Allison

Allison sat in the corner of the office, cutting smiles out of a sheet of notebook paper; a five-year-old with a penchant for concealment. When a loved one dies, the hardest part is to find the new normal; a life quickly becomes a hunt for what is missing. She lines up the safety scissors with the faded blues lines, one shaking hand holding the new smile in place. The lips are a blend of Outrageous Orange and Mahogany; the teeth, hardly showing, are the off-white tint of Banana Mania. With three careful cuts, Allison removes the smile from the page and adds it to a pile on the carpet. A hundred tiny slips of paper, each with their own design, cascade over one another in a clumsy display of patient rebirth. Half of the battle of being okay is pretending; the fake laughter and coffee-stained conversations that say No, I haven’t lost control.

The next slip is an abstraction; Screaming Green lips curl at an impossible angle, revealing two fangs of Razzle Dazzle Rose. Rather than placing it in the pile, Allison reaches for a roll of scotch tape. The tape comes out in a mess of sticky clarity; finally yielding a two-inch section, which she folds into an oval. She glances over her shoulder to her father, her new smile crinkling against the gust from the fan blade. He doesn’t turn to meet her gaze, but the man in the black leather chair nods his head before jotting something onto his yellow pad. Daddy has been talking to the man a lot lately; even more so since Mommy went to Heaven. She couldn’t understand why Mommy had to go without her; they had always gone everywhere together. If Heaven was so great, why would Mommy go alone? Who would she take pictures with?

She peeled the fake smile from her lips, biting back the tears which threatened to stain her face. Outside the window, about four stories down, people shuffle past one another without talking. They hold cellphones to their heads, studying the sidewalk to avoid eye contact. A young boy in a blue, puffy jacket stumbles by; his hand being held by a woman in a red dress. He glances up at the office building, smiling at the rows of tinted glass. His eyes, at least from a distance, are Indigo with a touch of Wild Blue Yonder; his hair is Burnt Sienna. The boy disappears around the corner, replaced by a sea of colors and faces which pass in a blur. Allison picks a smile from the pile and tapes it over her mouth; the Desert Sand around the edges doesn’t quite match her skin tone, but its close enough. She catches her reflection in the window. The smile is crooked. She peels it off and crumbles it in her hand while The Man In The Chair writes something down.

Next to the pile of smiles is a plastic tub. The Man In The Chair gave it to her so that she could keep these pieces of herself safe. Last week, she spent the hour drawing eyes; irises of Sunglow yellow and Caribbean Green with the pupils poked out with a pen so she can see when they’re taped over her own. She liked mixing them up, taping a Robin Egg Blue over her right and an Electric Lime over her left. These colors stood out, not like the basic browns that she was born with. Her own eyes didn’t have a special name. Mommy, her eyes were Blue Bell with a spark of Pine Green. Daddy said that Mommy’s imperfections were the most perfect part about her. Daddy said that the people in Heaven, they would take the time to stop her and tell her how pretty she looked. The streets in heaven, Daddy said, were Goldenrod. When the sun hit them, they were nearly Laser Lemon.

She couldn’t explain it, but the night that Mommy went to Heaven, she smelled like Sunset Orange. It was a new perfume, one that Daddy said he would give to her when she got a little older. At night, when she couldn’t sleep, she would sneak into her parents’ room and sniff the bottle; Daddy started sleeping on the couch after Mommy left. The smell helped her sleep. She wondered if Daddy did the same. The man’s office smelled like Shadow and antiseptic; a near-choking blend meant to make a person feel at home. She tapes a Cornflower blue eye over her right, leaving the left one brown. From the pile of smiles, she pulls out a pair of Purple Pizzazz lips parted by an Unmellow Yellow tongue. Her reflection makes her giggle. Her father turns against the leather sofa and smiles at her, his eyes red and irritated. The Man In The Chair smiles, too- but only for a moment, and only with the corner of his mouth.

In her mind, these pieces of paper are more than scraps that hide her features; they’re permanent improvements, assurance that no one will leave without her again. She covers her left eye with Bittersweet, hoping that the frayed edges will melt into her skin. She wants Mango Tango eyes and lips of Vivid Tangerine. She wants Neon Carrot hair and a life that feels like Wild Strawberry. At least that way, Mommy would’ve taken her. Who could say no to a girl with a Wisteria soul? In her mind, she is interwoven with every shade of every color and people know that she is different and no one has to be sad. The clock on the wall is black and white; the hands chase each other as she collects the smiles and places them in the plastic tub. The Man In The Chair raises his voice slightly, which means that it is nearly time for them to leave.

She pushes the lid over the scraps of herself, tucking the plastic tub into a bookshelf. Her name points out, surrounded with the bland browns and blacks of medical books. The letters of her name are multi-colored and bubbly on an index card taped to the inside; yet another cheap imitation of the life she used to have. Her father takes a deep breath and stands from the couch; the leather unfolding in groggy, passive motion. The man stands up from his chair, tucking the yellow notepad into the drawer of a small coffee table. The two men shake hands, her father still struggling to collect himself. After a few seconds, he draws a deep breath and begins to walk out. He stops at the doorway, letting his fingers graze a series of letters on the other side of a thin wall of plastic. A name is written in Fuchsia and Mango Tango.

Two dates, etched by a different hand, dictate the only five years that ever mattered. Pale purple.

Almost Wisteria.