“Purple Bear”

By Cole Chamberlain

Purple Bear

“When she died, she bled inside,” Momma says, leaning toward Purple Bear, palms pressed against the glass. The bear doesn’t look like she’s filled with blood. “Internal damage,” Momma whispers. “Beautiful, even then. She was a real princess. Maybe the only one.”

Momma loves the Beanie Babies, says they’ll really be worth something someday, and so will we. When I’m older, she’ll cry because the entire collection will perish in a flood, despite being stored in what are supposed to be airtight totes. “They were going to be worth a fortune,” she will say.” I will know she is wrong, but I won’t correct her.

Purple Bear is Diana to Momma. She sits in the china cabinet propped up against a coffee-table book that says Diana in big silver letters. The real Diana’s face never looks me in the eye. Her black and white eyes look up and to the side, right at Momma.

“They spelled Whales wrong,” I say, reading the glimmering cover.

“No, it’s different.

“Why?”

“I don’t know.” 

Diana is a mystery, but I don’t mind. She looks far off, not like she’d ever break into song or clean house with squirrels. Not like a real princess. So I try to leave her behind on that high shelf, focus on the Beanie Dorothy and Scarecrow that sit lower, but Momma won’t let her be. Whenever we’re all in the hallway at the same time, Momma and Purple Bear exchange glances I don’t understand. It happens one too many times, and I can’t ignore it. “She needed love, and no one saw,” Momma says in a voice like it’s all too much for her.

I go searching for Diana on the new desktop. When I finally spell her name correctly, endless videos flood the screen, and there she is—the quiet woman with a gentle spirit and startling eyes is nothing like Cinderella or Belle. She sits crookedly as she talks divorce, depression, and bulimia. A half-hour’s obsession, and I feel dirty. I find a video that speaks about the princess’s death. “She died because we wanted to know her. We all did. We wanted inside that limo and inside that mind.” I don’t understand what I’m being accused of, but I hit the red X and try to forget.

The attempt is unsuccessful; several days later, I say to Mother, “did you know the Princess used to cut her own arms?”

“What? No, she did not. That’s an ugly thing to say.”

When I explain bulimia, Momma explains slander. I move onto depression, a word I find elusive. She sighs, “of course she was depressed. Anyone would be.”

I decide not to bring up the divorce part of the interviews because Mom is on her third. My righteous anger at being called a liar soon dissipates, replaced by a profound sense of pride. Mother does not know about the cutting-herself and the puking-herself; Mother is not one of the people who want inside Diana’s limo and mind. Mother is not guilty. She is happy not to know, happy to only look at the beautiful asymmetrical princess. 

I am not like my mom. I want to know, regardless of the damage done to myself or the subject of my knowledge.

#

Years later, Momma will be in and out of the hospital with numerous issues. None of us, including the doctors, will understand. With the liver and pancreas of a chronic alcoholic, she will tell us she never abused any substances, not to listen to doctors.

“Has your mother always been thin?” A nurse will ask me as my mom sleeps.

“Yeah. Well, she’s maybe lost ten pounds.”

“Ten pounds isn’t much.” The nurse will flinch at what I don’t see. My mother’s sleeping body, tiny and breakable, will reveal itself to me—a miraculously animated corpse, slowly losing its magic.

“Has she ever—”

“Ten pounds is a lot,” my mother will interrupt, not even fully conscious.

I will wonder, when was the last time my mother felt like eating? Not for days. Wonder, when was the last time my mother finished a meal? Not for years. Not since before I was born.

I will wonder what I would find if I watch those Diana interviews again, wonder why I am scared to.

When I tell Mother Beanie Babies could never make us rich, she shakes her head and refuses to know. I wonder if it works.

Cole Chamberlain is a writer and social worker living in St. Louis with his cat, Burden. His work has appeared in the Toho Review, Months To Years, and The Ponder Review. When Cole isn't working he is at the local ice rink, teaching himself to stop without the wall.