I forgot it at a friend’s house. It has a wooden arm, scratched from all the years I’ve used it to shield myself from the rain. Its flesh, a tacky array of blues and greens, spread out like a Renaissance painting. We had filled it with air, swelling its lungs against the sharp wind and ice-cold rain on our way home from work that evening, on Halloween. Its ribs flipped and broke halfway home, leaving us to rely on another, not big enough for two. Its tip dragged on the asphalt as we tried to focus on the road ahead instead of the sound of our rattling teeth. By the time we made it home, it was clear it would never be useful again, but we didn’t throw it away. Instead, we left it hanging on the wardrobe’s doorknob at the entrance, raindrops forming a small pool underneath it. I’d left it there, completely forgetting I had it. So there it stayed. A piece of me was left behind, slowly becoming a living, physical memory. It was no longer mine. The memory of that day was now its owner, keeping it hanging as a reminder.
Slowly, the pool that formed underneath it dried, leaving a light stain behind to remind us of the past. But it still holds onto that memory. It radiates a time that no longer belongs to us; it’s stuck in a time loop, a flashback, its broken ribs caging our past within itself. Every time we pass it, it transports us back to that late October twilight, when our clothes were dripping wet, our shoes filled with water, and our hair stuck to our faces. When we stained our mouths with pesto pasta and hid from the cold under Pat’s weighted blanket before getting ready for the night. We had to convince ourselves to get out of bed because comfort would not create lasting memories like a night out in town with friends, but the expectation to make the most of tonight started to weigh on my mind. .
I was sitting on the bed, figuring out what to do with my hair, the curls undone and frizzy from the humid air, while Pat sat at the desk, her blond hair neatly tucked into space buns. She carefully reapplied lipstick after leaving most of it on the cider can. I had finally decided to hide my lion mane in two low ponytails in hopes it would come across as casual instead of my hair is not manageable. We were applying final makeup touches, the music so loud it muffled any outside noise, blanketing each new guest’s arrival. Soon, seven of us were crammed into the bedroom, taking up every inch of free space that wasn’t already occupied by the clutter of clothes, bags and vinyl records. The constant chatter and movement around me forced me to accept the current state of my appearance, leaving my arm free for Clara to grab it, turn it over and draw a single tally mark.
“We’ll see who ends up the drunkest,” she said as she let go of my arm and a sly smile formed on her lips.
She joined Leslie on the floor, helping her recreate Amy Winehouse’s iconic beehive hairstyle. Behind them, Jess was crouched over the vinyl stand, anxiously flipping through Pat’s wide selection of music, commenting on each album, while John and Kelly were sitting silently on the bed, arguing telepathically with each other. John’s eyebrows raised slightly as if to say, give it a try, while Kelly’s breathing deepened as she rolled her eyes, turning away, frustrated that she had lost this battle. She usually got what she wanted with him.
The insistent rain was still pouring outside Pat’s window. While lighter now, it was viciously waiting for us to go back out with an umbrella to protect us from its furiously cold razors. As we got ready to leave, its stretchers pulled and stretched, trying to regain the ability to shield, desperate to keep its job. From its stretchers hung the shredded canopy, like clothes ripped apart by wolves or dogs. As we filled the apartment complex hall, one by one, crowding the space one last time, it reached for us, trying to catch hold of our clothes, hair and bags, begging us not to leave it behind. It screamed and expanded and begged for us. We left the hall without it, and it held captive the glimpse of our shiny lipstick, the sound of our laughter and the echoes of heels clicking on the wooden floor as we walked by.
So as we marched through the streets of Milton-Parc, some under an umbrella’s protection and others brave enough to venture without it, Jess led the group with his long, confident stride, guiding left, right, right, left, then left again. John and Kelly were at the tail end, muttering to each other under their umbrella. I kept looking back, trying to catch their glance, but they always seemed to be looking right past me. The closer we got to the pub, the sounds of mud-covered boots stomping in puddles grew louder, like the Seven Dwarfs going home from work in Snow White.
Outside the pub’s door, different voices blended, bleeding through the entrance. Suddenly, as the bouncer checked our bags and IDs, Irish music vibrated through the wall. A band was playing the fiddle, acoustic guitar and drums, muffling the hubbub that previously occupied the space. Its soulful melody and rhythmic beat were banging on the door, summoning us inside. We squeezed our way inside, scouting for an empty table at the far end. Quickly, more of our friends flooded the place, stealing chairs left and right, squeezing around the table, each with a beer or two in hand. I don’t remember much of what was spoken, only the faint conversations here and there and the flash of my camera immortalizing the moment, immobile figures filling my memory card.
As time passed, the group disbanded. Some went home, others went to different parties with different friends, leaving four of us behind. A redhead, a blond and two brunettes walked into a bar…We went to Winner and sat at the bar, waiting for the bartender to notice us. We quickly recognized her, Effy, from her iconic baseball hat, which she always wore backward, and her self-assigned uniform — a sports bra and baggy jorts.
“Hey ladies,” she said as she approached us, walking slightly slouched with her arms hanging loosely at her sides. “ Happy Hallows Eve, or whatever the Scots say.”
“Effy, it’s been so long!”
“We haven’t seen you in at least a week,” I said, earning a giggle and side glance from Clara.
While we were ordering our drinks, Clara spotted five tally marks on my forearm and ordered three extra shots.
“Those are for you. You need to catch up to us,” she said right before tapping her phone on the card reader.
Six tally marks later, the bar was closing its doors, the bartenders ushering everyone outside. We drunkenly waved our favourite bartender goodbye, promising to see her very soon. She didn’t look thrilled. And so we joined the ruckus outside the bar and mingled in the crowd before departing towards home. Arm in arm, we followed the yellow path to Oz, which was filled with blurry faces and lights. I hadn’t realized it then; it had stopped raining, but potholes were still filled with water, and our boots still left prints behind. We walked the streets unconcerned about potential precipitation, having forgotten a time when we were consumed by its possibility.
We came back home, and it was still hanging upside down like a dead spider, watching us get inside. Our hair messy, our jackets unbuttoned, our makeup smudged. It captured this image and stored it deep within itself in case we were to forget. So we might make use of it again. The four of us, now lying in bed that night, in low candlelight, while the broken umbrella inched closer to the door from where it still hung, its nails scratching the wooden door like a cat, listening to the secrets we whispered. Remembering. It found solutions to the problems we vented about. Remembering. It collected our laughter. Remembering.
The next morning, we woke up to Clara, who had curled up into a ball on the floor, her lips blue and shivering. She was rocking back and forth, her thick, red hair tied into a loose bun, moving along with the soothing motion. Worry grew larger, filling the whole room that had once felt bigger. Suddenly, it felt like all our secrets and laughter were gone. In their place, worry, dread, and reality growled, threatening to take away the last bit of joy left. It was as if someone had stolen what we shared, out of spite, in the middle of the night. Out of jealousy. We didn’t know it was the culprit. Once Clara regained colour in her face, we knew it was time. We left that morning in clothes belonging to others, wearing makeup from the night before, faded Sharpie on our arms, and sweatpants tucked into our heeled boots. We walked to the depanneur, hoping to find anything to boost our energy. And as we waited outside for our Ubers, sitting on the curb, the grey sun shone odly on our faces, exposing us. As if it knew what we had lost that night, what was stolen from us. I waved the others goodbye as I jumped into my Uber, not once looking back.
So, the broken umbrella was forgotten, still hanging from the doorknob, still holding on to that day. Still holding on to a version of us we will never meet again.
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