The Gift
by
Ariel Kay
You tear pages out of magazines and leave them around your room. They’re all advertisements for children’s toys—cheerful pastel, smiling kids, spotless playrooms. I gather them up while you’re out of the room, plucking them from the foot of your bed, the dresser, the rocking chair by the window.
The bathroom door opens and you walk slowly toward me, clutching your cane, smiling your polite smile as you tilt your head. I move towards you and show you the toy on the top page. Peppa Pig’s shiny pink bubble machine.
“Oh, dear,” you say, touching my arm. “My daughter Emma would love that.”
“How old is she?”
“Eight.”
“Mine too.” I smile. “I might give it to her for Christmas.”
Your smile widens, and your eyes still sparkle among the deep lines of your face. “Oh, you must.”
I know how much it upsets you when I call you mom when we’re in the wrong decade, when I’m not the right Emma. Though I’m a stranger, you smile at me indulgently and offer multiple cups of tea as I string up a few extra Christmas decorations in your room and give things a little tidy. You fall asleep in the rocking chair, and I press a quick kiss to your forehead, breathing in the familiar chamomile fragrance of your favorite shampoo.
Before I leave, I bin most of the advertisements but fold the one for the bubble machine into a tiny square and stick it in my purse.
The bathroom door opens and you walk slowly toward me, clutching your cane, smiling your polite smile as you tilt your head. I move towards you and show you the toy on the top page. Peppa Pig’s shiny pink bubble machine.
“Oh, dear,” you say, touching my arm. “My daughter Emma would love that.”
“How old is she?”
“Eight.”
“Mine too.” I smile. “I might give it to her for Christmas.”
Your smile widens, and your eyes still sparkle among the deep lines of your face. “Oh, you must.”
I know how much it upsets you when I call you mom when we’re in the wrong decade, when I’m not the right Emma. Though I’m a stranger, you smile at me indulgently and offer multiple cups of tea as I string up a few extra Christmas decorations in your room and give things a little tidy. You fall asleep in the rocking chair, and I press a quick kiss to your forehead, breathing in the familiar chamomile fragrance of your favorite shampoo.
Before I leave, I bin most of the advertisements but fold the one for the bubble machine into a tiny square and stick it in my purse.
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