Playgroung of Lost Toys

by Exile

  I don’t know what I hope to gain. If the bunny were to appear now, what dreams would he eat? Ones about the pain of my relationship with Isabella’s father? The one where I get a seizing feeling in my lungs when I dream about my dissertation flying at me, flapping its hundreds of pages until I start sobbing about whether years of work really matter to anyone? The one about my mother’s death where I stand at the casket and feel like I’m staring at a stranger, someone I never met before?

  “Your rabbit?” my mother’s voice echoes. “I was never sure if he was real.” And I’ve never been sure either. But I’m sure that what I want is to go back to that brief period of time where I wasn’t so lonely. That place in my childhood memories where I still had hope for my grown-up life.

  The firefly flashes its chemical glow in the apex of the roof. As my eyes begin to feel heavy, I scrounge for all the cognitive reserve my brain can provide. The images I see are now on the inside, a memory of the blueberry bush where a spotted bunny once ate ravenously. I close my eyes and breathe in. I fall asleep.

  “And the bunny was still there, twenty years later, waiting for the young woman to dream of him. And from that night on, even after she slept in her own bed instead of a lounge chair, the woman could dream him up at will, and know that she would always have someone waiting for her, someone who loved her and watched over her, lingering in the strawberry fields. And she knew she’d never be truly alone.”

  Isabella smiles up at me. “That’s my favourite story ever, Momma.”

  I smooth her ringleted hair. “I know, baby. And now it’s time for you to visit the land of dreams. Have a wonderful adventure.”

  Isabella yawns, each blink becoming longer and longer. “Sing me a song, Momma.”

  It occurs to me, then, that maybe I can sing Patches’ song for Isabella. But I can’t find the notes. The secret aria has returned to its composer. Perhaps Isabella will never need a Patches.

  WHAT NOT TO EXPECT IN THE TODDLER YEARS

  Melissa Yuan-Innes

  I crouched beside the daycare’s coat hooks, each one tagged by a puffy cloud printed with kids’ names like SARAH and DANIEL. I started to wiggle Julius’s fake yellow Crocs off his feet while I wondered which hook would be his.

  “I want to keep mine shoes on,” Julius said. He slid off my lap and tugged my hand toward the door.

  I could really use some magic. I don’t need anything spectacular, just your garden-variety miracle: a daycare next door to our Montreal apartment that takes a two-and-a-half-year-old boy, feeds him, lets him play, teaches him to read in English and French, changes his diaper, enforces nap time, and charges less than ten dollars a day.

  The plump daycare worker waved from across the room, beside the small window and cardboard apple tree. She motioned to the phone glued to her ear. “Be right with you, Mom!”

  “I want to go home,” said Julius. He said each word carefully to make sure I understood.

  “I wish,” I muttered. I’d rather make him pancakes and tackle our dishes before the ants ate us out of our apartment. Instead, I’d wear out the soles of my tennis shoes for eight dollars an hour, smiling at truck drivers so they’d tip better. “Please, Julius.”

  Julius sank back into my lap. He was so heavy already, my knees buckled. He hates strange things. He doesn’t even like it if I cut up his cheese and make a tower out of it. Everything has to be the same, especially since his dad took off.

  I managed to tug one shoe off without him freaking. But then he grabbed the strap of the other Croc with a chubby little hand and said, “Nooooooo.”

  I sensed someone staring. I turned slowly, Julius still weighing down my lap. I expected to see the daycare worker, but a piping little voice burst into my ear. “Magic? You’re looking for magic?”

  Had I said it out loud? I could have sworn not, but I could easily be losing my mind.

  I peered at the kid. You know how you can look at some kids’ faces and already see how they’ll look all grown up? Old souls, my grandma used to call them. Weird, I called it. From this kid’s height and still-pudgy cheeks, though, he probably wasn’t much older than Julius, maybe three, although he already wore glasses. Kind of like Harry Potter but not as cute, what with goggly blue eyes and a booger crusted on his left nostril.

  The kid wiped his nose, rubbed the snot on his pants, and announced, “I flushed some magic down the toilet this morning. It was good quality, too. From 1639.”

