Necessary Flashback
I could glaze over my weeks in recovery. It would be easy. Preferable, even. But you see, dear reader, there is a puzzle that I am still trying to solve. As I revisit our early days, the first falling and falling through that I had with Henry; as I consider who we were and where we eventually ended up, I still can't make sense of it. Giselle kept her word and visited me in Raleigh. That was where it began. On one of the many craft nights that she and I shared. Despite our differences, seeing her was what got me through that series of overtly systematic weeks. The all-female facility was reminiscent of a spa. In my mind, that effect was strictly meant to calm our visiting friends and family. Bloodwork was done in a separate wing, a part of the building that only the patients and staff ever saw. I released my electrolyte count to Giselle only after I started to gain weight. I was just under a hundred pounds the time scrunchie night rolled around. We might have celebrated my progress from 95 to 98 if such a conversation was welcome in the lounge.
I wanted to leave. That was my goal, that was what mattered most; to leave and return to work. I wrote there. I led a journaling circle. I made false promises to my psychoanalyst that I was going to write my way out of my E.D. There was some truth to that goal and yet, there remained countless gaps in my crystalline intentions. What I wrote in Raleigh remained overshadowed by what remained unwritten. I lied to myself. I lied to everyone. I kept up my façade just as religiously as Fairbanks maintained its own as a normal resort… where, in truth, the lives of its residents and the mental stability of its visitors hung in a delicate balance. But that is beside the point, the point and the pinnacle of this mystery is… scrunchie night. Giselle commandeered the crafting sessions just as swiftly as I had the journaling circle. She would rip off instructions from Pinterest and Youtube. Most of the people in recovery were teenage girls, adrift on the same tempest, on the same rickety raft that I had boarded in high school with the firm conviction that it would deliver me to perpetual beauty and happiness. I want to cry every time that I think about it. So… scrunchies.
It was a fun craft, one that required only four components: a bandana, a hairband, some glitter glue and a pair of scissors (preferably the kind that cuts in whimsical, squiggly lines). Giselle brought all of the above, ensuring that the materials for my scrunchie were yellow and hers was electric pink. We used the glitter glue to outline the design and sped the process up by going over the bandana-covered table with a hairdryer. Many of the crafters lost their energy before the night was through and trickled out of the room, one by one, abandoning their projects. This was a sad, common occurrence. I would usually stay behind to help Giselle finish the ones that patients wanted done. For those who elected to finish the craft at another time, we would assemble little DIY gift bags and deliver them to their rooms at the end of the night. My fingers very nearly gave up on cutting and tying the jagged strands onto the hairbands after several hours. Giselle didn't say anything, she didn't need to and neither did I. She saw me struggling, she saw how my hands were trembling as I tied those shredded bandana pieces one after the other.
"I'm going to finish it," I droned, my emotions were muddled counterproductively by my medications, "and give it to you because you are such a good friend and have never given up on me once."
I don't know if it was a plea for independence or a wearable token of my devotion to Giselle, but I could have sworn that she would never take it off of her wrist after that night. The day of my release, the glitzy scrunchie of "marigold yellow" that I had just barely managed to construct, was proudly displayed beneath the facetious cheetah print watch that Giselle had worn since high school. Not one week after moving back in with her and getting my job back by the skin of my teeth (a combination of the notoriety of my surname and a phone call from a previous professor who recommended me for the job in the first place), the scrunchie vanished. Just like Luna Lovegood's sneakers, it turned up again in the most unlikely place imaginable…
Back to the Age of Shipoopi
Afternoon tea is not customarily observed in Waterford. Some households, bed and breakfasts, and tearooms (inevitably) adhere to the custom. My point is, in what is arguably the strangest town in the American South, there never was a more peculiar occurrence of afternoon tea as the one that I shared with Boris, Henry and Shipoopi. I felt positively crass, watching the men converse and follow through with the ritual of pouring their tea, adding only a splash of milk and exactly two sugar cubes into their ornate cups. They chatted almost effeminately, pinkies in the air, reminiscing about the time that they attended a concert a Carnegie Hall with the Tarletons. It was either the kitchen table or the sofa and, for reasons you can rightly guess, I settled on enduring the strangeness. The drink did not sit well on my palette at all. I was not used to Devonshire tea. Not yet, anyway. Milk was meant for coffee, sugar cubes were moot and I very nearly asked if Henry had any alternative sweeteners lying around, but felt like a pain in doing so.
