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Lego trap

Powder and Pouts

The morning light filtered through the heavy curtains of the nursery, casting soft, golden streaks across the bear-themed wallpaper. I blinked my eyes, feeling a strange, heavy fog in my brain. My head felt fuzzy, and my thoughts were moving like they were stuck in molasses. For a split second, I remembered something about a car ride, a loud argument, and a shimmering metallic archway. I remembered being ten years old. I remembered my favorite sneakers and the way I liked my hair in a high ponytail.

But as I tried to hold onto those memories, they slipped through my fingers like sand. Everything felt too big. The ceiling was miles away, and the wooden bars of the crib looked like a fortress wall. I tried to sit up, but my body felt heavy and uncoordinated. I let out a soft whimper, and the sound of my own voice startled me. It was high, thin, and tiny.

"Emerson?" I croaked out.

From the crib next to mine, I heard a rustle of blankets and a soft, rhythmic thumping sound. I peered through the slats. Emerson was sitting up, or trying to. She was wearing yellow ducky pajamas that were far too small for the nine-year-old girl I knew. Her face was round and pink, her cheeks puffed out as she sucked her thumb vigorously.

"Emmaleena?" she squeaked, her voice muffled by her thumb. She pulled it out with a loud *pop*. "I feel... weird. My tummy hurts a little."

"I think we're babies," I said, the words feeling clumsy in my mouth. "Miss Mary... she did something."

Before we could say anything else, the door creaked open. The light from the hallway flooded in, and Miss Mary stepped inside. She wasn't wearing her usual cardigan anymore; instead, she had on a bright yellow apron with oversized pockets filled with bottles and tubes. She was smiling, but it wasn't a nice smile. It was the look of someone who had finally gotten exactly what they wanted.

"Good morning, my little angels!" she chirped, her voice booming in the quiet room. "Did we have a nice long nap? It’s time to start our first full day of summer break."

She walked over to Emerson’s crib first. Emerson tried to scramble to the corner, but her tiny limbs didn't obey her. Miss Mary reached down and scooped her up effortlessly.

"No! Put me down!" Emerson yelled, but it came out as a shrill, toddler scream. "I'm nine! I'm big!"

"Oh, listen to those big stories," Miss Mary laughed, booping Emerson on the nose. "You’re just a grumpy little three-year-old who needs a fresh start. You’re soaked through, sweetie. Let’s get you cleaned up."

I watched in horror as Miss Mary carried Emerson over to the changing table. It was a high, sturdy piece of furniture topped with a soft blue pad. Miss Mary laid her down and, with practiced efficiency, began unzipping the ducky onesie.

"Stop it! I can do it myself!" Emerson protested, kicking her legs. Her kicks were weak and ineffective against Miss Mary’s strong hands.

"Now, now, Emerson. Don't be a difficult baby," Miss Mary said firmly. She pulled the pajamas off, leaving Emerson shivering. Then, with a quick *rip-rip* of Velcro tabs, she removed the heavy, sodden diaper.

"I’m not a baby!" Emerson wailed, her face turning bright red.

Miss Mary ignored her, reaching for a container of wet wipes. "You certainly act like one. Look at this mess. Only a baby needs Miss Mary to clean them up, right?"

I sat in my crib, clutching the bars, my heart racing. I wanted to help her, to jump out and run for the door, but I was trapped. My legs felt like jelly, and the sheer height of the crib railing was intimidating. I was four. I was supposed to be the older one, the brave one, but I felt so small.

"There we go," Miss Mary said, tossing the dirty diaper into a lidded bin. "All clean. Now for some powder so you don't get a nasty rash."

She grabbed a large white bottle and shook a cloud of sweet-smelling white dust over Emerson’s lower half. Emerson coughed as the powder filled the air, her little hands swatting at the cloud. Miss Mary hummed a tuneless song as she expertly pinned a fresh, thick diaper around Emerson’s waist and snapped a new set of pajamas over her.

"All done! You’re such a good girl, Emerson," Miss Mary said, kissing her cheek before setting her down in a small, fenced-in playpen in the corner of the room.

Then, she turned her eyes toward me.

"Your turn, Emmaleena," she said, her voice dropping into that terrifyingly sweet tone.

I tried to hide under my blanket, but she reached in and snatched it away. Her hands were cold as she lifted me out of the crib. I felt the air hit my skin, and a wave of humiliation washed over me. I was ten! I shouldn't be carried like a sack of flour. I shouldn't be headed for a changing table.

"I can walk, Miss Mary," I tried to say firmly, but my voice wobbled. "I want my clothes from my gym bag. The big clothes."

