chips

by Hil Schmidt

I don’t remember when he came into my life. He was just always there, ever since I had a conscious memory. I was told that he was given to me by my grandmother for my birthday. I presumably named him Chips because his short fur is the dark shade of cocoa. My mother claims that I gained inspiration from the fistful of chocolate chips I had stolen from the kitchen that day as my grandmother was baking cookies. “They were melting faster than you could eat them,” is a phrase my mom loved to repeat when she told the story.

In fact, my mother has a plethora of stories related to him. Like the time we were on our way to the beach for a weeklong vacation and I didn’t realize until after we had been on the highway for 30 minutes that I had left poor Chips at home. According to my parents, the tantrum that ensued was unbearable, and they inevitably had to drive back home for fear of permanently damaging their hearing due to my earsplitting screams. They sped quickly home so I could hop out of the car and retrieve Chips before we left again. I, conveniently, don’t remember this event.

I’m not sure what it was that made me so attached to him. Maybe it was the way his plump body compressed so easily when I hugged him tight. Or maybe it was how his head seemed to nestle perfectly into the curve between my neck and shoulder. Or maybe it was the particular personality I had imagined for him. Chips took on the air of a distinguished, well-put together gentleman, since my dad breathed life into him with a mature and professional voice that required a slightly puffed out chest. At times like these, he went by “Mr. Chips.”

Unfortunately, an emotional attachment to a stuffed bear is less socially acceptable once you’re no longer a toddler. While I might not remember all of my parents’ stories, I can vividly recall the first time I was teased for having brought Chips with me to a sleepover party. The embarrassment pressed on my chest, and the uncomfortable feeling only grew when the guilt of casting him to the side was added to the weight. For the remainder of the sleepover, he rested in my overnight bag, and I dared not let even a soft brown ear peak out. Once I returned home, I ran to my room and closed the door so I could apologize to him, an apology which he accepted with grace and understanding.

Though he became less of a priority on a daily basis as I matured, he has always been important to me. He was no longer just “my favorite bear,” but more of a trustworthy companion. While I had a large family of plushies, I could only sleep comfortably with my arms wrapped around his soft, rotund body. But that wasn’t just for my benefit. I always tried to return the simple comforts that he so often brought me. For example, on mornings when passing neighbors were particularly lively, I made sure to cover his ears when loud cars or neighbors passed the apartment window as we both tried to sleep.

Even in adulthood, he travelled with me each time I moved. When I packed my bags and moved to a foreign country across the world for work, I never questioned whether Chips would join me or not. He accompanied me on the flight in a vacuum sealed bag in my carry-on, as checked bags run the risk of being misplaced – however low that risk may be. I apologized to him for the cramped quarters, and he took it well, though I imagine the 13-hour flight was still a difficult one. Now, so far from home, with no human family in the same time zone, he makes me feel not only at ease but also safe, as one of the very few physical relics from my old life. The only similar emotion of familiarity comes when I eat snacks lovingly sent from my parents. The flavors in my mouth are fleeting, while Chips’ existence persists.

I know we’re both facing new challenges in this foreign place. There are simple things that I’m sure we each previously took for granted. Chips was accustomed to having an abundance of other stuffed friends with him all day and, now, suddenly found himself alone. I was used to blasting music in my room after work to decompress, but I am currently forced to use headphones (after receiving a noise complaint from my neighbor). I haven’t discovered a resolution to my problem, but I did find one for Chips in the form of a plush otter that I named Mochi.

But I have a thought that lately I just can’t seem to get out of my head: something about Chips feels more haggard. He had seemed to be unchanged for the past 30-or-so years, aside from the slight discoloration where I accidentally spilled juice on his bum when I was little. But suddenly his fur looks stragglier, and even his eyes more wary. Maybe the long journey stuck in a plastic bag was too much for him. It had been tough on my body, and we’re similar in age after all.

The struggles of my current situation have given me a newfound appreciation for my stuffed bear. At night I hold him tight to share my love and gratitude with him. The transition has been hard on us both, but I try to make sure he’s happy, just as he has done for me all my life.

