Local Paladin of Arachne Restores a Bear

A little over a year ago, I met Jae (not their real name) at a casual outdoor market. Their face lit up when they saw the doll formerly known as Wynter Doublemint, who they renamed Grace. Grace and my own doll, Zoomie, have had little adventures together. And when the time came for us to restore Teddy, Jae’s childhood bear, Grace came along.

Grace (right) with Zoomie (center) and Lesbun (left).

One of the most important things about restoring Teddy was keeping as much of his original body as possible. He needed new stuffing, and was in pretty rough shape. Teddy had belonged to Jae’s mother, and was passed along when Jae was just in double digits. Jae has now had Teddy for 30 years. At minimum, Teddy is 50 years old; at his oldest, he could be 70.

Needless to say, I was honored to take on the task, and also deeply intimidated. But Jae’s faith in me and support from V’s made the challenge gratifying.

The first order of business was getting the little man clean.

Teddy in his first bath.

It would take eleven washes and thirteen hours to get Teddy clean. But eventually, the water ran clear.

While he was bathing, it was time to make him a heart. We’d reserved a little bit of his old stuffing, and made a little heart-shaped pouch from a quilting square.

We dried him out flat in front of a gentle heater. Then, it was time for new stuffing for the rest of him. I had been nervous about this stage of the process, in large part because I was hesitant to make the incisions necessary. I was pleasantly surprised at Teddy having held up so well through so many baths, and at how strong his original fabric and stitching were. He had been through a lot worse, and he was going to be just fine.

The stuffing that had remained in his limbs had collected at the paws. Before washing, I had slightly expanded existing tears in the fabric in order to remove the old stuffing (you can see them in the bath pictures at the edges of the arms and legs). His head was, to put it bluntly, only half attached, and the front of his neck was entirely open at this point. He had come in with two large tears in the neck, one of which was covered with a patch Jae didn’t like. So, we removed the patch, and to get the rest of the stuffing out, removed the connective fabric between the two tears. It allowed for the old stuffing to come out of two areas, the torso and the head, with technically only one opening.

It was time for Teddy’s skin graft.

It was essential that Teddy keep as much of his shape as possible. The neck does a lot for a plushie, and depending on its construction, can make or break a silhouette. I did a basic running stitch around the opening with a sewing needle, and worked the oval closed with some caramel-colored yarn, a moss stitch, and a 3mm hook. This was the first part of the crochet element of the restoration. There would be much more to come.

He was already clean, and so much softer than he had been. His tummy was fat, and his remaining fur was fluffy. But, as you can see, there was very little of that fur left. Jae had thought of a solution. What if we made him his own little teddy bear onesie? But the ears needed to be intact— emotionally, they’re a very important part of Teddy, so we had to make sure they were kept.

We started with this cute little hood. Teddy seemed to like it just fine, so we slowly added on until he had a whole new outfit.

He was so fluffy! And I couldn’t have been prouder to send him back to his loving home with Grace and Jae. It was a fulfilling experience to restore him and even more so to see the look on Jae’s face when they came to get him. I was afraid I wouldn’t be satisfied. I needn’t have been.

weirdfiction.catch

An overhead shot fading in from black shows a rolling vista of verdant hills covered in evergreen trees. Subtitles in bold white text, their kerning marked by the faintest shadow of an outline, appear on the lower third of your screen, as though they were always meant to be there but arrived almost too late for their cue. They read, "If you have any questions, call or visit us online." There is neither a website nor phone number on the screen. You have many questions. And though compelled to find their answers, you know a dead end when you see one.

Your refrigerator hums, and the coolant in its tubes revs, pumping its machine blood and regulating its insides. You remove a pitcher from its lower chamber and pour your own coolant as though moving through water. Your movements are leaden, joints like boulders. Coolant. Excess has made it into your nose as you prepare your internal void. No matter. Most of it has been properly deposited down the correct tunnel. 

The boulders shed a little of their weight. An arm swings and it does not immediately drain you. The recent cut across your ribs is not so forgiving. Your shirt is smudged with blood. You curse softly and apply a hand's worth of pressure. Even slight tasks are often monumental to a recovering body.

