind going to therapy and doing these memory exercises—to remember something? I recalled again the image of myself digging for a buried treasure, blindly searching while knowing that it did indeed exist...somewhere. But now, the explorer found a small glimmer of hope, a small glimmer of gold in a vast expanse of empty soil.

Keep digging
, I thought. It was this image and mantra that eventually lulled me into a fitful, curious sleep.

***

Morning came to me this time in a haze of confusion and grogginess.

I looked around for the source of a noise as I glanced at the clock on my nightstand. I'd slept in until just past 11am. This was unusual for me, but my fevered dreams, fueled by my mind going a million miles per hour even in my sleep, were a likely culprit for this. I rubbed the sleep from my eyes, widening them in an effort to force myself into a waking state.

Even more unusual than sleeping in, however, was the source of the sound that woke me. It wasn't Murray pawing gently at my door, or any sound from outside. It had been the gentle buzz of my phone as it vibrated against my desk across the room.

I blinked, dragging myself into a standing position and staggering towards the desk. I detached the phone from its charging cord and slumped into the chair, glancing for a moment at my landscape painting, which I'd actually completed a few days prior. I was proud to have finished it, but when was a painting ever really complete? I became distracted by it and took a moment to look it over, making mental judgements about its quality and style before I looked down at the phone in the palm of my hand.

A few buttons brought it to life, and the bright screen assailed my still-adjusting eyes. I squinted into it, widening them in surprise as I saw on a text...from Austin.

>>
Happy Halloween! :)
it read.

I had almost forgotten—I suppose today was Halloween. But wait, there was a second text, just below that one which had just arrived.

>>
You might be 2 old for trick or treating, but have any plans?

I felt a surge of—something– in my stomach, and a heat rose into my face. I couldn't identify this emotion; even if I were “normal” and understood all the possible ways to feel, this one was something I was sure I'd never experienced. Was it fear, or excitement? Was it anticipation? But of what?

Austin and I exchanged numbers at the beginning of our painting class yesterday, but this was the first time we'd communicated outside of that environment. I didn't know why this was so off-putting to me when we'd spoken so much already. He seemed very adamant on being my friend, though I didn't know why. Honestly, I felt boring when I was around him—this feeling was magnified by the confident way that he told his stories, the vibrancy of the history he was so willing to share with me about himself, and by the sincerity with which he spoke and listened, on the rare occasions I decided to open up to him. I could go on. I had to admit I was astoundingly lucky for my first friend in a while to be someone as genuine as Austin Fletcher.

He was an open book, and I knew quite a bit about him already, details which I'd absorbed like a sponge. I was completely captivated by his every fluid movement and sentence as I sought the meaning behind his words in those startling green eyes, fearful that I might ever forget the first time I really got to sit down with him and get to know him.

He was, after all, an enormous participant in my “progress” of searching through my mind to become a whole person again, even though he didn't know it. Austin inspired me to use the paintbrushes that would once again immerse me into a hobby comprising more than sitting around feeling empty and sorry for myself. My intrigue about him that day on the bus led me to wonder about Markson's Thrift Store, which would become the first solid stepping stone on what I hoped would be a continued, sustaining path of recovery of my memory.

Of course, I hadn't told him any of this; while Austin was an open book, I was a padlocked journal. I was cautious to reveal anything about myself that I thought would scare him off or change what seemed to be his good perception of me. After all, coming up to someone and telling them how strange you are isn't really something you want to reveal within the first couple days of meeting someone.              

“Hey, I'm crazy...I have trouble connecting to people, remembering parts of my past from a specific time, and I'm going to therapy for it. I've also been noticing you for some time, and you inspired me to continue my hobby of painting, which subsequently led to me uncovering a rather pleasant memory from a few years ago. Thanks!”

Yeah, I imagined that going south pretty quick.

I hoped I would get there, that Austin was someone I could really trust. And maybe this small bit of informal communication—the loathsome back-and-forth of texting—was the first step towards that.

I inhaled sharply and went to work attempting to respond.

“Augh, these stupid touch screen phones,” I grumbled, hitting more than one button and having to go back to erase the extras multiple times. Texting was not my best form of communication, since no one ever bothered to text me, but eventually I spelled out a response.

>>
Happy Halloween to you! Lol, just handing out candy for the kids.You?

