Laurence Philomene Collaboration, Part 4/8
(See Laurence Philomene, Image 4)
Setting: A green field just beyond the overgrown grass of a front yard in a Richard Prince photograph of an old American car, parked beneath a small white house, somewhere in the United States, but somewhere quiet and still.
I turned around, and he wasn’t there. And when I looked down, the lambs were gone, too. Nothing there but the wind, blowing my hair in my mouth. I reached to remove the hair from my eyes, and then I felt something, and I raised both my hands, trying to feel it, to figure out what it was, and it was a mask, I think. It felt like a mask on my face, black, I think, and I followed it with my fingers, and then I realized it was double-sided; a black velvet mask on my face, covering my eyes, and the porcelain mask on the back of my head. I ran my hands over it, and it felt like a face on the backside of my head, and then, tilting my chin, looking down, I realized, I was naked.
Desperate to get the mask off my face, I heard him again: Stop it, Thea. I said, don’t: you’ll hurt yourself.
Right behind me. The voice sounded like it was right behind me, not five feet, not two feet, even, so I turned, and then his voice turned in the opposite direction, like a carousel within a carousel. I felt dizzy, at first. Then I felt sick, and I raised my hand, trying to pull it off, and he said it again: Stop it, Thea. I said, don’t: you’ll hurt yourself. I was crying by then, and I yelled back at him, What do you know about hurt? You can’t even feel!
And then it stopped. We stopped moving. It was quiet. The wind had gone, leaving its breeze behind. And then I heard a voice. It was a man’s voice, familiar, like someone I knew. It took me a moment, and I wiped my nose on the back of my wrist, and then I heard a car door open. The man called out my name again: Thea?
It was my dad. I walked into the clearing, where Cam’s car was parked in front of the white house, and there was my dad, standing, like he’d just stepped out of the car; standing there, with the door open, like he used to, when he’d come to pick me up from ballet class. There you are, he said, seeing me, and I said, What are you doing here?
Get in, he said, nodding at the passenger seat.
No, I said, frowning at him. Like, what are you thinking?
Get in the car, Thea. I’m taking you home.
No, I said, turning back. I told you, I said, turning away. I told you I don’t ever want to see you again.
All right. But I brought you something, he called.
Keep it, I said, heading back, the grass having grown again, now taller than my shoulders, taller than a corn field.
Or someone, I should have said, he said. Look . . . Thea, look! he called.
I felt something forgotten, stirring again, some reason to turn back, something I wanted so badly I couldn’t have allowed myself to think of it until then, and when I turned around, he was holding something up in his hand. I knew what it was before it registered, before my eye captured the image, I could feel it in my bones: Lola. My mouth fell open, seeing her. He waved it, holding it there, showing me that she was real, back from the dead.
When I was little, I had a doll. I had lots of dolls, but my very favorite was Lola Crayola. I’d dress her, feed her, pose her in different settings, different costumes, and then draw her for hours. She was the best model I ever had. She was my best friend, my muse.
When he left, when my dad left us, I threw her away. I threw her out just to prove I could. To show them all, to show the whole world I could always hurt myself worse than it could, worse than anyone could possibly hurt me. So I threw her in the kitchen trash, with coffee grounds and gristle. I remember so clearly, stepping on the black piece, the step of the trash can, and its mouth opening, and seeing all that trash, and throwing her in. I can still feel that in my toes. That was my first cutting.
I watched my mother take out the trash the next morning, and I watched as the garbage threw her into the back of their garbage truck and drove off. Why? Because I can. Because you will never hurt me as much as I can hurt myself, so try all you like, I thought. Still, I had nightmares for almost a year after that. In my nightmares, I heard her crying, alone, in the dark. My dad woke me once, and I screamed for her. He turned on the light and he told me he’d get me another doll, even better than Lola, but that only made it worse. That only made waking worse than the nightmare. I started yelling at him: How can you say that? You don’t understand: you’ll never understand! I screamed even louder than before. I was hysterical by that point, so he called my mother, two, three o’clock in the morning, he woke her up. He said it was an emergency; she needed to come and pick me up; there was nothing he could do for me. That was the last time I stayed with him.
Still, how could I explain it any more plainly to the man? She was my doll, you understand. She was my best girl, and I threw her away. I decided then and there, sitting on my dad’s new couch in his brand new apartment, wearing my winter coat over my nightgown, waiting for my mom, that it’s not Saint Peter who greets girls at the pearly gates; it’s the favorite doll you threw out. Because you were too grown up to play with dolls, too old to believe in magic anymore, she says, seeing you knock on the gates. And now you want inside? Now you believe, eh? Funny, that, she says.
