We examined the boxes content.
“Let’s separate in two piles,” Derek proposed;
“Hopeless and intriguing.”
But which was which?
Everything seemed hopeless: ridiculous clothes,
Shoes with broken heels, endless piles of
old magazines. Souvenir of
Great Britain? – a Union Jack sleepshirt.
Cosmetics and grubby makeup kits,
Hairbrushes, scrunchies,
An ancient red plastic boombox,
Terrible Advice Books
(“The Power of You”)
costume jewelry of improbable value –
Even her jewelry box I recalled
From childhood days.
All just junk Dominica could
Have thrown away!
Why wasn’t Mirabel more literate?
Dyslexia? Hadn’t that word
Been bruited undefined
To the insatiable ears of
An eight-year-old –
I heard parents always looking for
Excuses. I thought about what I would
Have left – same thing Derek might –
Notebooks of scribblings
Journals and diaries –
“Notes to self” – cherished cards
Day planners and calendars?
The only exciting thing: a professional portfolio
Stamped MONFORT COLLEGE OF MODELING.
I opened the portfolio, scared and thrilled
Here’s the Mirabel I would recognize.
But all the photos seemed outdated –
Shlocky, overly made-up and
Inhumanly posed.
This girl should demand
Her money back.
But maybe there was no “money” –
Goblin gold melts away when you reach for it.
What is a “model” after all but
A blank screen embracing
Frenzied searchers for the
“Other.” Well, she’d been
“Othered” here –
One particularly traumatic
Mirabel in whiteface
With the cruel thorn-like silver
Piercings through her lip –
Rendered speechless –
Her life a cage around her
Nude starved body.
Derek saw my reaction and put his arms
Around me.
“Well, that settles it,” I said,
“That was really Mirabel. I saw that lip.”
To suggest anything else –
That there could be
Cadres of desperate girls
Scarred and marked and rendered mute
Thrown away into the dumpster?
No wonder
Mirabel declared the fashion world
“Shit!” One precious picture
Evoked the “Murble” I remembered –
Filled my eyes with tears –
There she was
Pony-tailed Mirabel in Daisy Dukes,
Washing the side of a fake car.
Youthful, hopeful, tender, memories came surging up –
Mirabel filling the kiddie pool so I could play,
Decorating my pancakes with Picasso faces,
Gelling my hair into crazy shapes.
If you ran these pictures backwards
They recorded tragedy: the slow dawn
Of knowledge as she realized she was in
Bad hands; turns out beauty
Isn’t enough. Answering the question;
It had been my real sister who
Threw me at Lord Verne so that she could
Get away. Derek dropped the fake nipple
He’d been studying.
“I’m sorry. I didn’t know
She was that kind of model.”
I blazed at him: “Everyone’s that kind!
It’s a job!” Derek spluttered.
“The human body’s beautiful.”
I cornered him:
“Will you get naked so I can inspect you?”
His face reddened. Suddenly he
Was fifteen years old. “Not unless you do too.”
“I won’t. You’d have to be the only
Nude person in the room.”
He huffed, and puffed, “Point taken.”
And to his everlasting credit
Hugged me again, but tenderly.
No further explanations required.
“Sorry,” I mumbled.
“Don’t apologize,” he said.
“It’s all horrible.”
Bad moment over.
“Hey, look at this.”
He’d clicked open the boombox.
“There’s a home-made cassette.”
It was an answering machine cassette.
I recognized it – Dad still used that kind.
It explained the ancient boombox.
“Let’s press play.”
Alysse Aallyn 