  The daycare worker hustled toward us. “Sorry about that. Is this Julius? Hi, Julius.” She bent down to his level. Her knees cracked, but her smile stayed as fixed as a clown’s. “We’re so happy to have you!”

  “She always smiles like that,” said the kid. “Even when I flushed the magic down the toilet.”

  The worker kept grinning. “Oh, Melvin. He has a wonderful imagination, doesn’t he?”

  “No, it’s not wonderful, but the magic might help kill some of the bacteria you’ve got growing in your sewer,” the kid – Melvin – said. He even did a little eye-roll at me.

  I was still thinking about the daycare worker’s smile. I fake it like that when I’m working, but it bugged me. Did she like kids?

  On the other hand, what other daycares around here would take care of Julius without bankrupting me?

  Melvin pointed at my son. “Hi, Art.”

  “His name’s Julius,” I said.

  Melvin shrugged and pushed his face closer to Julius. I stared at Melvin’s green-and-white checked button-down shirt and khaki corduroys. They looked like new and not Walmart new. If his family was rich, why’d they bring him and his “wonderful imagination” to Apple Tree Daycare?

  Like I said, Julius hates strangers and change. Half an hour ago he bucked and howled so much I couldn’t even get his new sneakers on him. But Julius slid off of my lap and studied Melvin’s freckled face as seriously as one dog greeting another.

  Now I was the one clutching Julius’s hand, feeling my sweat on his fat baby fingers.

  “Don’t worry. We take good care of our kids at Apple Tree Daycare!” said the daycare worker.

  Melvin stood perfectly still, like he sensed Julius needed him to be quiet.

  Julius moved close enough to sniff Melvin’s face, almost like they really were dogs. I found myself holding my breath. Could I leave my little guy here? His grandma couldn’t take him anymore, and I wouldn’t trust my neighbours with a cactus, let alone my kid.

  “Have you filled out all the forms?” asked the daycare worker.

  I started to say yes, but Melvin held both fists out. He moved very slowly and kept his palms toward the floor. Then he turned his right hand over and unfurled his fingers.

  A yellow ball flared in his palm, a tiny glowing sun about the size of a golf ball.

  The ball lit up, and Melvin and Julius’s faces shone like candles.

  I squeaked and yanked Julius toward me. He wiggled and jerked his hand, but I was stronger. I reeled him back toward me and boosted him into my arms. He craned his neck to see.

  Melvin closed his hands again and stood with his fists at his side, waiting for our reaction.

  The daycare worker beamed. “Yes, we all like Melvin’s yellow ball. Isn’t it cute?”

  I closed my eyes. Yellow dots still danced on my retinas. Nope, I hadn’t imagined it. Julius squirmed, trying to get off me. I checked out the other kids: painting, rolling a foam ball, pushing trucks around. Like it was no big deal. I stared back into the worker’s mascara-heavy eyes. “What was that?”

  She shrugged and adjusted her bra strap. “He calls it magic.”

  “But…”

  “I want to get down,” said Julius.

  I slowly released my hold on him. He slithered down my leg and approached Melvin again. He stopped two feet away. They stared at each other.

  The daycare worker thrust a handful of forms at me. “You didn’t give us a copy of his immunization record. Also, you have to fill out the sunscreen waiver.”

  When
I glanced back at Julius, he was standing another foot closer to Melvin. So I signed the forms. And I headed off to work, still wondering what Melvin held in his left hand.

  “Honey,” I said. “I made macaroni and cheese.” The smell of powdered cheese stank up our one-bedroom apartment.

  “I’m not hungry.” Julius scowled at me from the corner of the main room, where he’d squished between the sofa, the bookshelf, and the wall. I know kids like having secret places. I used to crawl behind my bed. Still, I thought Julius had been hiding a lot in the past week.

  Also, I couldn’t remember him turning down mac and cheese. Ever. I tried again. “Should I make fish? Bread fish?” Store-bought breaded fish. Junk food for toddlers.

  “No,” he said. He huddled toward the wall with his back to me.

  But not before I thought I saw something yellow flash in his palm.

  For one full second, I stopped breathing. My heart rocketed in my chest. A pain tore up my nose like I’d eaten that green stuff that comes with sushi. Danger.

  My hand shot toward him, ready to smack that light out of his hand. But I froze in mid-air. My mother used to hit me. I swore I’d never hit Julius.

