PLAYMATES
“Miranda! Go exploring. Make some friends, but get out from under my FEET!” Her mother roughly ushered the knobby-kneed little girl out of their new kitchen and into the hall. Moving had been her mom’s idea. This place had too many nooks and crannies for little Miranda. She was afraid. There were too many echoes in this new/old house. Even Miranda’s worn out red sneakers with the pink sparkly laces seemed to thump down the hallways and stairs like an elephant heard.
Held tightly in her hand was Betsy. In her tiny white shirt and bright orange pants, the doll matched her “mommy” to a tee. Both girls had pixie cut hair that was snow-white. “Toe heads” they were called, but Miranda never understood why. Betsy was special. Her arms and head moved whenever a cord from her back was pulled. Betsy made a scratchy grinding noise when this happened, but Miranda heard only the gentle “coo” of her baby. She was Miranda’s best, and at this moment only, friend. Although Miranda thought she was too old for dolls, she figured she’d give Betsy up for “adoption” NEXT year. She smiled down at the blue-eyed doll. Betsy smiled back cheerfully.
Miranda and Betsy made their way to the basement. They yanked the string to a naked bulb. It swirled carelessly, throwing frightening shapes at the black, deep walls. She stood as still as a statue to make sure theirs were the only “real” shadows. “It’s okay, Betsy.” She reassured her trembling baby doll. Miranda shivered, even though her upper lip and scalp felt sweaty. After many slow, tedious steps, she discovered a panel had pulled away from the wall in a small closet-sized alcove butting up to the stairs. Though most of the carpet down here was red—“not quite the color of blood” Miranda noticed disgustedly; here there was speckled gray and blue tile. Miranda could see it went under the wall. “That’s stupid.” She told Betsy and kicked the misplaced panel back into place.
She turned to go when the board popped free again with a swoosh of wind hard enough to puff her hair. The air smelled like hot pennies. She gripped Betsy’s hand to make the baby more comfortable. The breeze brought whispers and giggles in with it. She reached for the plank. It thumped like an eager puppy’s tail and pulled away even farther. Now Miranda could fit. She peered into the triangle shaped crack. There were more giggles and shuffling. To get in she would have to get on all fours. With Betsy in tow, she knelt and began the crawl. The sound wasn’t a breeze but more of a breath.
“Yessssss” it seemed to sigh.
Miranda was halfway through when it called to her.
“MirANdahhhhh”.
The ten year old froze, certain she would wet her pants.
“Come and playyy,” the breath said.
It smelled like salt and rotten dirt. Miranda heard heavy shifting coming toward her. The air around her died. Her teeth chattered. Every fiber in her tiny body became tense. Something brushed her hand.
“ You and Betsy come and play,” it giggled.
Miranda’s tongue was thick as mud. The brush against her hand became a grip. It pulled Betsy free.
“MIRAAAANDA!” her mother shouted from above.
The girl withdrew as if scalded, whacking the back of her head against the panel. The speckles on the tile began to dance. The little girl clasped her sore spot, turning to run; to tell; to scream; to cry when it hit her. Betsy! She’d let go of Betsy! The panel slammed against the wall tightly—as if nothing had happened. But Miranda heard it: the scratchy grinding of her baby’s coo and a breezy, mean laugh. She backed away, terrified and guilty that she’d left her pal. Another time, she’d come down with her mom and get Betsy back she promised the wind. Her playmate was forgotten as time rushed by.
Miranda or Randi as she was called in her adulthood trotted down the steps. She tugged the string to the laundry room bulb. Shadows and jagged shapes danced as it wiggled. Her elderly mother’s memories and clothes were strewn about. She sighed heavily and moved around picking up. She’d already called her own daughter Janie to remind her to feed the cat and do her homework. Randi’s long blonde hair swung stylishly in her face. Her lean, tall frame easily lifted the boxes of photos and papers her momma had packed away—saved to savor. But no more. Most of it was lost to Randi now. People and places too far behind her own busy life and family. She would give her mother’s clothes to the needy but paused to peek one last time at the dusty pictures of herself as a scabby kneed kid, a self-important teen and courageous young college grad. In all stages her mom was beaming, hugging, loving. The knot in Randi’s chest tightened but the tears loosely fell. Alone in her childhood home, Randi felt small again; ten again. Outside the spring wind mourned with her. There was a loud pop that snapped the woman to attention. She thought a shutter had come loose. She began to search.
As she came around the stairs, Randi heard a dragging noise. From the corner of her eye, she saw the panel had come loose under the stairs.
“Darn it,’ she muttered, stepping in and kicking it back into place.
She turned to go but heard a noise that raked her bones: a scratchy, grinding noise. Randi stared as the panel shifted. The now mother-of-her-own- teenybopper got down on all fours. She pushed her face up to the opening and stared into the deep, black space. There was a soft thump nearby. Randi’s eyes strained against the darkness to see: Betsy. Her heart twisted at the sight of her lost friend. “Awwww” she cooed and reached in, but the cord had been pulled so Betsy wiggled backwards away from Randi into the nothing; scraping against the dirty, flecked tile. Randi heard a giggle.
“Come…” it teased softly.
“No.” The woman barked and stood quickly.
The panel slapped shut; offended. Betsy cooed.
“Another time.” Randi promised the wind and Betsy. Her playmates waited as the seasons came and went.
A lifetime later, Janie found herself watching her mom, Miranda, like a hawk. Mom frequently forgot who or where she was. It ached to see such a vivacious woman slip into advanced Alzheimer’s. Janie would take care of her as long as she could; here in her grandmother’s home just as Miranda had asked. Janie noticed Miranda wandering more: lost or searching. She talked to herself, muttering and pushing gently at the walls to keep her balance. Mom had progressed rapidly. In fact, Janie had made some calls to move Miranda into a facility. Not long ago, Miranda had been strong and quick. Not now and that was what Janie was trying to accept: the “kind of” loss of her mom. After being reassured by the facility director, Janie made the appointment and walked out of the kitchen to discover Miranda gone.
An ancient Miranda tottled down the steps. “I’m coming. Hold on,” she mumbled. Around the corner she slipped and into the forgotten unused alcove. She kicked the wall.
“Give it back you bully.” She spat childishly.
The wall popped. A space appeared. The old woman grunted and groaned but got down on all fours.
“Hurry up—haven’t got all day.” She barked.
There was a sigh as a small doll baby slid across the warped and smudgy speckled tile. Its shirt was dingy tan and Betsy’s orange pants were stained and torn. The old woman’s eyes glistened. She clucked and affectionately reached for it.
“Stay and play.” The voice of so many years and nightmares whispered.
“Can I have my baby?” the old woman pouted.
Miranda wrapped her gnarled fingers around Betsy.
“Finally.” She softly sobbed.
“Come in and play Miranda,” the breeze begged again.
Her hand was warmly tugged. The old woman crept in. She’d forgotten how to fear. The panel snapped shut.
Calling out, Janie visually ransacked the upstairs and after a seeming eternity, descended to the basement. Rounding the corner, she found her mom’s red tennis shoe in the alcove. She flipped open her cell phone and began dialing. Janie spun on her heel and headed back up, giving the police a description no one would ever match. Behind the panel came a scratchy grinding noise and on the breeze Janie swore she heard giggling.
