“…if like a crab you could go backward.”
—HAMLET, ACT 2, SCENE 2
Does an image ever just bloom in your head? Like a flower, only without a stem or roots or soil? And nowhere near as pretty as a flower. Not pretty at all—not in my case anyhow.
You don’t ask for the picture. It just appears, presto, out of nowhere. And you can’t make it go away, even when you try. Once the picture starts to bloom, there’s no stopping it.
Maybe it’s the weed, but that’s what’s happening to me now.
The image blooming in my mind is of a girl—a little girl—crouched inside a walk-in closet. She is surrounded by racks of clothing. There are men’s clothes on one side, women’s on the other. She can tell because the women’s clothes feel silky soft; the clothes on the other side are prickly and rough. The smells are different too. The women’s clothes smell like lemon, only sweeter; the men’s have a warm and spicy smell.
The floor is cold and hard underneath the little girl’s legs. Sometimes, as she rocks back and forth, her shoulders touch the crinkly plastic on the clothes that have come from the dry cleaner’s. Though I can’t yet see the little girl’s face, I know it’s me. It’s as if I can still feel the crinkly plastic on my shoulders and smell the sweet lemon and the warm spices.
In the pictures I’ve seen of myself when I was little, I’m almost always holding on to a giant blue cloth doll. And smiling. A smile that’s too big for my small face.
The little girl in the closet doesn’t have her doll—and she isn’t smiling.
Something bad is happening, has happened, is about to happen. That’s why she’s hiding in the closet. It’s safer there than out in the living room with them.
“Iris, you okay?” It takes me a moment to reorient myself. Errol’s talking to me. We’re outside on Lenore’s porch, at the cast party. What was it Ms. Cameron said before? There’s no rehearsing.
“I’m okay. Just a little dizzy. I should probably sit.”
“Here, let me help you.” Errol leads me to a rattan couch that Lenore’s family must have forgotten to take in for the winter. There’s a pillow that smells like mould on it. But I need to sit.
Errol helps me. “Is that better?” he asks.
I nod to tell him it is. I want to thank him for being kind to me, but I can’t. It’s as if the memory is calling me back, asking to be remembered.
Why am I remembering that little girl—me—in the closet? How come when you try hard to remember something—like a joke you heard a long time ago and want to tell your friends—it doesn’t always work? And then other times, a memory just comes back, like the image blooming in my head? Why is the little girl so scared?
Part of me is curious and wants to go back and remember; another part doesn’t. That other part wants yellow tape around the memory—the sort of tape the police put up after there’s been a gruesome accident.
The kind that says to everyone who sees it, Danger! Keep away for your own good!
But I can’t keep away from the yellow tape.
Another picture has begun to bloom.
It’s a man—his face is blurry There’s a woman now too. Mommy. She’s wearing a long yellow sweater dress, and her hair goes past her shoulders. She has an angry face. They are both angry—so angry they have forgotten the little girl who was in the room with them. They didn’t even notice when she left to hide in the closet. There wasn’t time for her to bring her blue doll.
The little girl presses her hands tight over her ears to block out the angry noises. There, she thinks, that is better.
The picture in my head goes black. Even when I try squinting, the picture won’t come back. But there’s something else I’m remembering. Not a picture. A sound—the words to an old nursery rhyme.
This little piggy went to market.
This little piggy stayed at home.
And why, now, do I feel a painful throbbing in my ring finger—the little piggy that had none? I haven’t done anything to make it sore. I didn’t sit on it or bang it into anything.
Errol has gone back inside to get me a glass of water. When he comes back, he says, “Have a drink. It’ll make you feel better. That dope was pretty strong, and you got seriously buzzed, Iris. I’m kinda buzzed myself.”
“Thanks,” I manage to say as I take greedy gulps of the water.
I don’t tell Errol about the flashback. I need time to figure out what it means. Besides, I hardly know him.
I look at my fingers holding the water glass. The ring finger, the one that’s hurting, is fatter than the rest. It’s always been that way. Or has it?
It’s the finger that fit my father’s ring. He told me the dragon was a symbol of strength. But I took it off after Mick said he didn’t like it.
“Are you looking for something?” Errol asks when I pick up my purse from the rattan couch and start rifling through it.
“A ring. From my dad.” It’s the first time I’ve used the word dad, not father.
I have to feel around for the ring, but I finally find it. I blow the lint off it.
I slide the ring back on my finger. This time, I won’t take it off. Even if the dragon is creepy. Even if Mick doesn’t like it.