Birthday Memories
G. An exercise in the absurd. And the bizarre. A young girl sits in a blank room.
Clarissa sat quietly in the unfriendly room, swinging her feet absentmindedly. Her fingers were curled firmly around the seat of the metal folding chair. Her eyes were unfocused, almost glassy, as she allowed her head to droop backward slightly. Clarissa’s mind was unfocused, too, but out of confusion rather than boredom. She didn’t know where she was or why.
The silence of the blank, white room was oppressive to her ears. She longed unthinkingly for some distraction to fill the space. As it was, there was nothing to make her presence in the room less real. Clarissa didn’t like feeling as though only this existed—her, a small girl, in a white room with a door on the far wall and a long mirror to her right, reflecting only the table, the two folding chairs, the white walls, and the girl. With no sound or movement to disprove her uneasy feeling, Clarissa couldn’t help but wonder if there was no longer anything beyond the square, Spartan room; had there ever been anything else?
Then again, she could recall too vividly memories fresh in her mind, but they were too silly to have been real, at least not as real as this room. And Clarissa never concerned herself with memories. They were no more than pictures. Forcing herself to think backwards never failed to bore her.
At last! A sound: footsteps and fumbling on the other side of the door; proof, Clarissa noted, that there was—or seemed to be—something beyond her immediate surroundings. It was truly silly that she had wondered if the rest of the world had merely been illusory, imagined. No matter. That thought had already faded into a memory. The small girl placed little importance in memories.
The door budged at last. Clarissa did her best to peer around the man in its frame: he did not interest her. She was more preoccupied in verifying her belief that the world extended at least in the direction of the boring door. She perceived with difficulty a shadowy hallway that seemed to run past the doorway in both directions. The wall in her line of sight was swathed in darkness, but she guessed it was as blank and unyielding as the four enclosing her.
The man shut the door purposefully and took the second chair. He wore wire-rimmed glasses and an unfathomable expression. It was neither friendly nor hostile, neither indulgent nor severe. His bald head glittered slightly with reflected light, not unlike a fresh apple admired beneath a lazily shining sun. His colorless skin, however, did not suggest an apple. He was truthfully more of a skinned potato, with a suitable brown spot that spanned several inches of the right side of his neck.
“Hello, Clarissa,” the man spoke at last. His voice was warmer than she had anticipated, but as she watched, his face seemed to mold into an unnatural smile. Clarissa was not, however, discomforted by his attempt at amiability.
“Hello,” she responded cheerily. She stopped swinging her legs but left her hands in their stable position, holding her sturdily in her chair.
“My name is Dr. Pringle,” he said, relaxing slightly. He seemed to have expected a tantrum following his greeting. “Is it all right if we talk for a few minutes?”
“Sure,” Clarissa said after considering his request for a moment. “You should call me Clarey, though.”
“Should I?” Dr. Pringle asked, mildly bemused. A more easygoing smile touched his face.
“That’s what everyone calls me,” Clarissa said seriously, rolling her eyes.
“I see,” Dr. Pringle said, inclining his head politely. “In that case you can call me Dave if you like.”
“Sure, Dave,” Clarissa said, smiling back.
“Are you thirsty at all? Would you like me to get you something before we talk?” Dr. Pringle asked. Clarissa nodded hungrily, quickly cataloguing this reference to a universe larger than the boring room.
“A chocolate bar would be nice,” she said thankfully.
“I’ll get one for you when I go back out in a few minutes. Is that all right with you?” Dr. Pringle asked courteously.
“Sure, Dave,” Clarissa said, thinking it wise not to make demands.
“Excellent. I just thought we’d talk about a few things before the others come in to see you, Clarey,” Dr. Pringle said, leaning back in his chair and dropping a folder lightly on the table between them. “I have here some papers about you. Some of them are letters your mom wrote.”
“Oh?” Clarissa said, wondering what anyone would find interesting about her mother’s letters.
“Yes, well, they have something to do with why you and I are both sitting here right now,” he said, adopting a more solemn tone. “She wrote very nice things about you in her letters.”
“Who were the letters to?” Clarissa asked, unsure what else to say.
