Tessa stirred, lifted her head from the pink pillow, saw bright daylight coming through the gap in the yellow curtains. What day is it? Saturday. Good. No rush. Can lay here for a while. She laid her head down again. She felt beside her with her hand. No one there. Good. Sometimes she invited a man back if he seemed ok and she liked him enough. Obviously, last night she’d not met anyone worth the coming back with. Just as well. She wasn’t in the mood for waiting on them over a breakfast table; talking about the previous night, what it had been like for him or sometimes for her if she had brought back a girl. No one. Just empty space. Although Teddy was there. His one ear was smooth; his fur was thin and sparse. She brought him to her lips, kissed his small head. Hello, Teddy. His glass eye seemed to gaze back at her; the button eye was darker, unseeing. Poor Teddy. Battered and worn. We’ve been together now for…how long? Twenty years? She laid him beside her; kissed his nose. He lay there looking at the white ceiling. Silence. Not a great conversationalist was Teddy. He’d not said a word in all the years they’d been together. Although as a child, she thought he had, would talk with him, play games with him, told him all her secrets and worries. Moreover, of course, he had witnessed things, seen her play with her dolls, with men, the occasional girl, and seen her with all kinds. She brooded for a moment; let the idea of what he may have seen swim around her mind. She had become so used to him being there in her bedroom that she’d given no thought to what he may have seen over the years. Good God. He’d seen all that, never said a word, or moaned or complained or judged her. Too many did that; judged her. But never Teddy. She turned her head, kissed his furry cheek. He didn’t always lie on her bed, when she had company she put him in the armchair in the corner, or on the dressing table by the window. Once one of the men she’d brought back has tossed Teddy across the room, she had become cross, swore at the man, picked up Teddy, kissed his brow, cuddled him against her cheek, told the man to go, leave her because if he could do that to her Teddy he might do it to her. The man shook his head, left thinking her slightly touched, ******* up one of his eyes as if he thought she had lost the plot. Maybe she had, she didn’t care. Teddy had seen her as a little girl, seen her cousin creep into her room, seen him climbed into her bed and do things to her, seen her squirm, seen his hand over her mouth, heard his threats. She hadn’t thought about that; hadn’t given it any thought until now. Remember that, Teddy? He threatened me with all kinds of things if I told anyone what he did. What a *******; what a creep. He’s married now, Teddy; got kids of his own. Poor things. Makes you think. She sat up in bed, stared at the daylight through the gap in the curtains. She got out of bed, sat on the end looking at the wall. Never said a word. Never told anyone, except Teddy; she’d told him. Everything. How it felt; how she felt; how ***** it had made her feel. Teddy listened; never judged. Always there with that look about him, that wise gaze. She sighed. If she saw her cousin now, she said nothing, just stared at him and he stared at her, a knowing look on his fat face. She looked back at Teddy in bed, saw his gaze on her, saw his uncritical gaze. She loved that about him. Loved that look. Breakfast, Teddy? Like I used to make you? She mused on her efforts to get him to eat his breakfast as a child, but he never did. You were awful at eating your breakfast. Mother told me not to give you any, but I always did; always gave you some of mine. It made Father cross, made his face become all stern and cross looking, and he threatened once to throw you out when we moved from that old house to the new one. But I hid you so he couldn’t. You saw him when he spanked me; heard my cries. Mother never came or said anything, but you were always there; I am sure I heard you say you loved me, would always be there for me. She nodded her head. Sighed. The strong silent type was Teddy. Always there. With his one glass eye, his balding fur, his one ear. Haven’t seen them for years now, the parents. They’re in Oxford; I’m here in New York. An ocean between us. Miles and miles. We’re here, Teddy, you and me. Just the two of us. Just us, this apartment, the paintings on the walls, the jazz on the CD player, our secrets, all our own secrets. Just us. Just you and me. Eh, Teddy? Eh? Silence. Teddy, the strong silent type and me the mouthy *****. What a couple. What a pair. Me here, you there. She laughed, looked at Teddy’s moon shaped smile, the smile was always there, a welcome smile, a smile to warm her, to tell her she was good, she was loved. Yes, loved; wanted for whom she was inside, not for what she said or did or didn’t do. Just you and me, Teddy. Just you and me.
A PROSE POEM WRITTEN IN 2008. A GIRL AND HER TEDDY BEAR.