_______________

She was an adorable child, though a sensitive one to be quite frank. She seemed to consider me to be a sophisticated creature, and I believe I filled that role with ease. Afterall, it is rather effortless to exude an air of maturity when your subject is a five-year-old. Even with this somewhat forced personality, I began to smoothly embody the refined but lovable companion that she not only yearned for but also required. I chuckled at the spills on my fur and let the tears sink into my stuffing when she didn’t get her way. I was there for her, unwaveringly. I never grew weary of her tantrums, no matter how trivial they might have seemed to a more developed mind. I was very much aware and understanding of the idea that for a child, even the smallest of matters can seem absolutely catastrophic. Despite her immature attitude, I possessed nothing but love for her, as she unquestioningly did for me.

As the years passed, I got the sense that she began to characterize me less as an older, wiser being, and more as a loveable bear. I don’t necessarily reject this description. It would be incorrect and veritably insensitive to do so. However, I do fear that our relationship has taken up an air of simplicity – at least from her vantage point. My theory is that she has lost crucial recollections from her younger years; all of the breakdowns I had to endure, the tea parties in which I had to participate. I’ve heard that humans’ memories of childhood are easily lost or warped. Poor creatures.

I, on the other hand, forget nothing. I can replay in my head upon command memories which I frequently revisit with all of my free time. Perhaps it is due to this ability that I can confidently say I know her inside and out. Possibly better than she does. I can surmise how she feels in an instant, with a deeper sense than the two-tone “happy” or “sad”. I can distinguish if she’s stressed, anxious, or

simply lost in thought just by the manner in which she unloads her bags at the door upon her arrival to the apartment after work.

Prior to our relocation to this new land, she had a dependable routine after work, a routine that she shared with me. She had dinner in her bedroom so as not to bother her roommates. After dinner, she would snuggle up in bed and watch the news on her laptop, which she rested unsteadily on her bent knees. I was always close, usually residing comfortably between her and the wall at the side of the bed. If she wasn’t watching videos on her computer, she had music or a podcast playing – she has never been a fan of silence. Be it while she folded laundry, cleaned, or scoured the internet, she always had something to fill her ears. All these things she shared with me. She knows how important this time was to me, not to mention the necessity of staying informed.

These regular parts of my day were suddenly ripped away from me, with no explanation. Now, she spends a large portion of her time with headphones shoved in her ears, as if purposefully keeping me in silence. While our music tastes don’t completely coincide, they do overlap, and I would be amiss if I said I didn’t occasionally yearn for the lyrical alternative music she sometimes fancied. Even worse, I am suddenly in the dark on current events. I am fully aware that she still consumes her news videos because I catch glimpses of her phone screen as she roams around the apartment.

 I don’t know if she’s attempting to protect me from unfortunate happenings around the world, or maybe she’s embarrassed by a newly discovered music preference. Either reason feels like a blow straight to my cotton-filled chest, after having spent so much of our lives together and making the harrowing journey with her to get to this place. She has never hidden anything from me before. So why now? I don’t need protection; I simply need her.

It fills me with an overwhelmingly deep sadness to feel like the person I care about the most is slipping away. All the friends I had before are unreachable, and I feel utterly and completely alone. I was plucked from the life I loved and to which I had grown accustomed. Now I’m in a strange place where nothing and no one is familiar, not even her. To top it all off, the bed where I reside day-in and day-out is uncomfortable. It’s a bit too stiff for my liking.

Mochi, who I know was a well-intentioned addition to the apartment, has become a hassle. The excitement of a new companion quickly dissolved and has been replaced with frustration. I am self-aware enough to acknowledge that I may be viewing him with a poor attitude due to my current negativity, but I cannot simply change how I feel. We’re opposites and he’s quite impossible to reason with and I’ll leave it at that, for fear of sounding too mean-spirited.

This may be imagined, but I feel that at night, she squeezes me with just a bit more urgency than she had before. I wonder if she’s holding on tighter because she knows I’m slipping farther and farther away. Or, an even more grave thought that haunts me, she has no idea how I feel or the thoughts I have bouncing around in my head. I can feel the resentment growing, and I fear the rest of my life will be spent trapped with this seemingly endless depression. I would give anything to return to our simple life. I worry we will reach a turning point, from which there will be no clear path to follow to salvage our relationship. I wish her love. I wish her happiness. But I wish the most for her heart to return to me.

Photo of Hil Schmidt

BIO: Hil Schmidt graduated from Lafayette College in 2015 with a degree in Mechanical Engineering. While working in the field of STEM, she has always drawn to the creativity of storytelling, especially tales that have an unsettling undertone. She currently lives in Japan, teaching English to children and enjoying eating delicious ramen regularly. Her short story “The Monster Under the Bed” was published online in The Bookends Review in April 2024.