When we met, the day I took her out of her box, the first thing she said to me was, I’m awfully sorry, little girl, but there’s been a terrible misunderstanding, and I’m afraid I’ll have to be on my way now. I am on an adventure, you see, you see. In fact, I am on the journey of a lifetime, some might even call it epic. So I hope you can understand, I must be going now.
Can’t you stay for tea? I asked, and she nodded no.
So sorry. Really, she said. But rest assured, if you return to the place of purchase, simply inform the store manager that you got one of those crazy dolls who pulled a runner, and he’ll reimburse you in full. I hate to be the one to tell you this, but it’s one of the industry’s best-kept secrets, but I assure you it happens: D & D, Doll and dash, they call it. Please, don’t take it personally, and I’m so sorry for any inconvenience I may have caused you, she said, picking up her suitcase, looking for the door. My face fell, hearing that she was leaving me. She said, If it makes you feel any better, I’m not really a doll. I’m a halfbreed.
What’s a halfbreed? I asked.
Why, I’m a doll with the heart of a little girl, she said, and then she went on to explain that it was a long story, but to make a long story short, she’d been cast out of the doll kingdom, when she was discovered as impure, and somehow, she ended up in a box, wrapped up for Christmas, and left beneath our tree.
I really wish there were something I could do to make this up to you, because I see how much pain I’ve caused you, and I feel horrible, I do, she said. But you see the problem: I am on a quest, and it’s no small thing, she small. No, no small thing.
Yes, I see, I said, petting her little yellow dress, with its pretty polka dots, with my index finger. I didn’t know what to say, because what is one little girl in the face of an epic quest, so then I told her what I could only imagine every half-girl/half-doll halfbreed wants to hear: I said, I think you’re perfect, just the way you. And then, she smiled at me, and she said, I could stay for a cup of tea, perhaps.
And with that, in the course of one cup of tea, we became the very best of friends. And then I threw her out, heart and all. I hurt her so badly, knowing she had a heart just like mine. To prove I could, and for a year, she cried for me in the night.
You found Lola . . . I said, seeing her face again, for the first time in five years, and I started sobbing. Not because I was so angry with my dad, but because—it was joy. I’d never cried for joy before; I didn’t know it was real. It is: you can be so happy that you cry, just the same as being sad, and something in me changed, realizing that was true. But my dad didn’t answer. He didn’t say anything as I walked to the car, holding out my hands for her.
Thea? he asked, handing her over; each of us keeping out distance.
Yes? I asked, only a few feet away from him.
What happened to your clothes?
I forgot. For a moment, I’d forgotten all about being naked.
I, I don’t know . . . there were these lambs in the grass, back there, I said, turning back, holding my temples between my right hand. And then I heard Cam’s voice, and I know he’s here, somewhere, and then there were these lambs, and they were so hungry, and there were all wearing these scary wolf masks . . .
Let’s just get you home, you can tell me later, he said, looking in the back seat for something.
Where did you find her?
She was in the trunk, he said, pulling out a blanket.
The trunk? Cam had her?
I couldn’t get the car to start, and I checked the engine, and then I tried looking for a rag, he said. When I opened the trunk, and there she was, he said.
In his trunk?
He’d . . . well, he’d made a little bed for her. She was sleeping, he said. I didn’t recognize her at first. She’s changed, he said, handing to me. Finally.
Yes, I said, taking her in hand. It was true; she’d aged. She was dirty, stained, and the pink had gone out of her cheeks, and the red had gone out of her pretty bow lips. And her perfect hair been cut, badly. Ohmygod, I said, what have they don’t to you? What have I done to you? Seriously, she looked more like Tra La La than Lola Crayola. Oh, Lola. I’m so sorry. I will never every throw you out again, I promise. I swear, I said, cradling her against my neck.
Let’s get you home, he said, pulling a blanket around me, walking me to the passenger side door. He walked back around, and got in beside me, started the car, and then I heard Cam’s voice again. Wait, I said, getting out. And then I called Cam’s name, told him to quit screwing around—I wasn’t angry with him, though. He’d found Lola; wherever he’d been, he brought her back to me, and then I heard the car pull out. My dad drove off, without me, just like he always does, but worse, because he took her. He took Lola and drove off, and then I woke up, and she was gone again.
I tried to return to the dream, bring her back. I tried to return to the dream to tell her how sorry I was, how many nights I’d cried, thinking what I’d done to her. It was too late. My eyes were open, and I was awake, again. More or less.