A sound across the street drifts past your ears. Today the people in the alleyway are shouting. You hope that their diplomacy will overrule the fact that they, like you, can smell blood. Their eyes are wild, the unrelenting sun bearing down ever warmer and discomforting every moment they exist within its radiation. A thick arm extends from one side, hand grasped around an oblong, spiked fruit, and, with a sound like rusted cutlery and dust, chucks it into the air. Another arm almost lazily snakes its way into position and catches the odd fruit with ease. You wonder what the vision means, and the strange limbs fade into the textures of the walls around them. You need not have worried. When the delivery worker knocks at your door, you know that everything is as it should be.

You have to open the box slowly, laboriously, to keep your wound from reopening any further. You cut the packing tape with your oyster shell knife. You miss your scissors very much. But they weren't welcome here, and when given the choice between a new home, free of charge, and living in a town that allows scissors, you chose the former. Amid a puddle of packing peanuts, which you munch absentmindedly as you unpack, you find another box. It is heavier, a glazed earthenware chest just large enough to span your palm. A single hinge attaches a lid, etched with writing that you are not at liberty to translate, but which you immediately understand. Its significance begins to set in, a tight sensation in your throat, and a muddy speechlessness. You know better than to open this box. It has already taken your voice for the moment. You may regenerate it later. Then again, you may not. 

Sliding the curse box into the padded pocket of your cargo trousers, you rise to stand up and move toward your window. Do not forget your key. It can only lock the room from the inside, and you wish to maintain your residence's security. You push the screen out of the window, followed one by one by your heavy limbs. Slowly, now. Easy does it. Your wound protests. A hand and some gentle pressure quiet it. The fire escape stairs take your weight with a groan. They are not immune to the effects of the weather, and neither are you. Your inner garments are soaked by the time you make it to the bus stop. 

The wind begins to pick up. The relief of its breeze across your face is nearly overwhelming as your entire form grasps at the chance to cool itself. You breathe, as the whole neighborhood breathes. 

You pass through a cloud of shrieking brakes, soft utterances of "excuse me," and "thank you," and "I hope the rest of your day is beautiful," knowing in all likelihood it will not be, but hoping nonetheless. Your face mask sticks to your lips, but only briefly, when you gasp at a sudden and unplanned stop of the metal isopod carrying your physical form across town. A screeching void enters the vehicle, scanning a discounted bus pass and changing form with some minor chromatic aberration so as to fit into two seats. You had expected for it to use at least four, and take a moment to appreciate its consideration. 

There is a brief uphill walk from the bus stop to your destination. It does not bother you. Normally, uphill journeys bother you, especially after that experience with a former romantic companion escorting you home at the end of a day together ended with the memory of their tear-stained face being the last image of them you'd ever see. Today is different. The box does not bounce against your leg, regardless of your gait or pace. You can feel it trying to become part of you. You must continue to refuse it. 

There is plenty of foliage to cover your desired point of entry to the hospital grounds. You bury the box under a pile of rotting leaves and shed carapaces of local wildlife. It will only take a few hours to decompose, and your mother cannot move that fast. She hasn't been able to move that fast in a long time. 

Your eyes are burdened with iron eyelashes, a steel brow. You continue to refuse it. You press your foot onto the pile, and feel the box crack beneath your weight. Something spills out of it, but it does not touch you. It cannot anymore. You continue to refuse it. The something floods into the rotten leaves, fills empty shells and shed skins, fills all the gaps. You are not a gap. You continue to refuse it. 

You are home. It is not your apartment. It is not your parents' house. It might be your cousins' house, or your grandparents'. It might be parts of each. The offices where the patriarchs work and are not to be disturbed, while they leave their doors open to disturbance. You look under their mousepads. Sometimes they leave a note, or a coin. You do not read them, and you do not take them. You know better than that. You are home. You are not home. Your chest is tight not from your mother's allergies but from your father's fear. You feel every component of your composite identity screaming to create and to exist and to cry havoc and to survive. You are not what you were. You never could be. Yet still you exist. You are in your apartment. You are home. You are not home. You never can be again. You stare into your radio. You must continue to refuse it. You must and yet it creeps into you again and again. You must continue to refuse it. 

You choose to refuse it. You are not home, but you are back in your apartment, its uncomfortable humidity familiar enough to bring your mind and body back together, if only for a moment. You continue to refuse it. The box is gone. The house is gone. It takes some time every time. The box took your words but you took the victory. It hurt, certainly. But you returned to yourself still yourself. The delivery worker will return. It is not their fault. It is not your fault. There is food in your cabinets. You do not recall a grocery run. You put a numbers station broadcast on your inexpensive art tablet. You fall asleep on your couch in honor of yourself.