It seemed like he had taken forever to respond as I sat there in nothing but an oversized t-shirt and my underwear, curled up in my desk chair like a child, staring at the phone on my desk. I continued waiting, and I felt like an idiot.

Is this what people normally did when they waited for a text, or did they go about their daily lives? This form of communication truly was so informal. I wanted to call Austin instead, to hear the familiar volley of our conversation instead of waiting on this slow string of text messages. However, I didn't know if he was busy, or if he would even want to talk on the phone. If he did, he would have called in the first place...at least that's what I told myself as I fumbled for excuses, fearful to do anything damaging to this budding friendship.

Just as I was about to give up and plod downstairs to find something to eat, the phone finally vibrated. I picked it up and shoved it into my face to get a better look.

>>
Lol, not a damn thing. Candy 4 the kids could be fun! I'd love to join if you want company.

Was Austin implying that he actually wanted to see me
outside
of our routine classes?
But he just saw me yesterday...wasn't he sick of me yet?
My head whirled with possibilities, but my logic reminded me that I'd have to ask Mom. She would return from work around 5:30pm tonight, just in time to help me hand out candy and to plead with me, like she did last year, to at least wear some vampire teeth or devil horns to get into the spirit. 

I looked around, stuttering in my mind as I attempted to come up with an appropriate response that didn't ward him off, but that also didn't seem too eager. Frustrated, I fumbled with the buttons once again.

>>
Sounds great. :) Ill have to ask mom when she gets home, you can stay for dinner if u want? UGH I hate texting, can I call this afternoon?

I rose from my seat, determined to get dressed and to allow my spirits to be lifted by the hope of company from someone my own age. As I did so, I received a lightning-fast response.

>>
Yes and yes! Actually Ill call you when I get off work. :) Ttyl. Text me your address tho?

I nodded and smiled to myself, noticing as I did so that I'd put my sweater on backwards. Embarrassed, I changed it, careful as always not to look at myself too much in the mirror. I headed downstairs, slowly pecking the on-screen keyboard to relay my address.

I was feeling pretty good, all things considered. The day was a beautifully sunny one that lit up the remnants of snow and mingled with the few leaves that lingered as autumn's last vestiges. Our small back yard became a beacon of light that shone through the kitchen window. A large bowl of candy set on the dining room table, paired with a note from Mom, bolstered my spirits even more. “
Happy Halloween sweetheart!”
it read. “
This candy is for the kids in case some of them get here before I get home. Make sure you leave the outside light on for them. I bet no one will notice if you sneak a few pieces of candy for yourself! Love you and see you soon, Mom.”

I took a few candy corns from the bottom of the orange plastic bowl and even allowed myself to pet Murray as he scaled a chair to reach the table, straining his head fiercely towards me for affection. The orange tabby seemed grateful for the attention and mewed contentedly before I shooed him back onto the floor.

Things, at least for this moment, right now, were starting to look up, and I was determined to make today a decent day.

***

I carried my phone in my pocket as I flitted about the house. I was preparing it for a horde of small children in overpriced costumes, the arrival of my mother on this Friday night (which meant I would help out with dinner), and the anticipated appearance of my first house guest since we'd moved here. It was an awkward and embarrassing milestone to acknowledge, but I swallowed its resulting anxiety as best as I could, resolute to have things go well. Mom would be home soon, eager to be done with another work week and just as excited for any known holiday as she was when I was little enough to properly celebrate them.
Hopefully she can reign it in long enough to not make this embarrassing
, I thought to myself as I plucked a pre-portioned bag of chicken from the freezer and set it to thaw in the microwave.

My mother had been easy enough to persuade in the plans. I'd called her on her lunch break to tentatively broach the topic, receiving an enthusiastic, if not surprised, response.

“Of course you can have a guest over, Jade! That's just wonderful! See, I knew you'd make friends if you went out and--”

“Yeah, yeah, please don't make a huge deal about it.”

“Of course...I'm just excited for you, and this
is
a big deal! What's the lovely lady's name?”

I'd hesitated. “Uh...well,
his
name is Austin Fletcher.”

There had been silence, and I thought for a second that she might change her mind. Instead, Mom gave a “knowing” sort of haw, insinuating I'm sure that she thought this boy would become my first husband. I even felt her conspiratorial wink over the phone.