The tiny collie watched from the living room, cocking her head to the side when the men began to hum Handel's "The Arrival of the Queen of Sheba", hitting every note with upmost snobbery and precision. I liked Boris much better when Henry was left out of the equation. Taking not one, but two biscuits from the tray that Henry had prepared for us was my own shallow way of making a statement that I was eating again. I did not like them, either and used a corner piece to lure Shipoopi away from her lookout.
"Is she a mini?" I asked, interrupting their humming, which had been going on for a good forty seconds and simply needed to die. They looked confused. "Is your spy car a mini, Mr. Powers?" That didn't help. How predictable they were! "How big will Shipoopi get?"
Henry chewed quickly on his biscuit. It was flattering to know that I still flustered him, at least a little bit. "She is a full-sized rough collie. You know, like Lassie?"
"Lassie!" As if by request, Boris started to whistle the show's nostalgic theme song. "What a sweet, wholesome program! I am so pleased that Art and Em let us watch TV Land and steered us away from that dreadful Cartoon Network! I could feel my brain rotting in its skull every time a cartoo-"
Henry patted the outside of his friend's jean jacket, "-Think of Mickey, Boris. You like Mickey." That comment brought about a wave of sickeningly sweet silence and they both sipped their tea and grinned contently for a moment or two. I swear, I could see a mutual thought bubble between their heads where the opening credits to the "Mickey Mouse Club" TV show played out in full. The simultaneous tapping of their feet was enough to confirm that my observation held water. "Does Giselle's superintendent allow dogs?"
I shouldn't have been embarrassed by this question, but being the only person (Boris aside, who was proving to be absolutely coocoo-beans) who did not own a domicile, seemed to lessen my value as an adult. "Yes. I am also in the process of finding a townhome that does. Oh, and I have a car now. So much for rock bottom…"
"What is rock bottom?" Boris inquired, brushing the biscuit crumbs from his sleeve and onto a napkin. Again, Adrian Monk. "It sounds horribly painful! It doesn't involve having gravel in one's knickers, does it?"
"Don't put words in my mouth, Marigold," if it was previously thought impossible to snap at someone while remaining calm, cool and collected, Henry disproved that theory. "I can see that you are successfully merging back into your ideal lifestyle and I am happy for you. I merely wanted to know if dogs were allowed at your current place of residence."
Shipoopi had scuttled away, towards a small collection of toys by her "assigned" corner. I watched her nose through them and even interrupted Henry's pious 'speech' about how I was 'making steps towards integrating myself back into society' or something like that. The jerk. She decided on a tennis ball and I encouraged her to bring it to me, but the finnicky little creature paused, gave me the strangest, most contemplative look that nearly suggested that I was not actually a tennis ball person and returned to the pile.
Boris chimed in. At the very least, his presence relieved some of the tension. "I don't mean to sound forward, Miss Casey, but you smell simply divine! All of those chemical clouds of fragrance that modern women leave in their wake make my eyes sting, my throat scratch and, frankly, rob them of their beauty. You on the other hand smell like a basil leaf! What sorcery is this?!"
I kept my eyes on Shipoopi but moved my hand into my bag. Apart from journaling and crafting at Fairbanks, I spent most of my time conversing with a phenomenal aromatherapist named Jill. She was a success story who had recovered there and later joined the faculty. I was always a fan of oils and incense, but she taught me about the healing properties of diffusers. While I was picking up my grape leaves at the market, I caved and bought a vile of basil essential oil but not without massaging a drop or two into my pulse points. The fact that Boris was able to pick up on it impressed me greatly, so I passed him the oil to examine.
