Her grief is so large, they contain her, a creepy-crawly insect trapped under a drinking glass. They send her away, tell her to be alone with her thoughts until she is ready to be functionally happy again. They lock the door, feed her pills, only allowing her to discuss her feelings with professionals possessing scratchy pens and phlegmy throats -- her loved ones clearly too delicate to withstand the weight of her words.
Her only company is one worn teddy bear, its velvet fur patchy from the naptime strokes of chubby toddler fingers. But it’s all she needs anyway. At night, after sleeping pills and lights out, Teddy grows and stretches and holds her in his arms. He feather strokes her back with deadly claws, lulling her into the beauty of deep, dreamless sleep. In the morning, he fetches her slippers and kisses the top of her head before transforming back into the worn toy for her to carry with her through craft time and circle time and visitor time.
Her husband sits across from her, his basset hound eyes blinking. An unfinished jigsaw puzzle of the ocean gapes between them. One small boat floats adrift in the green sea. Teddy sits propped in the chair between them. Button eyes lifeless.
“I miss you so much,” her husband tells her again. “Do you think you’ll be ready to come home soon?” he asks as if he wasn’t the one to put her there in the first place.
She snaps another piece of the puzzle into place. A critical corner piece.
“You’ve been here so long,” he sighs. “I just can’t wait forever you know.”
She tightens a fist around the puzzle piece in her hand, feels it fold in half. She turns to grab Teddy, to pull him into her lap and stroke his fuzzy ears until it’s time for her husband to go. But her son’s treasured toy has disappeared, the full-grown bear in its place.
Teddy’s eyes meet hers. “Just give me the word,” he says, “I can eat the head right off of his body.” His claws click in succession on the table.
She feels herself smile for the first time in months.Her husband sits up straighter. She sees hope lift his eyebrows as he mirrors her expression.
“Oh, forever isn’t even on the table,” she assures him as she reaches out to squeeze Teddy’s paw.
Diane D. Gillette (she/her) lives in Chicago. Her work is a Best Small Fictions selection. Her chapbook “We’re All Just Trying to Make It to January 2nd” is available through Fahmidan & Co. Publishing. She is a founding member of the Chicago Literary Writers. Read more at www.digillette.com.
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