Gemotions

The chipped porcelain cat on the shelf leered, its painted eyes somehow accusing. Clara ran a hand over it, feeling a phantom ache in her own jaw from the many times she’d been forced to smile for her mother. The yard sale was a wasteland of forgotten things, a testament to broken promises and faded dreams. Then, tucked beneath a pile of stained baby clothes, she saw him. Barnaby. His button eye was missing, a tuft of stuffing peeked from his ear, and his once-velvety fur was matted and thin. A wave of ice crashed against her ribs.

"How much for the bear?" she asked, her voice tight, a stranger’s voice. The woman, a sun-weathered creature with a floral dress pulled tight across her belly, squinted at her.

"Five dollars," she said, her smile brittle, like the porcelain cat. Clara fished the money from her purse, her fingers clumsy. She didn’t even look at the woman as she took the bear, the soft, familiar weight a heavy anchor in her hands. The moment she was safely in her car, she shoved him into the trunk, slammed it shut, and drove.