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The Child Behind the Curtain
As a child, I often hid behind the curtains. I would sit on the floor hug my legs, and rest my head on my knees. I did not want to be found. The outside world overwhelmed me. My parents’ shouting, street children’s gaze, school, that immense and scary place. At times, I carried my doll Manuela with me to our secret hideaway. I would cradle her in my arms and whisper words of comfort in a language only she and I spoke. I still recall the colour of the curtain, old rose, and the dusty scent in its folds. I also recall my mother’s fury every time she found us.
“Sal de allí!” Come out of there! she yelled.
“Shhh! you are going to wake up Manuela,” I’d say, to stop her from raising her voice.
“Stop this nonsense, there’s no Manuela”, she’d respond.
Manuela had a secret gift, she was only visible to me.
Many years later, my mother and I were observing my five-year old daughter play with her dolls and we remembered Manuela. My mother said she had become increasingly worried about my obsession with an imaginary friend. Apparently, no day went by without me taking care of Manuela. However engaged I was in an activity, I always had Manuela in my mind.
My mother came up with a strategy. One day, while we were having dinner, I said, “I’ll be right back, Manuela is crying!” and I…