  My knees just kind of gave out, so I sank into the forest-green sofa cushions. Dust poofed from the cushions into the air. I said, almost to myself, “Okay.”

  Melvin was teaching my kid magic. Not grown-up magic, like how to buy groceries for the week with twenty dollars, but real magic.

  Julius tried to edge away from me, but he bumped into the wall. He scowled, looking mighty fierce for a two-and-a-half-year-old. “I’m busy.”

  “Okay,” I repeated. I snatched a random magazine from the rack. Turned out to be my ex’s Maxim, but I opened it anyway.

  Eventually, Julius huddled in the corner. He muttered under his breath. It sounded like, “Mo shu na wa lee long goo may.” A week ago, I would have assumed it was nonsense or his attempt to sing “The Bare Necessities.” Now I wished I could webcam him and show someone, hell, anyone, and ask, Is this normal? What should I do?

  Five minutes later, he turned toward me with the big grin I knew and loved. “I need maca-woni.”

  After he’d chowed through most of it, I said, “Maybe you can stay home with Mommy tomorrow.” I’d call in sick. I didn’t care.

  Julius’s spoon clattered on the linoleum floor. His eyes and mouth turned upside down like the tragedy mask on a lapel pin my drama teacher used to wear. And he howled louder than a jet engine.

  “It’ll be fun. We’ll stay home.” I raised my voice over his screeches and ignored the fat tears pooling in the corners of his eyes. “We could go to the pet store. Or the park.”

  “NoooOOO!” Bits of macaroni sprayed on to the table. Sixty seconds until the neighbours called the police.

  “We could paint. We could do sleeping bunnies.”

  “NoOOOOoooOO!”

  I yanked him into my lap. He pressed his feet against my chest and tried to launch away from me. I swore and clamped down on his arms.

  He screamed louder, nearing the higher decibel range.

  I gritted my teeth and knocked the back of his knees, forcing them to bend. He cried so hard, he choked on his snot. But his knees folded and I managed to cradle him in my arms more safely.

  I could pull Julius out of daycare. He’d forget about Melvin eventually.

  Julius’s tears soaked my neck. His chest heaved, but more quietly now. He’d given up.

  My heart squeezed. Why was I pulling him out of Apple Tree Daycare? When I was a kid, I would have donated my teddy and at least one kidney to my enemy for one measly spark of magic. So why was I so scared?

  I kissed Julius’s petal-soft cheek, glistening with tears and mucous. His breath hiccupped. His hair stuck up, wet with sweat. I said, “You want to see Melvin tomorrow?”

  “Yessss,” he sobbed.

  “Okay. You can go to daycare tomorrow.” I grabbed a paper napkin to wipe his nose, and he let me. I added to myself, And I’m coming with you.

  Julius hammered balls into a toy’s multicoloured plastic chutes, his forehead pleated in concentration. I relaxed into my tot-sized chair. At least Julius still played like a regular kid.

  Melvin sat beside me, flipping the pages of a book that looked way too old for him, The Once and Future King. On the cover, a guy charged on a white horse while a damsel in distress bowed her head. A rope bound her neck to a tree. I tried not to look at it, but I hated the picture of the woman.

  Melvin closed the book and set it face down on the table. “I’m not going to hurt him,” he said.

  I glanced at the daycare worker, who rolled out sparkly sapphire Play-Doh at the next table, still grinning away. I muttered to Melvin, “Who are you?”

  He shrugged and played with the back cover of the book.

  Julius hammered the last ball, a purple one, through the chute. He beamed at me. I gave him the thumbs-up.

  Melvin’s little voice bore into my ears. “You know who I am. My name is Bruno Melvin Sachs. I’m three years and two months old. I live at 2530 Canterbury Street.” He pushed his glasses up on his nose. “But what you really want to know is, am I going to hurt Art. And the answer is no.”

  “His name is Julius,” I gritted out.

  He shrugged. “Fine. Julius.”

  Julius watched us for a second before he picked up his hammer again.

  A chubby girl at the next table carefully stamped an angel into her lime green Play-Doh. She exclaimed, for no apparent reason, “I have new pants. My mommy bought them on Saturday!”

