Kaleidoscope

by Tracy Campbell

  “Hey Mom,” I said, stepping closer, “I have a question for you.”

  She looked up with a glimmer of surprise on her features. “Jade,” she mused with a smile, “I didn't know you were aware we had another part of the house over here! I almost never see you outside your room or the kitchen.”

  “I know, I know...” I sauntered towards her and plopped in the matching armchair across from the two-seater sofa, crossing my legs.

  “Well, to what do I owe the pleasure of your presence this evening?” she said, still smiling, as she placed a bookmark in her novel and closed it. She set it on the arm of the sofa.

  I sighed. It always felt awkward talking to my mother about anything outside of our short, forced dinner conversations, which usually took an uncomfortable turn when they navigated towards the problems I had with my wayward mind. Nonetheless, I pushed forward, just hoping she wouldn't make a huge deal out of it.

  “So, you know how Ms. Orowitz has been having me write down memory association stuff.” I said it as a fact, rather than a question. “Well, when I went to the painting class last week, I had a sort-of memory that I was hoping maybe you could help me out with.”

  “A sort-of memory?”

  “Yeah...you know, meaning I kind of remembered, but...not really. I'm pretty sure it was a thing though.”

  I watched as my mother tried to contain her excitement over being chosen to help with this matter. She swallowed it back, inhaled deeply, and leaned forward into her lap. “Well of course honey! Tell me all about it.”

  I did my best to recount the feelings of the partial memory, though it was hard for me to explain, feeling so removed from it.

  “And I heard myself saying 'I think you're wrong about him.' Did I ever say that to you?” I finished.

  Mom was lost in thought as she ran through her mind for anything relevant to my story. “Hmmm, well it certainly sounds like something you would say. I...” She stopped for a moment. Then, almost instantly, her eyes lit up. “Maybe you were talking about Eric. Do you remember him?”

  Try as I might, I drew a complete blank trying to remember this name. It was rare, even for me, to feel so devoid of recollection, but I couldn't put even a sliver of information with the name Eric.

  “Oh, he was just someone I dated for a while,” she went on, seeing my confusion. “I'm surprised you don't remember him at all—we dated for probably nine or ten months. He even stayed with us for a month or two. You never really liked him! Towards the end of our relationship, we'd broken up for a few weeks before we called it quits for good.

  Of course I kicked him out when we split the first time, but he tried to convince me that we needed to move in together again so we could spend more time together and fix our relationship. You didn't trust that at all, and rightfully so, since the only thing he wanted to fix was a way to get free meals.” Mom's face clouded with resentment. “Maybe that's what you were thinking of when you said 'I think you're wrong about him.'”

  “Hmm...maybe.” I still didn't know who Mom was talking about. “How old was I when you broke up with him?”

  She tapped a finger to her temple. “Oh, let me think here...well, it was just before we moved here, so probably fourteen or fifteen years old?”

  I tried hard to rack my brain for any piece of information I might have which could back up what my mother was saying, but nothing came up. In fact, the harder I tried, the harder it seemed to actually remember anything. The situation was so frustrating that I could scream. My mind wandered to images of a dark, foggy forest, full of blackened, lifeless trees; a rendition of myself was pushing through them, hopelessly lost and trying to no avail to claim her way again. In every direction, there was only blackness and more of the dark foliage, pressing in around me as I desperately fought against it.

  That's how it felt trying to remember almost anything from this part of my life.

  My mother's gold-flecked eyes filled with concern as she sensed my frustration. “Are you alright? I hope I didn't upset you...” her hands flitted together, her fingers working with a tress of her hair that had worked itself loose from her bun.

  “Yeah, I'm fine. I mean...I guess so. Whatever. I can't remember almost anything from when I was fourteen, or fifteen. Or even thirteen. Up until last year, that whole time period is just like an enormous grey area. I don't get it.”

  Disappointment echoed in Mom's eyes, and I almost regretted opening up to her. She seemed almost hurt, as if my inability to remember certain things directly reflected on her involvement in them. Perhaps she felt less important because a large chunk of my life that she was present for was just missing. I wished with everything in me that my illness wouldn't cause her this pain, but there was really nothing I could do.

  I sighed and made a move to get up, but Mom interjected at once, desperate to cling to the chance to communicate with me.

  “Well--” she blurted. “Is there anything you do remember from around that time? You said 'almost' anything, so maybe there are some things here and there?”

  I relented and sank back into the armchair, resting my head all the way back and gazing towards the ceiling. I did my best to collect my thoughts, lost in a swirling sea of paints, fluttering snow, and...a wooden sign.

  I slowly tilted my head back towards her, almost in a trance, as I remembered the sign from my dream cloaked in a fluttering snow—the sign that belonged to Markson's Thrift Store.

  “Does Markson's Thrift Store ring any familiar bells to you? I mean obviously I'm sure you've heard of it, but have I been there?”

  Mom's eyes softened as she looked at me. She seemed to be lost in some kind of memory of her own, remembering something pleasant—boy, I wished I could feel like that more often.

  “Oh Jade, of all the obscure things to remember!” she gushed. I stared at her, confused. Her recollection cascaded over her lips like a dancing fountain, fast and clear.

  “Before we moved, when we lived on the other side of town...I was driving around the area because I needed a new change, and I could tell that you did too. I was looking at different neighborhoods to see where we might want to live, though it would be awhile before we actually got around to moving. I believe you weren't feeling well that day...”

  “I didn't want to go to school because I had menstrual cramps,” I said automatically. Whoa, did that voice just come from me? How...how did I know that?

  I was at a loss as my mother continued. “Well, be that as it may, I could tell you were really down about something, but not even I can tell you what for. You've never been much of a talker as far as your feelings go...” she trailed off and sighed before continuing.

  “Anyways, you went with me and to cheer you up, we stopped at that old thrift store to have a look. And you saw that ridiculous little gnome figurine and just HAD to buy it. We weren't leaving the store without it! So I bought it for you as a souvenir, and we ended up buying this house just a few months later. Actually, we still have the gnome...”

  With that, Mom rushed from her seat and shuffled off down the adjacent hallway where the master bedroom was located.

  “Where are you going?” I called after her, but I knew she wouldn't be able to hear me. Instead, I waited impatiently for her to return.

  Before long, she hurried back into the living room, carrying with her a small, ceramic gnome figurine. “You never asked about it after we moved, but I had it in a small box of your things in my closet, just in case you wanted it. I completely forgot to mention it after a while! I got so busy working at the bank, and...well, do you want to put it in your room or something? It is yours, after all.”

  I looked at the small figurine and took it in my own hand. It was only about four inches long and painted in festive green and brownish red colors--very earthy tones that were characteristic of something I'd choose. On his head, he wore a little brown hat with a golden buckle, and he was grinning a smile so big that his eyes were squinted shut.

  And suddenly, I remembered the wh
ole scene with a clarity I hadn't experienced with any memory more recent than those I had from when I was twelve years old.

  ***

  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 nois
e 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.