Three distinct timelines constitute the entirety of my life thus far—the innocent childhood, the interim fracture, and the beloved “the hurricane is gone, time to rebuild.”
A 1970s Barbie DreamHouse defined my 90s childhood. The dreamhouse was not a contemporary dreamhouse that other children my age had. It was not made to mirror the 70’s—a decade we all faked knowledge of—it was birthed in the generation of tie-dyed ponchos, perms, and disco. The dreamhouse was a cardboard and plastic hybrid that folded into itself like a briefcase, allowing one to transport it anywhere.
For me, the dreamhouse stayed in one place: the corner of my room, a safe haven positioned behind my desk. The dreamhouse remained open, propped at an obtuse angle to keep its balance. This dreamhouse version echoed the décor and setup of a dingy, half-forgotten motel room. On the right side, two blue-dyed twin beds could be unsnapped and brought down parallel to the floor. The walls were a bold pink. The left side of the dreamhouse was stickered with wallpaper with a second-layered sticker of a couch. The color of the couch eludes me, though my sub-conscious is screaming that it was blue-striped. However, a blue-striped couch sat in the living room of my childhood home, causing me to suspect that my brain circuits are interposing pictures of my childhood home and the dreamhouse.
My part-time father always elected to sit in a red cotton recliner, positioned next to the blue-and-white striped couch that my brother and I occupied. It was the couch that comforted me when I was sick. It, thankfully, never imprinted the shape of my body no matter how many hours I sat watching television or reading. The couch was just a couch, but it witnessed the screaming matches. The tantrums. The “go to your room, I’m getting the belt” threats (which ended in me sprinting upstairs and padding myself with fifteen pairs of underwear). It was in these moments—post-spanking, post-fights, post-words exchanged that could never be taken back— that I found myself back in front of the dreamhouse, Barbie in tow.
The dreamhouse was a hand-me-down from my mom’s childhood. A toy I knew would one day be mine, I just had to wait until I was older. Finally, when I was seven, my mom gave me the dreamhouse. It became an escape. Despite the wear-and-tear and the way the top right corner sagged, it seemed sturdier than the structure that housed me. I promised Barbie and her friends a lifetime of cherished memories. There were sleepovers, parties that served unlimited cookies and milk, I kept them up past nine on school nights. It was here, crouched next to this dreamhouse, that I envisioned a happier life for Barbie and her friends. Each one had a backstory, a purpose for finding this dreamhouse, and each had a reason for staying. I could protect them, and I would. I could fantasize a million dreams for them, and I did. The striped couch was the only reminder of the world that existed outside my room.
The top of the stairs hid me from the commotion below in the living room. I peered over the half-wall that separated the game room from overlooking the stairs and subsequently the living room. My father’s face was red; his voice filled the open concept of the house. My little brother was curled up in the corner of the couch attempting to hide from the wrath that crashed around him. That was the night I told my father to stop yelling. It was the night I told him I would not go to my room to be spanked. It was the night I was chased out of the house and down the street. The night I thought about not returning. The night I knew I had to go back—for my brother and for Barbie.
Barbie had been waiting, lounged on the blue twin bed, but instead I found myself sitting underneath my desk. I reached up and touched the tiny notes scribbled on the white paint. Notes of things my dad had screamed, scratches of how I felt, pleads for my mom to be happy. Barbie called me back to the dream, back to the illusion. It was then I slammed the dreamhouse shut and clasped the lock before I shoved it under my bed.
Dreamless days passed in silence. I opened the dreamhouse a week later. One of Barbie’s beds had ripped off and now plopped down to the floor. The dreamhouse, now a shell of what it once was. The love and years of wear-and-tear culminated to this moment. It had been the dream of a house filled with love and laughter, and a house like that would never last.
∞
Emily Garrett is currently studying for her MA in creative writing at Stephen F. Austin State University in Nacogdoches, TX, where she currently resides.
Follow Emily on Instagram @emily.garrett11
