Page 11 of The Games We Play
Spark shakes his head. “You normally leave fifteen minutes ago.”
“It’s wrong you know that.”
He tips his head in the direction of my car, and even that irritates me, that he knows which one it is. “Go get in your ride.” He puts his helmet on, then revs the engine to his bike.
He’s made it is his business to know everything about me, and I hate it, even as I love the idea someone on this planet cares about me.
I stare at him for a moment, trying to pin down the traitorous part of me that wants to stay and talk with him some more, before hurrying back to my car.
As I duck inside and start the engine, I place my hand on my thigh, where the scar is and has finally healed. I was so lucky it wasn’t worse. I pull out of the school parking lot, and I head towards Cillian’s house. Spark follows me for forty-five minutes until I pass through South Amboy, and then he peels off with a salute and disappears from my rearview mirror. Finally, I make it to Brooklyn Heights, where Cillian owns a house just footsteps from Adam Yauch Park.
The building looks like old money lives here from the outside. Hard to tell from the brown bricks and paintwork that it houses a criminal mastermind. For a moment, I wish Spark was still with me.
I park blocking the garage, as there is nowhere left to park on the street.
“Go on in, Miss O’Connor,” one of the two men outside says as I approach the door.
I roll my eyes because I don’t need Cillian’s permission to use the key he gave me when I was thirteen. This cold mansion is the only family home I’ve ever known. I barely remember the one I had when Dad was still alive. My current place feels like a house I live in rather than a home. This one has too much marble, and an Irish Tricolor flag framed on the wall.
“Iris,” Michael shouts when I step into the living room. He’s wearing a soft tracksuit, one with no hard fixtures like a zipper or itchy labels. His headphones are over his ears, his electronic tablet in his hands. “Iris, come listen.”
He unplugs his headphones and grins at me as I sit down next to him.
“What are you watching, Michael?” I ask.
“Watch. Watch.” A rugged outdoorsy guy uses an axe to take down a tall dead tree with a narrow trunk. He strips off its branches, saws it into pieces, and uses it to build the wall of a wilderness snow shelter. It’s all very ASMR. Snow crunching, saw rasping, tree stripping.
“Wow. That’s an amazing structure. He’s really creative.”
“Can we go, Iris? Can we go? Snow. Snow. Snow.”
He gently tips his head so it rests on my shoulder, and I grin. I’ve always thought he was part cat, the way he’d rub his head against you to say hello or get his way. Some of his stims are helpful to him, like his hand flapping over the tablet before he rewinds to his favorite parts. They help him feel calm. But other stims are why he needs extra care. Sometimes he’ll scratch himself until his skin is raw if we don’t intervene.
“You have to be a professional to do that safely, Michael.”
Bethany, one of Michael’s caregivers, comes into the room. “Hey, Iris. I didn’t realize you were stopping by today.”
Michael puts his headphones back on and squeezes my hand.
“Saturday was upsetting for us both,” I say quietly, because I don’t want to make Michael feel bad. But Bethany knows I’m referring to the sensory meltdown he had when I visited. Seeing him uncontrollably upset was distressing, but I kept it together until I got into my car to drive home. “Guess I just needed to reassure myself.”
Bethany nods. “I’ll let you two hang out for a little while.”
“Thanks, Beth. You’re one in a million.”
Beth smiles, and for the next hour, I give Michael my full attention, looking at more videos of people building temporary snow shelters. I can see why he enjoys watching them over and over. I could almost convince myself I’d want to try it. Until I think about the lack of toilets in the woods and a reliance on fire making skills.
But I do wonder if there is some kind of winter camp facility for young adults like Michael. Although Cillian would never agree to sending him. He likes to keep Michael home where he can manage the staff who care for him.
I understand the need to give Michael the best support and he’s better for it, but treating him this way infantilizes Michael. He’s a young adult who also deserves adventures and friends. Not just caregivers and programs and structures.
He’s capable of so much more than Cillian allows him to try.
And he deserves more freedom than these cold walls allow.
Fortunately, Michael’s calm when I leave.
Pam, my neighbor, waves to me as I climb out of the car when I return home a little after ten.
