Philippa Dowding - Firefly

ONE

W hatll it be, Fifi?

Its Firefly. I say this slowly.

Formerly Fifi, I add, to be kind.

There are pancakes on the stove. Real pancakes. Aunt Gayle waves the spatula in the air.

Spatula. Weird word.

Sorry. Whatll it be, Firefly? Syrup or jam on your pancakes? Aunt Gayle dumps a plate of pancakes in front of me, and my mouth waters. Hard. I clamp my lips shut.

I am not a dog.

But really, when was the last time I had pancakes?

Can I have both? Aunt Gayle opens the fridge door and pulls out two bottles, maple syrup and strawberry jam, and plunks them on the table in front of me.

I swallow. I pour syrup and spoon out jam. I hope she doesnt notice my hand shaking.

I eat.

Aunt Gayle sits across the table, lights a cigarette, takes a deep drag. Watches me, squinting through the smoke.

I slow down. Close my eyes. Chew.

Food.

I open my eyes. A last ray of October early-evening light pierces through the kitchen window and lands on my plate of pancakes. It lights my hands, falls across my face. Like a sign. Aunt Gayle takes another long drag of her cigarette and looks at me.

I chew. I swallow. I dont eat like a dog, although I could.

Hungry, huh? she says in a careful way. I shrug, nod, notice a full glass of orange juice in front of me, and drain it in one long chug. I draw the back of my hand across my mouth.

ORANGE JUICE. I cant remember the last time I had all I wanted of that, either. The case workers and therapists at the Jennie Smillie Robertson Womens Center (but everyone just calls it Jennies) kept the orange juice locked in the fridge, along with the methadone.

I reach for the carton and pour another glass.

This one, I sip.

I cant possibly answer her question. Hungry? Thats not really the word. Empty. Diminished. Shriveled. Distorted. I finally settle on Dangerous. Im dangerous with hunger. Aunt Gayle sits patiently, her cigarette burning slowly, smoke unwavering, straight up to the ceiling. Thats how still she sits.

No questions yet. I guess thatll come.

I finish my plate of pancakes and try not to belch. Something reminds me that it isnt particularly polite to belch after you eat, although no one has told me that for a while. When its clear Ive finished, my aunt stubs out her cigarette, leaves the kitchen, and heads out into the darkness of the shop.

I hear industrial lights buzz to life in the shop ceiling.

Come on, Ill show you your room. Its upstairs in the apartment, she says. Do you want me to carry that? she asks, pointing to the garbage bag of clean clothes at my feet, courtesy of Jennies. I grab it, clutch it to me.

No, thats okay, I say. Its my garbage bag full of clean clothes, thank you Aunt Gayle. I follow my aunt out of the kitchen.

We step into The Corseted Lady.

Its one of Canadas oldest film costume shops, but its a warehouse. Not a little shop. It has two stories of costumes, floor to ceiling. The stupid social worker kept babbling on about it in the car on the way over: seven million pieces, established in 1984, costumers to the stars.

It is impressive, though. I shuffle after my aunt, and take quick looks at the costumes in racks, all around me.

Bright orange, handmade signs hang at the end of every rack.

We swing past the first row of costumes.

Police Uniforms, 20th Century.

Motorcycle Cop Boots, Sizes 812.

19th Century Smoking Jackets.

Victorian Era, Girls Clothes.

Womens Bloomers, 1920.

Clowns & Harlequins, 18th Century Players.

Dickens Era, Flower Girls & Street Urchins, 1880s.

I look away.

Aunt Gayle leads me up a set of old wooden stairs to the second floor.

Is this is this where you live? Its kind of weird to say goodbye to the kitchen, then walk through racks and racks of clothes to head upstairs to an apartment. What is this place?

Aunt Gayle nods. I know, its a little strange until you get used to it. The whole building is the costume shop.The kitchen is downstairs but the apartment is up here on the second floor. It was once a horse stables and carriage turnaround, so its a bit eccentric.

At the top of the stairs, I have to stop.

The second floor is just wall-to-wall costumes.

Do you remember this place, Firefly? she asks as she leads me through the racks of costumes. Seven million pieces really is a lot. Costumes vanish in the distance, all the way to the windows on the far wall of the warehouse.

Not really. Well, barely. Im really not sure if I do or I dont.

Wedding Dresses, 1930s.

Wedding Dresses, 1940s.

Party Dresses, (Cocktail & Formal), 1950s.

The apartment is back here. We stop at a heavy, old, wooden door, and Aunt Gayle pushes it open. More lights buzz on.

And we step into a large, bright apartment. The walls are brick, and Aunt Gayle has art, very interesting art, hanging all over. At the far end is a living room with a gas fireplace, chunky chairs, and floor-to-ceiling windows looking over the neighborhood. Closer, theres a bathroom and three shut doors in a narrow hall.

Heres your room, Aunt Gayle says, pushing open the first door. Its the guest room. Or it was. She looks at me, awkward for a moment.