Blankie: A Tragedy

How I discovered loneliness

“That thing is filthy,” Dee said, pointing to the tattered satin blanket that hung off the arm of a wooden captain’s chair by the pool. “I’m going to wash it.”

Blankie had been dozing there in the sun, but “wash” was a word so alarming that they cracked open one pink rosebud satin eye to take a look around. They had seen what “washing” had done to other linens. They left Pia’s room full of themselves and came back empty, reset, and wiped clean of their smells and their memories.

The next thing Blankie knew, Dee’s warm but very business-like hands had pulled them up and shook them out. They were being examined from top to toe and side to side.

“I don’t think she’ll like that mom, she’s never let me wash it at home,” said Denise, Pia’s mother, to her mother. “You know how attached she is to it.”

Pia at 11 months with Blankie.

“Oh hell, it’s filthy, it’s got to be cleaned.”

The cracked pavement moved quickly under Blankie as Dee carried them past the big brick barbecue where they still detected the charcoal smoke they had absorbed when Pia was lifted up by her grandfather above a sea of chicken breasts cooking on the grill. Blankie logged the oils from Dee’s olive-skinned hand, then recorded the peppery scent of a bushy red geranium they brushed against. Blankie stored the essence of each of these encounters in their archive of aromas as they entered the shadows of the garage.

Dee pulled a string overhead and the light revealed a washer and dryer nestled together in between a hot water heater and a stand up freezer. She set Blankie on top of the dryer, then lifted the white enamel lid of the washing machine, and began turning dials.

NO!

Blankie screamed and stiffened to try to resist as Dee grabbed them and shoved them into the dark of the metal drum.

Blankie was frightened. This must be it. What would happen to them? Would they remember anything they had touched or that had touched them?

Cold water rushed in and grabbed at Blankie’s low points, pulling them down, down, down, deeper into the barrel.

What about Pia? Every trace of her skin, oils, tears, pee, and scent would be obliterated! Blankie couldn’t remember when they were new and empty and Pia first filled them with smells and memories, they had always been together. What would Blankie be without her? What would Pia be without Blankie?

Blankie fought to keep their last corner dry, making a final grasp at the smooth sides to try to save the annals of Pia. Then they were submerged in a slightly-perfumed water that had no soul. The world began to spin and they were lost in agitation.

* * *

“There,” Dee said, closing the lid on the small load, cold water, low spin, delicate cycle.

She thought how her mother Pia would roll over in her grave to see her great-granddaughter, her namesake, running around with such a filthy blanket. Cleanliness was not a question, it showed agency and pride in oneself. For her immigrant mother it was a matter of dignity. It was bad enough that Denise had let the girl get so attached to it. She was four! Old enough to leave her blanket at home where it belonged. But she still brought it everywhere: here, to her friends’ houses, even to school! Denise had almost gotten killed rescuing the damn thing from the freeway when it flew out the car window a few weeks ago. Dee shook her head at the younger generation, righteous in her conviction that cleanliness equaled love.

“When it’s washed, I’ll dry it in the sun and then I’ll mend it for her.”

* * *

“Where’s Blankie?” I asked my mom, leaning against her chair as I watched chlorine-perfumed water drip from my wet hair onto her tan thigh. I had forgotten to bring Blankie down to the barn when uncle Dan offered to saddle up the horse for me and my younger cousins to ride. Later, I had raced them back to the house and I was the first one to jump in the pool! Now I was ready to lay on the warm cement with Blankie.

“Here’s your blankie, all nice and clean,” Dee appeared smiling, holding something blazing white. “I washed her and sewed all the little tears. She’s good as new.”

Dee handed me a bright, slightly-damp blanket. It felt lifeless in my hands.

“This isn’t Blankie,” I said.

I sniffed. I froze.

Laundry soap! Blankie’s umami scent of sweat-dog-cat-pee-snot-tears-rabbit-spit-soil-dirtytshirts-warmsheets-salivadriedonfingers-beach-hay-grass-dust-fog-sunlight-armpit-neck-ear-cheek-cuddle-hugs was gone. Every feeling, every adventure, every place we had shared together had been erased with Blankie’s bouquet.

Pia (age 3) with Blankie (now cut into smaller pieces by my mom to avoid my hysteria if they were left behind somewhere).

Blankie was gone.

GONE.

I was outside of myself, then turned inside out. There was no Blankie to cover me.

“Blankie, Blankie, Blankie,” I sobbed and wrapped myself around the black pole that held up the corner of the patio shade. I spun around the warm smooth metal, trying to unwind and undo what had happened. This was my fault.

“I’m so sorry I left you Blankie!” I whimpered into the blank blankie.

“Oh, for heaven’s sake, I only cleaned it. It was SO dirty! Now you have a nice clean blanket,” Dee said to me.

“NOoooo! YOU killed BLANKIE! I HATE YOU!”

“You don’t talk to me like that missie or I’ll swat you!”

I ran to the garden, dragging blankie through the hot pebbles of tiny gravel that lined the path through Dee’s flower beds. Maybe we could start over, collect the right mix of odors, and build a new life together.

“It’s OK Blankie, I’m here. I promise I’ll never leave you again. I’ll never trust them again!”

Blankie was limp in my dusty fingernails. Blankie didn’t know me anymore. The record of our fragrant life had dissolved. My companion, my protector, my umbilical best friend was no more. This was nothing but an old satin blanket. For the first time, I realized I was alone.