"You should call Giselle and check with her," said the severely unphased Henry and I was in no mood to argue. Not really.
"If that will put you at ease, I can do that." My fingertip had barely touched the top of my phone when the puppy located the perfect toy for me- only, it was not a toy at all. "Where on earth did she get that?" I asked as she dropped a familiar yellow scrunchie at my feet. I recognized every line of glitter paint, every wavy slice through the fabric, it was without a doubt the scrunchie that I had made for Giselle.
"Oh, that?" Henry gave a carefree shrug. "She found it the first time that I took her to the park. It's not exactly suited for a dog, but the poor creature fell in love with it. Who was I to argue?"
When Shipoopi and I were released, Henry helped me carry her and a large paper bag of her necessities to my car. Boris stayed behind, to make a phone call to Emily Ballard (formerly Emily Tarleton, as I was reminded on several occasions). I felt badly for the fellow. He couldn't quite align the phone with his face and Henry needed to flip it over for him before we left.
"You know," I started, fixed on keeping the inevitable fog of silence from descending upon Henry and I as we walked, "I met some dudes in Portland who considered themselves to be 'off the grid'. They dyed the sheep on their family farm red as a way of protesting fracking and didn't use credit cards because they thought that the chips, strips, chip readers and strip readers would give them brain cancer or some shit. When they say that they are off the grid, Henry, they are way, way, off the grid! They aren't listed in the phonebook, they are only enrolled in government programs that they have been a part of since birth, and they grow all of their own food, too! Remember when I suggested that the Neighborhood Market should go packaging-free? That is a whole other step. I think maybe your friend Boris-"
"Marigold." Henry had fallen behind. Shipoopi was in his arms this time, nipping roughly at his fingers. "Come here."
"I think maybe your friend Boris should relocate to Portland, instead." I inched towards where he was standing, at the end of the block. My babbling was getting faster and more desperate by the minute. "Now, I know that there is a rumor going around that Waterford is the Portland of the South. I very well may have been the one who started that rumor, but-"
"Marigold." He touched the corner of my face, Shipoopi quickly stole his hand back to teethe on it.
"Don't."
"Why do you always surprise me? Why do you always give me exactly what I need right when I need it? I think you know about people adopting animals to bridge gaps in their hearts."
"That's a really stupid line, Henry. Really cliché! You abandoned me, you abandoned this puppy, stop pretending to be chivalrous and be responsible for once. Go back to your apartment before Boris tries to ingest the essential oil that I gave him."
His face didn't change an inch. All that I saw on those elegant features of his were, as ever, admiration and surprise. "Thank you for taking this puppy off my hands. I could kiss you!"
I covered up those stupid butterflies that he always gave me with rage. "Well, you don't get to, you entitled prick! Hand over the woofer."
"The what?"
"The woofer, Henry! Hand over the woofer and get out of my life!"
He obliged, amazingly and stood smiling with his hands on his hips. Those glistening blue eyes bounced from the puppy in my arms, to the scrunchie on my wrist and to the menacing scowl on my face that he had somehow rendered as adorable. "You've got a lot of moxie, Miss Casey. I'll give you that."
The opening of the chapter got really real for Marigold and for myself, too. I'm sorry if it was a mess. Since she is the narrator, and this is, more or less, her story- I wanted to keep her voice authentic. This is how she would really talk and what it would be like to converse with her over a cuppa in Coffee n' San-tea. She would shy away from the details of her life, pretty up her discomfort with humor, be snarky, defensive and just… awkward. I know this because I made her and because, with the exception of a handful of artistic embellishments, I kind of am Marigold/Annabelle. Again, it might have been rough or confusing and I apologize, but I like to experiment with voice in my writing. Huzzah. X