"Those old things?" Miss Mary laughed as she laid me down on the cold plastic of the changing pad. "I already threw those away, darling. They were much too big for a little girl like you. You’d trip and hurt yourself."

She reached for the zipper of my kitten pajamas. I grabbed her wrists with my small, chubby hands, trying to hold the fabric together.

"No! Please!"

"Emmaleena, don't make me lose my patience," she warned, her eyes narrowing. "We had a deal. You and Emerson wanted to stay here, and this is how we live at Miss Mary’s house. Now, let go."

She easily pried my fingers away. It was the most helpless I had ever felt. One by one, my clothes were stripped away. First the fuzzy pajamas, then the heavy diaper beneath. I felt a cool breeze on my skin and realized with a jolt of pure panic that I was completely exposed. I was four years old, standing—well, lying—in the middle of a room, totally vulnerable.

"See? You're just a little thing," Miss Mary remarked, reaching for the baby powder. "Hard to believe you ever thought you were a 'ten-year-old.' That was just a silly dream, wasn't it?"

"It wasn't a dream," I whispered, tears stinging my eyes. "I remember my school. I remember my mom."

Miss Mary stopped, the powder bottle hovering over me. She leaned down until her face was just inches from mine. "The more you talk about those 'big girl' things, the longer you'll have to stay in the nursery today. Do you understand? Babies don't talk about school. Babies play with blocks and take naps."

She didn't wait for an answer. She tipped the bottle, and a heavy layer of white powder coated my skin. It felt silk-smooth and smelled like lilies, a scent that was starting to make my head swim. She rubbed the powder in with her palms, her touch firm.

"There," she said, satisfied. She reached for a fresh diaper. It was even thicker than the one I had been wearing before, covered in little pink bows. She lifted my legs by the ankles, and I felt the crinkle of the plastic as she settled me into it.

The tabs snapped shut with a definitive click. I felt like I was wearing a giant, fluffy pillow. It was impossible to move my legs properly; they were forced apart by the sheer bulk of the padding.

"Now, let's find you something pretty to wear," she mused, turning to a dresser filled with lace and ribbons.

She pulled out a white dress with a pink sash and matching ruffled bloomers. She dressed me as if I were a doll, pulling my arms through the sleeves and buttoning the back. She even brushed my hair, pulling it into two tiny pigtails secured with sparkly clips.

"A perfect little princess," she whispered.

She picked me up and carried me over to the playpen where Emerson was sitting. Emerson looked miserable. She was chewing on the ear of the stuffed rabbit, her eyes red-rimmed from crying. Miss Mary dropped me into the playpen beside her.

"I have to go make some breakfast," Miss Mary said, heading for the door. "I expect you two to play nicely. If I hear any more talk about being 'big,' there will be no applesauce with your oatmeal."

The door shut and the lock clicked.

We were alone. I looked at Emerson, and she looked at me. We both looked ridiculous—two girls who should have been at summer camp, now trapped in oversized diapers and baby clothes.

"Emmaleena," Emerson whispered, crawling over to me. Her movements were clumsy, and the crinkle of her diaper was loud in the quiet room. "We have to get out of here. My dad... he’s coming back in a month. We can’t be like this for a month."

"I know," I said, trying to sit up straight, but the ruffles of my dress kept getting caught. "But look at us. We can't even reach the door handle. And that machine... it did something to my head. I keep forgetting things. I almost forgot my teacher's name just now."

Emerson’s eyes went wide. "Me too. I tried to remember my phone number, but the numbers just... they went away. All I can think about is how hungry I am."

"That’s what she wants," I realized, a chill going down my spine. "She wants us to forget. If we forget who we are, we’ll really be her babies forever."

"We have to stay awake," Emerson said, nodding firmly. "And we have to keep talking. About real things. Like... like what grade are you going into?"

"Fifth," I said quickly. "And you're going into fourth. We go to the same school. The mascot is a tiger."

"Right. The tigers," Emerson repeated, her voice small. "And I have a dog. A golden retriever named Buster."

"Buster," I echoed. "And we like to go to the mall and get pretzels."

We sat there in the playpen, surrounded by soft blocks and rattling toys, desperately whispering facts about our real lives to each other. Every time the fog started to settle in—every time the urge to crawl or babble became too strong—we would pinch ourselves or describe a memory in detail.

About an hour later, the door opened again. Miss Mary was carrying two plastic bowls and two sippy cups.

"Breakfast time, my little chickadees!" she called out.

