You made me laugh, and in the days and weeks that followed, when I was wading through tragedy piled upon tragedy with seemingly no justification, I remembered your sunny smile and your clever sass, and it brought me some comfort.
That playground becamemy oasis that summer, and I gravitated to it in my downtime to channel my energy and ground myself. Perhaps too, I was hoping an encounter with you might lift my spirits, and on many occasions, it did.
It disturbed me how little supervision you were given and how often you were left in the inadequate care of children only slightly older than yourself—strangers, even. Sometimes you were entirely alone, and I took it upon myself to be your guardian. Well, that was my justification for idling my time with you. Alone together was my preference, because when others were around, they’d overhear our conversations—your side of them at least—and wonder who you were talking to. Children can be cruel, and I didn’t want for them to be cruel to you on my account.
We experimented with all of the playground equipment, but our favorite pastime was to swing. You found a way to push me, using only the plastic seat as leverage, and for the first time in a long while, I felt the exhilaration of motion. It made me long for a host body so that I might experience it fully.
When it was your turn, I was able to propel you upward as if being carried by a strong wind. And when you jumped from the apex of your trajectory, I softened your landing. I warned you this trick would only work when I was present, and if you tried jumping like that on your own, you might break both your legs.
At that age, you heeded my warnings.
I learned many things about you. You were an only child, born out of wedlock. You didn’t know where your father was, only that he had “gone away.” Your mother was a clerk at a nearby gas station where she often worked the graveyard shift. “Nightsies,” you called it. The Slurpees were good, but the hot dogs tasted like boogers. I didn’t ask how you qualified that assessment but trusted you to know.
Your favorite color was purple, and your favorite movie wasGremlins. You were enamored with the Gremlin leader known as Stripe, and as soon as you were able, you intended to get a white mohawk of the same fashion.
“Then I would be a boss, and I could fight,” you told me.
Your scrappy attitude amused me, and I asked whom you might take on first.
At that question your countenance shifted quite suddenly. Your shoulders drooped and your voice was lowered, fearful even, when you said, “No one.”
Curious.
Shortly after that discussion, you invited me to your home to watch one of my favorite movies,E.T.(I found its overarching theme of compassion and tolerance to be a lesson sorely needed by your species.) Because I could not maintain my childlike specter without the playground’s resonant energy, I warned you I’d have to “go invisible.”
The apartment where you lived was small but tidy. When we arrived, your mother was on the telephone with some relation, but she greeted you warmly and directed you to get yourself a snack. The food in your refrigerator and cabinets was certainly not what I would select for a growing child, but it was sufficient. With your preferred snack cake in hand, we settled down in front of your small television where you popped the video into the VCR, then complained about having to rewind it.
My attention throughout the movie was divided between watching the film and observing your enraptured expression. I wondered how you were interpreting the film’s events, how they might be shaping your mind in ways that were impossible to determine.
“I still don’t like it,” you said as the credits rolled, reaffirming your original opinion. Your tone was despondent, and your face looked gloomy.
“Why’s that?”
“Those bad men were mean toE.T.” Your lower lip jutted out, and I feared you might be warming up to cry. I’d seen you cry once before, when you’d fallen off the merry-go-round and torn the skin on both your knees. It was a distressing experience for both of us. Without a body, there was nothing I could do to assist you or signal for help. I could only hover by your side and wait for your pain to pass. A small torture.
“But in the end, he was able to return home,” I said gently.
Your lower lip quivered. I regretted suggesting a movie that would cause you such sorrow, so I attempted to brighten your mood with silly jokes. Soon enough you were giggling at my antics. Our merriment was interrupted by your mother who came in shortly thereafter and asked to whom you were talking.
“No one,” you replied, eyes darting to where my spirit energy concentrated.
Your mother frowned. “Clean up this mess. Roger’s coming over,” she said as she walked toward the back of the apartment.
You stilled at the mention of his name. Your heart rate spiked, and your eyes widened with worry.
“You have to go,” you said with urgency.
“Why?” I was interested to meet this person who caused you such anxiety.
“Because Roger is coming,” you said plainly.
I told you I would go, but I stayed behind and scattered my energy so you wouldn’t know I was present. Through my observations that evening, I learned that Roger was your mother’s lover. When he stayed over that night, you slept on the pull-out couch in the living room instead of in your mother’s bed, which made you sad and lonely.
Was that the cause of your worry, that your mother’s affection toward you might somehow be diminished?
I probed you about Roger during our next encounter. He was a source of confusion for you. You said you liked Roger because he’d been the one to let you watchGremlinsfor the first time. He bought you the Little Debbie treats you wanted and a GI Joe action figure when it wasn’t even your birthday. And if you’d been good that week, he’d let you watch theA-Team, something your mother wouldn’t allow. Roger also had a black Trans-Am that looked like Kit fromKnight Riderand would sometimes take you and your mother for rides in it.
But Roger had a sinister side, I soon discovered. He made you do bad things, things you couldn’t talk about—to anyone—or your mother might get hurt. People might come and take you away from her, and you’d have to live with mean strangers who’d never let you see your mother again. He made you promise these things you did were just between you and him. Your special secret.