  For a second, I wished I had a child like that. Sunny. Uncomplicated. More interested in shopping than magic. But then I wouldn’t have Julius.

  I took a deep breath and met Melvin’s pale, bulging blue eyes. “What do you want from Julius?”

  He grabbed the edge of the desk, but noticed me noticing and shoved his hands in his pocket. “I want to teach Julius how to do magic.”

  “Why?” Nothing comes for free. Not a corned beef sandwich. Not love. And especially not magic.

  His lips twisted. He wiggled his butt in his chair, acting like a kid for the first time. But then he ruined it by saying, “I have to pass on my legacy.”

  Legacy. What did that mean? It sounded like a fancy name for a horse. I know it means passing something down, like your grandma’s lace pillow, but I don’t know why a scary little kid would know magic and why he’d want to pass it on to my kid.

  Julius abandoned his toy and walked toward us, his eyes shifting from Melvin to me. My heart gave a painful little thump. I wanted to take Julius away from this mini weirdo, but my son really loved magic and the mini weirdo. Plus, I couldn’t afford any other daycare in my sector of Montreal. I know. I looked.

  “Mommy,” said Julius. Just the one word, but I knew his vote.

  I focused on Melvin. “On one condition.”

  His eyes narrowed. His lip curled. Grown-up anger in a teeny body. He said, “What is it?”

  “You can teach him here. You can even have play dates.” I took a deep breath, counted to three. “But you have to teach me, too.”

  His lip jerked, almost like he was trying not to laugh, before those pale blue eyes met mine again. “You’re too old.”

  Most people think twenty-five is young enough to be a single mom. But Melvin was not most people. And neither was I. I pushed my face closer to his and whispered, “Try me.”

  He snorted. The daycare worker glanced at us, but Melvin ignored her and said to me, in his piping little voice, “Your mind is closed.”

  I didn’t blink. “So open it.”

  Neither did he. Behind us, a kid announced, “I have to go to the bathroom!”

  “Okay,” sang the daycare worker. “Brendan has to go to the bathroom. Does anyone else have to go?”

  My lips twitched. I couldn’t help it.

  Melvin didn’t smile back. Instead, he shrugged. “It’s your funeral.”

  I shoved away my unease and
held out my hand. We shook on it. He pumped my hand up and down, and after he let it go I could still feel the pressure of his little fingers.

  Julius dropped his hammer on the ground. When I bent to pick it up, I heard him say, “Look, look!” I jerked my head up just in time to see him thrust his hand in the air. His fingers opened like a small star. A dark shadow, maybe a bird, soared in the air and disappeared into the acoustic tile ceiling.

  I blinked. Were my eyes fooling me again?

  Melvin smiled and nudged Julius’s shoulder. “Good one, Art.”

  An hour later, during outdoor time, the kids clambered up the jungle gym. A few younger kids sifted sand in the sandbox. We sat beside them and Melvin tried to teach me magic.

  “Hold your hands together and hum.”

  I checked to see if the daycare worker was watching us. She was, but she quickly turned to help a kid stuck on the monkey bars. Julius studied us, even as he pushed a truck over a big pile of sand.

  “Hum,” said Melvin.

  I pressed my palms together and hummed. “Umm.” I am not a singer. When Julius asked me to teach him Christmas carols, I borrowed a tape from the library.

  Nothing happened except that a kid dumped a bucket of sand next to my foot.

  Melvin sighed. “I told you your mind was closed.”

  “It is not.”

  “Sure it is. Can you even see this?” He held his hands a few inches apart. For a second I thought maybe I saw a glimmer of green, but I couldn’t be sure.

  I watched until my eyes watered. Grit worked between my toes and between my sandal and my foot. I’d have to brush our shoes off good when we got home. “Green light?” I said finally.

  Melvin sighed, a tiny but heartfelt gust of air. “Just sit in with me and Art, then.”

  “Julius.” No one but me likes the name, but a three-year-old wasn’t going to rip it away from my son.

  Melvin sighed even more deeply. “Julius.”

  Julius giggled. “Did you see mine puppy?” He pointed beside the red and blue plastic dump truck. “He’s a Dalmatian. You see the spots, Mommy? He’s licking me!”