SUZY Q.

SUZY Q.

 I lived in the house for thirty years, raised seven children in it, and lost my husband in it. But now it was time to say goodbye. A lonely retired widow doesn't need an eight-bedroom house anymore. It was time to downsize and so it was also time to pack. I left the bedroom to the end, it was hard to say goodbye to the house  There was a lump in my throat as I stood in the bedroom doorway.

The closets hadn't been cleaned out in years,  and it was a walk down memory lane with every outfit I pulled out. The dress I wore at my oldest daughter's wedding, then the next daughter’s wedding, then the next. The purple skirt and suit jacket that I bought in the eighties and hadn’t worn since. The eighties! I checked each pocket of every outfit and ended up with eighty-five dollars. I had a habit of tucking money away and forgetting about it, I got a footstool from the corner of the room and carefully stood on it to reach the top shelf; holding on to the door frame with one hand I gingerly reached up and firmly took hold of a small unlabeled box.  My organizational skills were very late in developing.

I climbed off the stool and carried the box over to the bed and sat down, heights, even on a tiny step stool always gave me a strange feeling. Opening the box I discovered a plastic bag, opening the bag and untieing the knot I discovered another plastic bag tied with a knot. When the final knot had been valiantly conquered I pulled back the bag to reveal my favourite childhood toy.

I was never that interested in dolls, I remember my Debbie doll, a cheap, pre-version of Barbie, not as tall or statuesque as Barbie, not blond or busty. Then there was my doll Heather. If I bounced her head on the floor her head squeaked, much to the dismay of my older sister who took great care of her dolls and toys.

 But this toy, this precious double-wrapped toy, wasn’t a doll, it was my monkey and her name was Suzy Q. Suzy Q. and I had been through a lot. She had been a faithful friend throughout my life and now she had been relegated to a box for the past thirty years.

 I closed my eyes, held her tight, and remembered.

She wasn't the original monkey I had growing up as a child, the original had gone with me on a family vacation when I was five. We had taken a road trip from Toronto to Florida and she had been left at a park in Sarasota; we were well into our return trip when I realized Suzy Q had not gotten into the car with us. I informed my father that we needed to go back for her. He told me that it was too late, and we couldn't go back. A few minutes later he signaled and pulled over off the highway, had he changed his mind, were going back for her?  But no he was just pulling over to get gas,

I missed her, missed her like crazy,

I vividly remember  Christmas that year, running down the hall and seeing my monkey sitting under the Christmas tree. “Oh look,” said my mum and dad, “she walked all the way from Florida and that is why it took her so many months to get here.”

I wanted to believe it, I really did. But I knew, down deep in my heart that it wasn't my Suzy Q. She looked the same, but there were differences The original Suzy Q. had come with two bells at her waist but over time and with lots of loving and hugs, her bells had become lost. This Suzy Q, not the predecessor, had new bells. I knew it wasn't her, I tried to believe it, I know it made my parents happy to think that Suzy Q. had walked all the way from Florida but I knew.

I came to love the new Suzy Q.  I loved her as much or more than her predecessor. She comforted me at night when at seven I lost my mum to cancer. She became worn, and the bells once again fell off. I pined them back on with safety pins, but before long the bells were gone and only the safety pins remained. Her once soft “fur” became worn her tail became numbly, and her once painted face became worn away by a young girl's tears.

There came a day when my toys were packed up and given away, The Debbie Doll, the big doll Heather with her squeaky head, and the black blow-up animal that I called Hug a Bug; they were all packed in boxes and given away without a glimpse of regret, but not Suzy Q., not Monk Monk as my father called her. She stayed on my bed and then when I was older I tucked her under my pillow so my friends wouldn’t see her. Finally, when I was an adult, she entered a box and lay there waiting… just waiting.

There were times when she came out, of course, days when my own children were sick and home from school. On days when they had fevers, I would reach up high and pull down the box, and Suzy Q, would comfort them. She was always good at giving comfort.  With their recovery, Suzy Q. would go back in the box until the next child needed to be comforted. 

It's been many years now since I had one of my children tucked snuggly in my big bed and comforted by a scruffy little monkey with safety pins where the bells should be. But as I held that shabby little monkey amidst a pile of clothes in half-filled packing boxes and on the verge of saying goodbye to my beloved house, that silly little monkey that I held close to my heart; once again gave me the comfort I needed.