They named it Little Angels, which we found on-the-nose, but no one asked us. The reception room, now a gymnasium; the reposing room, “toddler world”. Grapes halved and bouncy, multi-grain bread slathered with almond butter where bodies were once drained, preserved, dressed, and made up. Stale-sweet cafeteria smell supplanted the acrid linger of pickling liquid.
Right away the kids were talking to the ether, playing with spectral classmates beyond the veil. We told them to expect this, but they did not hear us. We were thrilled, of course, to see our little ones alight with the warmth of budding friendship. Jonah was learning a new game. Misha hadn’t stopped singing the “Paw Patrol” theme song since her first day and, two weeks in, we still couldn’t bring ourselves to be irritated. Our theoretical rib cages beat with a palpable, swollen joy.
Some of the parents, however, were not so charmed. Complaints arrived swiftly. One family withdrew their child from the preschool room after just four days, citing impossibly detailed stories of the Vietnam War on the drive home. Another, whose barely-verbal, 16-month-old had started requesting Ovaltine, wanted to know what kind of energetic preparations were conducted before opening. She recruited several other parents to demand a cleansing and expulsion ritual.
We told them this would happen. If only they’d heard us. And now what? We loved the kids. We loved the colorful hallways and rooms. The smell of paste and tempera paint. We even loved the anguished tantrums, rapturous in their frivolity, drenched in the delicious absurdity of life. This place had been a husk, and us, brittle strands of barren silk stuck within, but now, now everything was new. Decay germinated new growth. Our restless harbor, a fertile nurse log for vibrant, spirited saplings. We could not lose it. Viola made contact with a medium she’d worked with a few times. We had to make sure the angry mob of parents hired someone legit.
Nervous energy crackled in the former arrangement room as the medium explained her process to the parents. The center director fought to keep her placid smile from congealing into the grimace it yearned to be. We rehearsed our parts.
We needed to appeal to both emotion and reason. Create value. In the educational opportunity at hand, yes, but also in something more slippery. The thing that had birthed their fear, that dwelled deep within their knowing, dodging their gaze, that, if brought into the light, could change everything.
“My name is Evelyn. I had three children and eight grandchildren. I was a teacher for thirty years. These children, your children, they’re,” - a sob - “I’m sorry. You must know that when we look at them, we see pure light. I can’t express what that means to us. And also, I think they may see tangible, developmental benefits from this special opportunity. I promise they are safe. They are cherished! I promise we will care for them like our own. I promise. I - I -”
“My name is Misha. My new friends are so fun! I never played before. I was sad for a long time.”
“My name is Walter. I didn’t get to spend much time with my own children. It’s my deepest regret. I swear I won’t talk about the war anymore. I’ll teach them carpentry - when they’re old enough. I’ll teach them how to fry bologna. Please - I won’t mess this up. I’ll be everything I couldn’t be in life.” This was the most emotion we’d seen in Walter, ever.
Please, we are safe and kind. Please, we need this, and perhaps you do too. Please, we really are no different. There is only one thing about us that’s different.
Emily Baber (she/her) lives in Cleveland, Ohio and loves Lake Erie, the intricacy of natural systems, and Pee-wee Herman. She writes for work, but only started writing for fun again a couple years ago. She is a late bloomer and she is not a serious person. @EnemyBaber on Twitter.
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