by Natalie-Pascale Boisseau
| I turn the small vase, cool and smooth, between my warm fingers. The first day I arrived, I found it on the narrow shelf of the lace-curtained window in the bedroom I share with my aunts and their friend. For two long weeks, my mother and my grandparents are renting the summer house in Old Orchard, Maine, just south of Montreal, where we live. Miniature vases of many shapes and colors sit on the narrow shelf with all the promises of sun and saltwater vacations. The one I chose is no bigger than my mother’s thumb. It has a white round base, a graceful handle, and light blue specks for petals and swift green olive streaks for leaves. It has a very small chip on the golden rim of the opening. In the beginning, it was only a small chip. The opening is round like the head of a small bird with a golden beak. When I am not holding it, I place it on the dresser corner assigned to me with the shells I find on the beach. Each night is an adventure. My mother said I am old enough—I am eight years old—I can sleep with my aunts. My mother cares for my little brothers in her room and joins us when they are asleep. We gather in the big bed I share with Aunt Eff and her friend, Amm. My mother, Lou, my aunts—Eff, Mich, Clo—and Amm take turns scratching my back until I fall asleep in the middle of whispers and giggles. Last night, the whispers were different. My mother and Aunt Eff did not join us in bed. The whispers were about grandpapa. Just before I fell asleep, I heard low voice-growls. “Such a man who hits his own daughter!” “After dinner, Eff’s cheek was already turning red and blue.” *** They forgot to scratch my back. Lying in the large bed, I close my eyes to forget the long walk we took this morning. The little pitcher rolls in my hands, an object alive, belonging to a smaller world I would like to crawl into. I bring the opening of the vase closer to my eye and peer inside. It is dark and empty. If I look long enough, will I find a pearl inside like an oyster? Closer to my ear. Shuuuu. Maybe I hear the sea waves. Closer to my nose. I only smell my aunts’ rose soap that permeates the room. Earlier this morning, we did not go to the beach, we followed Aunt Eff who wore a light blue and red cotton scarf high around her neck. Instead of turning right toward the sea, we turned left, following the scarf. I saw movements ahead. Did my aunt fall on the side of the road lined with trees? Oh—she kneeled on the grassy edge covered with sand. What was she looking for? Her glasses? Her purse? Everyone approached to help her get up, brushing her back, like they do when I fall. Soft sounds surrounded us in the salty quiet air. I stood behind, my hands moist and clasped together, holding my breath. Finally, I pulled on Amm’s shirt. “What is happening? Can you see?” I whispered, my face flushed by the sun. “Your Aunt Eff lost something.” “What did she lose?” “Her teeth,” Amm responded, with her eyebrows closer and a deep line between. “Her teeth?” Amm made a sad grin. “Her false teeth. Her dentures.” “Oh,” I said under my breath. So Aunt Eff wears dentures like maman? “When did she lose them? Is it because of grandpapa?” “Your aunt lost them yesterday and we are back today to help her look for them,” Amm said, helping me understand on my own. We walked back home along the road in a slow procession, as ducks do. My aunt walked at the front, arm in arm with my other aunts. Like a duckling, I ended the cortege, holding hands with Amm. Maman says that a cortege is for funerals, for marriages, for special events. Back in our room, we gather on the large bed without maman and Aunt Eff. Whispers continue, slow with anger, in soft voices so as not to wake me up. When they shake their heads, the bed moves a little. “Our father has disappeared all day, shame on him,” said one voice. “He should apologize to Eff,” said another. “Her cheek was very bruised this morning. We hid the bruises well with her face creams and the scarf.” “Good thing we went back to help her.” “What a shame.” Each whisper is a new wave. The bed is a small boat rocking on the sea. The smaller circle around me thinks I am asleep, but I am holding the little pitcher in my hands like a prayer. I feel the word shame, red and warm and it is growing in my belly. The vase in my hand is warm, glowing in the dark, under the sheets. Inside it there is now a little girl; I hear her humming. It is warm with the love of my aunts, and with another feeling—new, hot—that knots in my belly. I put the feelings and the love inside the pitcher with the tiny lost denture, the mouth that cannot speak. I feel hot again when I hear the word shame like a sea wave, sliding inside the opening. Sorry, I mouth with my lips near the opening. Careful to not move, I gently slide my thin finger on the sharp edge of the rim, as if petting a small shell rescued from the sea. The chip so minuscule during the day scratches my finger. It feels like a bigger ragged gap, a missing tooth. “Shuuu. It is ok,” I tell the little pitcher under my breath, a new voice rising in me. “You are not broken. Not really.” Listen to A Little Chipped Pitcher here |
Natalie-Pascale Boisseau has published the lyrical essay Cherry Season in Isele Magazine, the story Time Capsule, in the anthology Unmuted: Stories of Courage and Resilience by GenPride, and stories in Raven Chronicles. Native of Montreal, Canada, she now lives in Seattle, Washington.