Screams on Saturday Afternoon
I ask my daughter to wear the most outlandishly bright shirt she has when we go to a public play area. She cheerfully obliges with one of her many neon-bright, lollipop-pink pieces. She's old enough that she doesn't need eyes on her constantly, so I finally have some time to sit and write. I simply glance up and look for that signature pink, a blur of cotton candy streaking through the tenebrous shadows of the synthetic jungle.
I like to set up with my laptop and notebook, sometimes my drawing supplies, while I know she will be preoccupied. The whole place is walled in, and the front entrance is always watched, making it the perfect time to zone into writing something. These play dates are the only "me" time I get.
"Where's Lucia?" she asks me, her wide eyes shining with uncertainty. I tell her I don't know, I don't see her.
Will you call her back for me, Mom?
I remind her, Lucia knows your voice better than mine, my dear.
As she wanders back, she calls into the chaos of the junglegym,
I watch as she wanders back into the space, tunnels and bridges and slides towering above her, seeking her friend amidst the jungle of netting and rowdy children. She cups her hands to her mouth and repeats the call, but even her strong voice is lost to the cacophony of countless children's voices.
Some are roaring with laughter, some are squealing with delight. Many of them are raising their voices in a clashing chorus of, "Mom! Mom!" that has me constantly turning, instinct compelling me to quadruple-check none of those voices belong to my small human.
A few minutes later, I watch as they spot each other and both jolt with delight. Then they were off again, racing to explore another corner of carefully contained adventure. I consider the things I've learned from Neil Gaiman's Masterclass. Writing came so easily to me when I was younger, but now it bathes in uncertainty. That anxiety-- what if it's no good?
I look up. Like a splash of dopamine dreams, I see her zooming across a rope bridge. Safe.
I turn back to my story. It wants to be called a book, but it's hard to accommodate that when there's so little of it actually written. It lives in my head-- it's been there for years. Sounds uncomfortable, doesn't it? I suppose it can be.
I glance up. There-- a spot of bright barbie pink, hands on her hips, proclaiming something to the world, but the world can't hear. In truth, no one could hear a thing through such a din. A scream on a quiet night is suspect and cause for alarm, but a scream on a playground is just the sound of a regular Saturday afternoon.
I've been contemplating a lot on the design of my liminal space lately. It's vital to the flow of my plot, my characters need it in order to journey where they are needed before it's too late. I'm calling it The Eaves, like the eaves of the world tree.
That didn't sound like her. It doesn't matter how well you know your child's voice-- the instinct will always drive you to check, just in case. And when I glance up, there's no pink.
That's alright, I tell myself, there are a couple areas out of view. I wait a moment, certain I'll see her hot-pink top soon. I identify the new voice screaming for their mother, a small toddler stuck at the top of the slide. I return to scanning the shadows creeping under towers and tunnels and blocks of brightly colored foam. Still no pink.
Lucia comes running up to me, cheeks flushed from ducking and climbing. Where is she? I ask Lucia but Lucia doesn't know.
Lucia last saw her in the back, by the wall, where the jungle is darkest. But somehow, Lucia couldn't get to her. Lucia gasps for air as she explains, she's stuck, she needs help getting down. I get up and follow Lucia back, past the towers and tunnels and slides, toward the big foam obstacle course tucked into the shadows in the back.
Lucia dips under my arm and scurries back without warning, but she's too quick for me to catch her attention. She darts off and out of view. I call out for my daughter, and hear a strangled sob in response, above me. I see her-- On a bridge connecting two towers of nets and foam floors, my daughter thrashes. Inky black tendrils of shadow cover her mouth, her wrists, her waist.
I ignore the sudden, deafening silence. I search the area frantically. I just need to climb two levels up, and take a tunnel, and I'm there. I've never moved so fast. I'm fairly sure I forget to breathe. I have to reach my child. I don't know what's happening. The darkness grabbed her. Or something inside the darkness?
But when I round the corner from the tunnel, suddenly the noise resumes. Children shriek and squeal and giggle as they vault through the area. So many children, wearing countless colors.
Everything else is a blur. The staff check the cameras-- she never left the building. We check every corner inside. She's gone. She simply vanished.
If she screamed, we'll never know. No one would have marked it if she had. A scream on a playground is just the sound of a regular Saturday afternoon. They count on that.