“Oh, all sorts of people. People she kept in touch with,” Dr. Pringle said in an offhand voice. He cleared his throat and opened the file. Clarissa leaned forward in her chair to see, but the man deftly removed a piece of folded stationery and closed the folder. She thought she had seen a pair of photographs on top, but she could not be certain.
“Is that one of the letters?” she said, her interest piqued by the mysterious contents of the folder.
“Yes. Do you mind if I read you a short paragraph?” Dr. Pringle asked, unfolding the paper, his eyes on her face.
She shrugged and leaned back against the metal chair, relaxing her arms at last and letting them rest in her lap.
“Little Clarey had a friend over today. I didn’t know she was so close with Henry’s son, but they seemed to be real pals. I watched them play in the garden for a few minutes before I went to do the laundry. It’s amazing to watch her grow up, to see her make friends. She seems to have no problem with drawing people to her. The other children who come over all seem so taken with her, at least at first. They don’t usually come back too many times. I hope she’s not bad at retaining new friends. I had a hard time getting to know other children when I was her age, too. It was just a phase, of course,” Dr. Pringle stopped and placed the letter on the table.
“Who is Henry?” Clarissa asked, confused.
“That would be Kyle’s father, I believe,” Dr. Pringle explained. He was watching her carefully once more. “Do you mind if I read some other letters?”
Clarissa shrugged again. As before, Dr. Pringle swiped some papers from his folder before Clarissa could properly see inside.
“Clarey hasn’t been invited to anyone’s house in over six months now,” Dr. Pringle began. “It’s begun to worry me, but she doesn’t seem bothered. She goes on playing, chattering away as if it didn’t make a difference that there’s no one there in the garden with her.”
Clarissa was more confused than ever. She shifted in her chair, frowning, eyes trained on the closed folder. Dr. Pringle stopped reading and contemplated her frustrated expression.
“You were six when your mother wrote these two letters, around eight months apart,” he stated. “You’re seven now, is that right?”
“Eight,” Clarissa corrected patiently, looking at him once more. “My birthday was two days ago.”
“Of course,” Dr. Pringle said apologetically. “I should have known. May I read you one more letter?”
“Sure, Dave,” Clarissa said, grinning slightly.
“Clarey’s birthday is coming up,” Dr. Pringle said, with emphasis. “Eight years old! How strange. Then again, what isn’t strange about my little girl? That might sound a bit odd to you, but I came to the conclusion long ago that Clarey was special. She’s different, to say the least. She doesn’t seem to mind that she never has friends over. I can’t even remember the last time Kyle came over. Clarey is totally unbothered by this, though. She just plays with herself, perfectly contented to talk to imaginary friends and such. I like to listen in, but I rarely do. She seems to have such involved conversations that it’s impossible to keep up with only one half of the dialogue.”
Clarissa giggled. Dr. Pringle stopped set the letter back on the table carefully.
“Those letters are funny,” the little girl said.
“Why are they funny?” the doctor asked, staring at her curiously.
“She says I play by myself, but I always play with Gina,” Clarissa said, as if the answer were obvious.
“Gina?” Dr. Pringle inquired.
“Oh yes. Gina is my best friend,” Clarissa said in a matter-of-fact voice. “Mommy always said she was made up, but she’s real, you know.”
“Of course,” Dr. Pringle said. “I’m no more imaginary than she is. I would like to meet her some day.”
Clarissa giggled. “You can meet her when she comes back from Paris!” she said, as if alluding to some inside joke.
Dr. Pringle smiled again. “I’ll go get you that chocolate bar in a moment. Do you like Milky Way?”
“I like all of them, but Gina says Snickers are best,” Clarissa confided. “She’s always right, you know.”
“Always?” Dr. Pringle challenged.
“About everything!” Clarissa exclaimed.
“I see,” Dr. Pringle said. “Do you mind if I ask one more question?”
“Sure, Dave,” Clarissa said impishly.
Dr. Pringle barely hesitated. “What did Gina think about your mom?”
Clarissa frowned, and her eyes sharpened. Before she could form a reply, the plain, brown door swung open once more. Another man stood in the doorway, carrying a similar folder and a cup of water.