She sat down on the floor outside the playpen and reached in, lifting Emerson out first. She sat her in a high chair that seemed to have appeared out of nowhere. Then she did the same for me. The trays were snapped into place, locking us in.

"I can eat with a spoon," I said, looking at the bowl of mushy oatmeal.

"Of course you can try," Miss Mary said, handing me a small, rubber-tipped spoon.

I tried to grab it, but my coordination was shot. My hand shook, and the spoon felt heavy. I managed to scoop up a little bit of oatmeal, but half of it ended up on my chin.

"Oh, look at that mess," Miss Mary giggled, taking the spoon from my hand. "Here, let Miss Mary help you. Open wide for the airplane!"

She made a zooming sound with the spoon. I wanted to scream, to push it away, to tell her I wasn't a baby. But the smell of the warm cinnamon oatmeal was so inviting, and I was so hungry. Against my will, my mouth opened.

The oatmeal was sweet and creamy. As she fed us, Miss Mary kept talking in that high-pitched, cooing voice.

"You're going to have such a fun day. After breakfast, we’re going to work on our colors. And then, if you're both very good, we might go out in the backyard and play in the little pool. Wouldn't that be nice?"

Emerson reached for her sippy cup, her small hands fumbling with the handles. She took a long drink of the milk inside.

"Is it good, Emerson?" Miss Mary asked.

Emerson nodded slowly, her eyes looking a bit glazed. "Good milk," she whispered.

I felt a surge of panic. "Emerson! Remember Buster! Remember the tigers!"

Emerson blinked, her focus returning. "Buster," she said, louder this time. "Buster is my dog."

Miss Mary’s smile faltered for a second. She wiped my chin with a damp cloth, her movements a little rougher than before.

"It seems you girls still have a bit too much 'big girl' left in you," she muttered. "Don't worry. The milk will help with that. It’s got a special vitamin blend to help you grow... or rather, help you stay exactly as you are."

I looked down at my own sippy cup. It was filled with the same white liquid. I was thirsty, so thirsty, but I pushed the cup away.

"I'm not thirsty," I said.

"Drink your milk, Emmaleena," Miss Mary said, her voice turning cold. "You don't want to get dehydrated. That would make you very cranky, and we don't like cranky babies."

She picked up the cup and held it to my lips. I clamped my mouth shut, shaking my head.

"Drink. It."

She squeezed my cheeks gently, forcing my mouth open, and tilted the cup. I had no choice but to swallow. The milk tasted sweet, like vanilla, but as soon as it hit my stomach, the fog in my head doubled in thickness. The room seemed to tilt slightly. The colors of the bear wallpaper became more vivid, more fascinating. I found myself staring at a blue bear with a red hat, wondering why he was dancing.

"There," Miss Mary said, patting my head. "Isn't that better? Everything is so much simpler when you’re little."

She took us out of the high chairs and back to the playpen. This time, I didn't resist. I felt heavy and sleepy. I slumped down against the soft mesh wall, watching Emerson. She was already back to sucking her thumb, her eyes fixed on a spinning toy attached to the rail.

"Emerson," I whispered, but the name felt long and complicated. "Em... Emmy?"

She didn't look at me. She just reached out and batted at the toy, making it jingle.

I looked down at my hands. They were so small. I tried to remember the name of my school, but all I could think of was the word *Tiger*. Big kitty. Orange and black.

I felt a tear roll down my cheek, disappearing into the thick powder on my face. I was ten. I was ten and I was smart and I liked soccer. I repeated it over and over in my head like a prayer.

*I am ten. I am ten. I am ten.*

But as Miss Mary started to sing a lullaby from the other side of the room, the words started to lose their meaning. The "ten" became a "four," and the "four" felt safe. The "four" felt warm.

I reached out and grabbed a plush block, squeezing it tight. It was soft. I liked soft things.

Miss Mary walked over and peered into the playpen, her shadow falling over us. "That’s my girls," she whispered. "Just one day down. Twenty-nine more to go. By the time your father comes back, he won't even recognize you. And you... you won't even remember him."

She walked out, leaving the door cracked just a sliver. I lay there, listening to the sound of my own shallow breathing and the crinkle of my diaper every time I moved. I tried to stay awake, to keep the memories alive, but the lavender scent and the sweet milk were pulling me down into a deep, dreamless slumber.

The last thing I saw before my eyes closed was the pink bow on my own shoulder. It was pretty. I liked the pink bow.

And then, the ten-year-old girl named Emmaleena was gone, replaced by a sleepy four-year-old who just wanted her blanket.