Kaleidoscope (6 page)

The boy shrugged and shoved one of his hands deep into the front pocket of his grey and black striped pullover, swinging into a free seat beside me. “I dunno about that...I've been in a couple of art shows, but I've never been able to draw something as quick as you have that's actually accurate. I take forever.” He gestured with his free hand towards my drawing.

“Oh...” I looked at it in its raw, unfinished form. “Well, thanks.”

He extended the hand out to me. “My name is Austin, by the way.”

I looked at Austin's hand; the old-fashioned exchange of greeting was uncommon in my age group. I extended my own, eyeing him curiously as he offered me a good, strong handshake. I couldn't help it; a smile was creeping onto my face.

“I'm Jade.”

“Nice to meet you, Jade!” Austin smiled too, and a sparkle lit up his eyes. “Hopefully you'll stick it out through this project. I bet your painting will be awesome!” He glanced around the room as a hand shot up from the table closest to the window. The woman's eyes looked imploringly at him, seeking his guidance.

“Gotta go help out the people who actually need it,” he said, winking as he stood up. He scratched his head and ran his fingers through his dark hair before starting towards the other side of the room. “See you around!”

“Yeah...see you...” I trailed off. I was only just aware that he'd already walked away.

As Mr. Pierson announced the end of the figure exercises, I inwardly cursed at myself for my inability to be a “people person.” I didn't need to be the next Oprah, but it would be nice if, just for once, I would stop nitpicking at myself for just long enough to not look and sound like a complete idiot every time someone approached me. I glanced towards Austin, seated next to the middle-aged woman who had sought out his help. She nodded with understanding as he explained something to her.

It would especially be nice to be more social with someone like Austin
, I thought to myself. I had to admit that up close, he was even more good-looking than he appeared to be from far away. The angled set of his jaw and his high cheekbones were classic features that made him quite handsome. How strange was it our paths had crossed so many times in the past week, and I was now meeting him, talking with him, and getting the chance to know him?

I wondered what kind of person he was. He clearly liked drawing and art as much as I did—maybe even more, with his dedication to this class and his involvement in art shows. But when he spoke, he seemed so confident and upbeat...those definitely weren't traits I possessed. But, I found that refreshing. He also seemed intelligent as he gave direction to other participants who had trouble with the sketching exercise. I suppose that meant he might be a nice, even generous person as well. He'd been nice enough to come up and strike a conversation with me, after all.

But who knows—I could be completely wrong, and Austin could be an absolute jerk, a sociopath.
My therapist had explained to me a bit about sociopaths briefly when I expressed concern that I was one at the start our sessions. I recalled her saying that they often seemed very charming, witty, and confident to onlookers.

I guess the only way to know was to hope that I had the nerve to keep talking to him.

“Alright everyone, go ahead and pick a canvas from the second pile behind me! The second pile is the larger ones...please make sure that your canvas is one of the bigger ones! Start brainstorming some ideas for what you might want to paint as your subject, and I'll go over the basic theme behind what we're doing here...and don't put those pencils away just yet!”

CHAPTER SEVEN

October 30

Sorry it's been a while since I've written. This is the busiest I've felt in years...going to therapy once a week, combined with the painting class on Thursdays, and helping Mom out with the chores as per usual and weekend dinners, almost gives me a feeling of purpose and accomplishment. Almost, I guess.

The painting class really is a fun experience though. I met a friend, named Austin. Today was my second class, and he moved to sit next to me. In between instructions from the class teacher, he tries really hard to be friendly with me. I feel like an idiot sometimes when I try to talk back, but I do find that when I'm painting, it's easier to talk to him because I don't think so much about what he's thinking of me. I can just focus on my work and the words just come out better. We even exchanged phone numbers! Maybe one of these days, I'll go check my phone and see that he's left me a text or something.

But, this is a memory journal, so I don't think I'm supposed to write about that kind of thing. I'm mostly writing because tomorrow is Halloween. Last year, I stayed home and handed out candy to all the kids, and I'll probably do the same this year. I tried to remember the last time that I'd gone trick-or-treating myself, and I only have vague recollections of what are most likely different years of doing it, all rolled into one low-quality memory.

But what I do remember is the last costume that I ever wore. It was a home-made costume because Mom was pretty broke back then. We used some cloth that we had lying around from various projects...some of it I think was from sheer curtains, and part of my outfit was a modified shirt...it's hard to remember the details, but either way, I was a genie that Halloween. I remember going to school dressed in it, feeling like some sort of mystical ninja with my sheer red face wrap shrouding everything but my eyes.

It's incredible how, as a kid, you can feel so powerful, or meek, or happy, or adventurous, just using your imagination to get yourself into that state of mind. I remembered this because Mom had brought it up...she found some old pictures of me as a kid and showed me the picture of me in the costume. It was a little ratty, and fraying on the edges because we didn't have time to sew up the ends after we cut the cloth, and honestly, I looked more like a terrorist than I did a genie. But at the time that I was wearing it, none of that stopped me from feeling like a real, all-powerful genie.

I really do wish that I could still feel that way just by pretending.

I stowed the leather-bound booklet on my nightstand, rolling onto my stomach to do so and then sitting up in the pile of warm, comforting purple and navy blue blankets adorning my bed. I don't remember exactly when I'd gotten them, and they weren't something I would choose to buy new. Normally I liked more neutral tones. I'd outgrown their colorfully feminine appearance years ago, but for some reason, I liked them anyway. Luckily, I never had many guests that would see them, so the fact that they seemed to have come out of a child's playroom didn't phase me in the least.

Thinking about my childhood did, however, remind me about the small incident in my painting class the previous week.

I'd briefly skimmed the short memo about it that was written prior to the relative novel that I'd just put down. Unfortunately, no matter how much I pondered on the event, I couldn't get myself to recall the feeling I'd had, the guilt and the fear. So, I decided I would invest in the help of my mother to see if she knew or understood the meaning behind it.

***

It was after dinner time. Usually, Mom could be found on the faded brown sofa downstairs in the living room watching her favorite sitcoms or reading a book, the television quietly playing in the background as noise filler. 

I crept downstairs. I almost never spent any time in our living room, so I almost felt like a stranger to it as I noted the circular rug in the center of its hardwood floor, patterned in alternating rings of rusty orange and white. It coordinated to match the pastel shades of the yellow and white plaid curtains hung across two small windows on opposite walls in the corner of the room.

Around these hung various framed pictures. Some of them were art pieces I'd done a long time ago, some were prints of Mom's favorite scenery, and others were family images of she and myself, or of my grandparents that I hadn't seen in many years. A lot of the pictures were just of me—the staggering amount dedicated to my youthful self was almost embarrassing.

I peered around the short entrance wall that separated the living area from the front door. As expected, my mother was there on the sofa, her silky hair tied behind her in a loose bun. Her square, bifocal reading glasses perched on her nose as she sat absorbed in a novel that she was halfway finished reading. She licked her thumb and flipped the page intently, a habit that always drove me nuts every time I saw her do it.

“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 whole scene with a clarity I hadn't experienced with any memory more recent than those I had from when I was twelve years old.