Page 54 of Toy No More

Surely, she figured that Skyler’s negative behavior reflects his home life. Does she think about all the times Marci came to the school instead of me while she shakes my hand and smiles politely? Did Skyler tell her how many promises I’ve broken recently?

“I can see you’re worried,” she says, gently taking both my hands into hers and squeezing them. I blink at her gentle touch, but she releases it abruptly, most likely toeing some kind of line between professionalism and candidness. “Let me take you to him.” Miss Hammond gestures for me to follow her, and I do.

We walk through the fairly quiet and empty hall and turn right.

“According to my colleague describing it, the way the paperweight bounced off to hit Skyler was really something hard to believe! I told him he was pretty good at throwing things, but he should probably keep it to the baseball court. It got a little chuckle out of him at least.”

I smile to myself. He loves ball games. “I’m glad no one else was hurt.”

“Oh, no. Skyler never is violent with others,” she says quickly, twisting in her waist to glance at me two steps behind her. “Dylan apologized as well. He was quite shaken about what happened. He blamed himself, even. I’d say they made up.”

“That’s good.”Dylan, Dylan, Dylan…I think I remember the kid from one of the school talent shows. He was the boy with Down Syndrome who did a comedy skit. He was pretty witty.

We finally arrive outside the door in the corner of the east wing, right next to the nurse’s station. Around the plaque saying ‘relaxation room’ are colorful stars and smiley faces.

“He’s in there. I’ll give you some time. Please, come speak to me in my office if you have questions. Oh, and I have a form for you to sign.”

“Thank you.”

After placing her hand on my shoulder briefly, Miss Hammond walks away. I stand in front of the door until the soft clicking of her heels quietens. I don’t know if I’m ready to see Skyler hurt and upset. It brings out too many memories I’d rather forget, but I swallow hard and push on the handle.

A soft pleasant is the first thing I notice when I walk in. It’s the sort of smell someone’s home would have. Fresh, gentle, familiartranquilness.

My eyes scan the room, passing over the desk with four chairs by the door, the large potted plant next to the bookcase, over the mounted TV and all the way to the couch sitting against the wall. Skyler is on it, hunched over some book, or rather a comic, in his hand, and a few more spread out in front of him on the coffee table. There are jars with pencils as well, and a big box of puzzles to the right.

He straightens his back the moment he sees me. His eyes widen, and I already see the pool of emotion swirling behind his unsteady expression that he tries to maintain with all his might.

I draw my brows together, smiling softly, and walk toward him.

The wound doesn’t look too bad, thankfully. Just above his temple, three transparent strips hold the maybe inch long line closed up. His skin around it is a bit angry and red, but nothing close to the horrendous scenarios my mind produced.

“I’m sorry they called you,” he nearly whispers, his voice so small and fragile.

My throat closes and cheeks heat at the sight and sound of him. I sit next to him and tenderly place my open hand against his back. “It’s okay, Sky. You got hurt. I had to make sure you were okay.”

“I-I’m fine,” he says. With each word, his voice becomes weaker. I watch him squeeze the pages of the comic in his hands, scrunching it, so I gently pull it out so that he doesn’t ruin it. Skyler hangs his head down, refusing to look at me. “It was my fault, anyway…”

“Doesn’t make you not hurt.”

I feel him tremble under my touch, and see his hands shake, too, as he balls them into fists in his lap. Sometimes, it is as if I’m on an island across from him, so close yet never capable of crossing that gap. No matter how much I try to learn or understand, it feels hopeless, and like I’ll never be able to relate to him the way he needs me to. All my aching heart wants is for him to not be alone on that island.

“Hey,” I whisper, seeing him spiral into panic with his breaths getting faster and shallower. I grab his hand and with my thumbs running into his palms, gently force them to open. From his stretched out, cold fingers, all the way to his wrists, I slowly massage and squeeze his hands with intention and the right amount of pressure.

Skyler lets out a trembling breath, and I can tell his mind is settling a little. He bobs his head, swallowing deliberately with his eyes closed.

I’m glad we found a reliable method to release some of his stress. Even long before he got diagnosed or before I began learning about how to handle his way of being, I would do this. It started that day when we hid in Mom’s closet after one of her unsavory friends burst into the apartment looking for money she owed. I remember holding him in my lap, one hand against his mouth and another pressing at his chest tightly, brushing up and down to soothe him. He was so upset and scared in the cramped darkness of the closet, probably as much as I was, and yet as I felt his back against my chest and his heart beating against it, the wild tempo of it settled with each stroke.

Then, there was that time when Marci got a massage for her migraine, and Skyler and I had to go with her, otherwise we would have to stay in the apartment alone again. The masseur gave Skyler a little sample at the end, because he was ‘such a cute kid’. It was the moment I realized that it might have been a pleasant way for Skyler to calm down. Something to do with helping to regulate his sensory system…

“I’m sorry,” I say, staring at his hands blankly. The guilt bubbles up my throat like stomach bile, so I clench my teeth and swallow.

“Why?” he asks, sounding genuinely confused.

I sigh and shake my head. “You know why. You’re angry at me for being away so much, and then you don’t know how to handle that anger, and it builds and…” I glance at the wound, twisting my face into a grimace of shame and desperation.

Sometimes it feels like everything wasbetterbefore I started working for Mr. Wilson. Sure, we hardly had enough money to live. Skyler had barely any specialized care or support, and Marci couldn’t afford the more advanced treatment, but…we were closer. Present in a very real way. It was as if the hardships we experienced every day were the price for having my family, and knowing they were worth it made me that much more determined to keep trying for them.

Did I try too hard? Went too far in the wrong direction?

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