She looks in the mirror at the wisp of a creature looking back at her. The stringy strands of hair used to be her pride and joy. They were once voluminous golden curls that were the envy of her sisters. Now it sits dull and drooping as if there was no reason for it to shine like before. Immediately she flashes back to another set of curls: reddish-brown with a gorgeous wave to it. Belonging to her young niece, the green eyes matched with the red waves always reminded her of an Amazon toucan. Meira. It was a beautiful name for a charming young girl.
A knock on the door reveals a young man: this one with the same flaming hair but this time, they stand at attention. Gel, no doubt.
“Auntie, it’s time for your meds.” Meds?
“What meds?” she croaks, one hand clutching at the armoire behind her. No way was she going to let some kid feed her dangerous chemicals. The young man just sighs, his shoulders drooping in one fluid moment. The door shuts behind him and she’s left with her thoughts to entertain her. Her name was Camile, that much was certain. The rest of it… not so much.
A picture hanging on the wall has three mops of hair atop three sun-freckled faces. One gold, one burgundy, and one chocolate. The first one was her: the gold was unmistakable. She was trying to figure out who the second and third were before the deranged boy ran in, yelling about medicine. A flicker brightens in a hollow corner of her brain and she flails toward it, spindly arms outstretched for a single brush. Alas, the demons in her brain giggle as they circle the little flame, smothering the light with their shadows. The thought floats out her empty fingers, but Camile doesn’t have enough time to mourn its loss before another person strides through the door, this time not knocking.
It’s her! The girl with the burgundy hair. Camile claps her hands together, delight smoothening the mountain ridges on her face into a childish beam.
“Camile, dear. It’s time for your medicine,” her voice is sweet and slow.
“What medicine?” Camile squawks in return.
“You don’t remember the pills you’re supposed to take? The red and white ones?” Obviously not.
“Fine. I eat the medicine, and you tell me who they are.” Camile points to the photo with a pale finger. The woman gazes at the photo with bittersweet longing: the look of someone who once had it all.
“Sure, Camile.” Two pills drop into the waiting hands and Camile gulps them down hurriedly without a sip of water. Her muscles remember though her brain does not.
“The one on the left is you. Remember? We were at that carnival and the woman there painted a penguin on your cheek. You loved it and never wanted it off.” Camile grins, her eyes chasing after another flame in her brain. “The next one is me.”
“Mary-Anne!” Camile exclaims, finally grasping a little light close to her heart. “My sister!”
“Yes, that’s me. Uncle Hal was going to get us some popcorn, but we ran out to the face painting studio in the middle. He and Aunt Clare were so mad.” A slight smile rises at the edges of Camile’s lips. Uncle Hal’s coffee-colored hair and Aunt Clare’s russet coils play in her memory. Camile remembered the woman who painted the penguin: she had jet black locks with electric green tips.
“I wanted to dye my hair like the woman’s,” Camile tells her sister.
“Yes!” A spark grows in the woman’s eye and her heart: hope. “You remember that?”
“Remember what?” The spark dies down, but it refuses to let out.
“Who’s the last one?” Camile asks, oblivious to her sister’s turmoil.
“That is Gwen.” That’s it. Just Gwen. Nothing more, nothing less.
“Who’s she?” Camile looks to the left and scrunches up her eyebrows when she sees a tear gliding down her sister’s cheek. “What’s wrong? Is she a bad person?”
“No, no, no.” The woman slides a palm swiftly over her eyes and smiles at her little sister. “That was your sister Gwen.”
“Oh. Well where is she?” Camile’s eyes are a deep blue when they peer up at her sister.
“It’s time for lunch. You must be hungry.” The woman rises from the bed and pads to the door.
“Is it a salad again? I hate salads!” Camile lifts her nose and pouts at the door, her arms crossing over her chest.
“It’s not a salad. You like pasta, right?” Camile’s shoulders droop suddenly and her eyes rise to meet her sister’s. They’re clear for once: any remnants of the fog wiped clean. It doesn’t last though. It never does.
“Mary-Anne. Thank you.” Mary-Anne doesn’t ask for what. She doesn’t need to. The silence speaks enough.
“Come. It’s time to go.”
“I’ll just be a minute,” Camile replies, her eyes deepening the abyss between her and her sister. Mary-Anne nods once and leaves, her maroon hair flashing around the corner.
Camile closes her eyes and for a moment everything is still. Even the demons constantly cackling inside her are silent: giving her this moment to mourn. A sob breaks loose, but no tears. No. Tears are for memories. The cherished ones, the embarrassing ones, the loving ones.
Camile’s eyes open, the light rushing back in a flurry of colors. Her gaze lands on a little photograph. Just 5” x 3”. A tiny photo. Yet somehow she knows that photo is the world to her.
The photo of three mops of hair atop three sun-freckled faces. One gold, one burgundy, and one chocolate.
The problem was… who were they?
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