“Time to go,” Dr. Pringle said regretfully. “I’ll see you later, Clarey.” He stood and took his folder. Without another word, he shouldered past the new arrival and left the room.
“Bye,” Clarissa called.
“Don’t you mean ‘hello?’” the second man asked, seemingly confused.
Clarissa’s frown deepened. Some people were so stupid. She shrugged as the man slowly closed the door and took Dr. Pringle’s seat.
“Clarissa, I’m Tom Denby,” the man said in a professional voice, placing his folder on the table. “I’m just here to ask you a few questions.”
“More questions?” Clarissa sighed.
Mr. Denby ignored this. “What can you tell me about your friend Gina?”
Clarissa seemed relieved. So there was an outside world, and it did include Gina. Her mother had been wrong after all! Now it all made so much more sense. It sparked a strange idea in her mind, though, as she contemplated Gina and her mother. She concentrated on ignoring the pictures that buzzed back and forth in her mind.
“She’s my best friend,” Clarissa said in a faraway voice. “She lives near me. We play every day after school. She knows everything.”
“What do you mean when you say that?” Mr. Denby inquired keenly.
“I dunno. Gina just knows everything about people and things,” Clarissa said vaguely. Her memory continued to distract her with a serious of vivid images. They seemed familiar, but they made no sense.
“Did Gina tell you to do things?” Mr. Denby asked.
“Well, she always knows what to do when I get confused or something,” Clarissa said thoughtfully, pulling her mind to the present. “She knows what to do when I am upset to make me feel better.”
Mr. Denby pulled out a small notepad and wrote this down. “Can you give an example?”
Clarissa pursed her lips. “When I spill things, she helps me clean them up,” she said. “Or when I lose something, she helps me find it.”
“I see,” Mr. Denby said, making a concise note. Without looking up, he continued, “Can you tell me about your birthday party?”
Clarissa was silent. Mr. Denby waited, watching her eyes go out of focus. “Clarissa?”
“It wasn’t a good birthday,” Clarissa said finally. Mr. Denby let out a breath. He seemed somewhat disappointed.
“Can you tell me about it?” he asked tentatively, but she did not appear ready to respond. After a moment, he asked, “Did you see her today? Gina, I mean.”
Clarissa shook her head. “I’ve been stuck in this room for forever.”
Mr. Denby paused. “She didn’t come visit you?”
“No. I think she doesn’t know where I am,” Clarissa said shortly.
“I thought she knew everything?” Mr. Denby said lightly.
Clarissa’s eyes narrowed. She replaced her hands on the sides of the chair and gripped it tightly, her lips pressed together with similar force. Mr. Denby swallowed uncomfortably.
“Who were you talking to, then?” he asked after a moment, voice controlled.
“Dave. Duh,” Clarissa said sharply.
“Dave?” he asked, taken aback.
“Dr. Pringle,” she clarified, glaring at the table.
“Right,” Mr. Denby said, making another note. He glanced at the mirror briefly, looking more uncomfortable than before.
Clarissa let out an angry huff. Her hands tightened on the chair, and her mind reeled with images. Birthday candles. Two place settings. Her mother bringing in a cake. Where was Gina’s place? There weren’t enough.
“Are you thirsty?” Mr. Denby mumbled.
“No,” Clarissa said loudly. In her mind, her mother set the cake on the table and put her hands on her hips impatiently. Wasn’t she old enough to let that go?
“That’s fine,” he said, slightly alarmed. “I… I just have one more question.” He paused, glancing at the mirror once more before plunging in. “Did Gina tell you to kill your mother?”
Clarissa did not move. Her mother was getting irritated. All that work on her cake, and she couldn’t celebrate a normal birthday? Enough was enough. Gina was shaking her head.
Unnerved, Mr. Denby slid his chair back and took his folder. “Drink if you get thirsty,” he said quickly. In an uncoordinated stumble, he knocked on the door and abruptly stepped out the moment it opened.
Clarissa heard the snap of the door closing, but the room was not silent. Her mind was buzzing. Her mother was shouting. Gina was pointing to the knife beside the cake. Enough was enough.
Step Back
