This is a bit out of a story I wrote a long while back. My stories are all the same—Bipolar Girl Finds Acceptance/Love. It’s a need I work through on paper when I can’t manufacture it in real life. Recent events have shown me that I am both characters in this scene. That is a great comfort
♥
So, I’m in the guest room, sleeping through tea and dinner. Amanda has told the children to leave me alone, but by bedtime, Grace can’t stand it. She comes in and gets on the bed with me. I’m awake, groggy, slow.
“What’s wrong, Auntie,” Grace asked. She snuggled close and laid her head on my belly.
I bunched a pillow under my head and watched her pick at the pink lace on her shortie pajamas.
“Well… “
It was hard to think, to even scrape together words that might make sense. How could I answer her question? I wanted to do it right. You’re supposed to answer kids’ questions simply, not give them more than they ask for. That’s right, isn’t it? Isn’t that how you’re supposed to explain sex? Jesus.
“I get sad sometimes, Gracie.”
“Why?”
“Well… my brain doesn’t work quite like yours does.”
“Is your brain broken, Auntie?”
Oh, it was too hard. I didn’t want to scare her, but I also didn’t want to just brush her off. She looked at me with her huge, round eyes. Her little elfin face a perfect combination of her parents’. I brushed the white-blond fluff away from her eyes. I loved this little girl—the daughter of my best friends on earth—a tiny, precious creature with a scientist’s curiosity.
“What grade are you in now, honey?”
“I’m in Seconds,” she said proudly, the squeaky little voice with the perfect British accent. It went straight to my heart every time. But my heart was already too full. I felt tears leaking out the sides of my eyes.
“Okay.” I fingered the pink lace next to her hand, trying to pull myself together. “You like pickles, yes?”
“Oh, yes. I LOVE pickles.”
“And pickles live in their jars with juice all around them.”
“Brine, Auntie.” She was very smug.
“Yes, that’s right. Brine. The brine is always green. Whether the pickles are sour, or sweet, or spicy—always green brine. Well, let’s say you and I are pickles.”
Grace giggled.
“What kind of pickle do you want to be?”
“Gerkin!” she shouted.
“Good choice. I’ll be Bread and Butter.”
She giggled again.
“You have beautiful, clear brine. The most delicious brine in the world. But my brine is brown and smelly. My lovely Bread and Butters live in that nasty brine. Sometimes they don’t taste very good.”
Grace blinked at me. “Then, we must rinse your jar, Auntie.”
“What a good idea, my darling. But it’s hard to do that to a real brain.”
Grace sat up, her little face puckered in thought. She looked just like her father right before he let loose a string of profanity. “You can have some of my brine, then.”
I took hold of her hand. “What a generous gift, sweetheart, but I’m afraid you need your brine to grow up to be Prime Minister.”
“Pew.” She wrinkled her nose. “I’m going to be a Maori princess in New Zealand.”
Of course, she was.
“I shall live with the kangas and the wallabies and be their queen.”
“May I visit Your Highness in your realm down-under?”
“You may,” she said magnanimously, “but only if you hop.”
“Your wish is my command.”
Inside, I breathed a sigh of relief. That wasn’t so bad. And she didn’t seem to be scarred for life. But I was exhausted, and looking at that vulnerable sweetness filled me with a melancholy that would spew soon.
“Off to bed now, Grace,” I said, turning on my side.
She slid off and stood at the edge of the bed considering me.
“‘Night, ‘night, Princess,” I said, tears wetting the pillow. I wanted her gone before I started sobbing.
Grace reached out and put her hands on my head. A royal blessing, I thought.
“Poor pickles,” she whispered.
♥
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