Pupate

“Eww, it’s all slimy,” I giggle, swirling the gooey stuff with my tiny finger.

Mom holds up a red bed sheet large enough and at the right distance for my eyes to barely register the blurred shape and hue. Mom’s tones are a mix of playful and informative, but her English is hesitant, and she struggles to find the right words, “That paint is this color and it’s called red.” Then she speaks the same words in her beautifully fluid Japanese, this is the language she uses when she fully wishes to express herself. We speak Japanese together, but daddy doesn’t understand us very well. It’s more of our secret code.

Holding my hand up at face level, the clayish-chalky smell of the stuff mixes in my head, it smells like something that should be dry, but it’s wet.

She continues, “Now, take that finger and place it on the paper that I put in front of you.”

Reaching with my other hand until touching the paper which I cannot see, just to make sure it is there. My dripping finger also goes to the paper and plops down, then I drag it across the page. 

She remarks with delight, “Very good, Erika. Now you are painting like mommy. Now, the tray which has the paint on it is called the palette.” She approaches, then gently takes my painted finger. The soft feel of a rag wraps around and wipes it clean. She then maneuvers the child’s finger into another small divot of finger paint, “And this color is blue.” She holds up another sheet at just the right distance so that I can make out the color called blue.

“What is this? Where is this? Who are you?”

This memory, is it mine? I was only five and have all but forgotten this. Now it begins fading again, returning to obscurity. 

“No, not my memories, don’t steal them too.”

Darkness folds over and embraces me. With invisible claws, I scratch and tear the nothingness hoping to reclaim what was mine.

Pulling the blue finger from the paint without waiting, I drag it across the page before me.

Mom congratulates me again, “Very good, Erika. You are a great painter.”

“What is this? Why are you here?”

The phone rings in the other room, mom utters “Wait right here, Sweetie.” Her muffled footsteps on the carpet and the quick blur of motion from the opening of my door tell me that she is leaving my bedroom. A moment later I hear her pick up the phone and start talking.

Sticking my finger into the next divot over, unsure what color it would be, I splash a few dots on the page. Mommy will be so happy to see this.

A car horn blasts from our driveway startling me, and from the sound of it, mom also. Her footsteps leave her office and trail down the hall towards the kitchen and garage. Still wanting to show her the art, I push myself up from the floor with both hands, grab the paper and follow her down the hallway. 

“Who am I? Why am I here? I don’t know where this is.”

Reaching the end of the hallway, the tinted light from outside uncomfortably floods the entry hallway. The filtered light is tolerable on my skin for a time and doesn’t bother me but is still a bit much for open eyes. The floor turns from soft and cool feeling carpet to cold and hard marble. A bright rug leads to the front door which I am not supposed to go near. The door to the garage opens with a squeak and then the sound of the garage door grinding open begins. Taking a few steps across the cold floor towards mom, still excited to show her what I did, I boast, “Mommy, look at this!” 

Distracting notes of dad playing the guitar echo from downstairs and force my attention to shift that direction.

Mom sounds startled and upset, “Erika, I told you to stay in your room.”

“But mommy, look!” I hold out the paper which slips from my fingers. Reflexively bending to retrieve the paper, my hand follows past ground level sending the rest of my body following as my balance is lost.

“Erika!” Mom shouts.

Never have I felt such pain. The hard marble steps meet my head, and the normal blurs of the world are replaced with the void.

“Yes, I have been here before. Let me go back!”