I wish I could say that I acted like the kind of mother I want to be: calm, understanding, and open-minded. But the truth is, fear got the best of me. And I almost ruined my child’s sole pal.
It all started on a gloomy Tuesday afternoon in Maple Ridge Park, the park that my daughter Lily and I had gone to almost every day for five years. Lily is now seven years old. When she was two years old, she was diagnosed with severe, nonverbal autism. Since that time, the world has been a terrifying and unpredictable place for her. She has a very well-planned day: same shoes, same snacks, same path, same time.
Every day at 3:00 PM, we walk up the cracked concrete path to the swings, where the hopscotch squares are fading. It’s the only thing that calms her down. Of course, she doesn’t play it the way most people do. She jumps, skips, or stands steady on one square for minutes at a time. She lies down next to them and rubs her fingertips over the chalk numbers when she wants to. It’s her safe place.
But he was there that day.
I couldn’t help but see him right away. He was a big man, maybe over six feet tall and 300 pounds. He had skull tattoos all over his arms and neck, and he wore a leather vest and jeans. His beard was long and gray, and it came close to touching his chest. He sat still on the park bench next to the hopscotch squares, hands folded, and just observed.
Not her; simply staring at the world.
Right away, my alarm bells went off. What was he doing here? This wasn’t a bar for bikers; it was a park for kids. That day, I couldn’t stop looking at him. I held Lily’s hand tighter than I usually do. He didn’t utter a word.
But he did come back the next day. And then the next. Every time at 3:00 PM.
Something was wrong on the fourth day. Did he watch over the kids? Was he stalking someone? Was he looking for an opening? I had a lot of notions in my head.
But then Lily did something she had never done before.
She dropped my hand and ran straight to him.
She didn’t look back. She didn’t think twice about it. She stepped right up to this big man and shook his hand. And just like that, she led him to the hopscotch squares.
He went after.
Then this big guy started to jump.
He had on enormous, heavy boots, black pants, rings on his fingers, and tattoos that went from his knuckles to his collarbone. He was hopping on one foot near to my kid.
And what about Lily? She laughed.
The kind of laugh that makes your body shake and your head fly back. I hadn’t heard it since she was two and got the diagnosis. I couldn’t stand that laugh. I stayed still, shaking my hands and crying. I was torn between feeling quite relieved and getting more and more scared.
What kind of guy would play hopscotch with a girl he doesn’t know?
What was really going on here?
I lost it. I did what I thought a good mom would do.
I called the police.
The dispatcher stayed cool. She wanted to know if the man had hurt Lily in any way. “No,” I answered. Did he mention anything that made you feel scared? I said no. Once more, she asked whether there was a crime. I told them I didn’t know, but I was afraid.
A police officer came. Lily and the man were still bouncing as the patrol car pulled into the parking lot. She was enjoying herself. He grinned gently and didn’t make a fuss or look around. Being there, in her beat.
Two cops walked up to him. He was asked things. He stood up gently, with his hands raised a little in peace. I couldn’t hear what they were saying. Lily noticed the change in tone, and she went from happy to confused.
Next came the handcuffs.
Lily started to scream.
It wasn’t the usual breakdown from too much excitement. This was worse: deep, primal, and brokenhearted. She ran to him, tried to grasp his vest, and pulled on the cops. She was crying and making noises I didn’t know she could make. A loud sob, resembling a cry or a call for help.
I had never seen her treat anyone else that way. Not even to me.
The police officer looked at me. I must have looked just as afraid.
That’s when the man, who was as calm as ever, spoke up for the first time.
He said in a low voice, “She calls me Graybeard.” ” My granddaughter had autism. Not saying anything either. We played hopscotch every day. I don’t talk to your girlfriend. I don’t touch her. One day, she just strolled up to me and took my hand. I didn’t have the nerve to say no.
I didn’t say anything. I couldn’t speak.
The officers looked at each other. One of them took off the cuffs.
The younger one said to me, “Ma’am, this man hasn’t done anything wrong.”
I nodded. Slowly. I was so embarrassed that my face was red. I wanted to dig a hole and get within it.
They let him go, and he waved at Lily once before leaving. She cried on the sidewalk and sank to her knees.
After a while, the police left. I just held her. I couldn’t tell them what I had done.
The next day, I didn’t know if he would come back. I didn’t even know if I wanted him to. But Lily kept telling us we had to go to the park.
And there he was.
Three o’clock. Same chair.
She ran to him again, and as she grabbed his hand and pulled him to the hopscotch squares, he smiled. This time, I sat on the bench across from them. I witnessed him discreetly follow her lead: when she jumped, he jumped; when she stayed still, he stayed motionless.
We talked for a while. It was Thomas. His granddaughter called him “Graybeard” before she died two years ago from a seizure. Since then, he hadn’t gone back to a park. Until Lily came along.
He said once, “She reminded me of her.” “Same eyes.” The same quiet strength.
Lily plays with him every day after school. I bring food that isn’t needed. He offers her some old chalk so she can repaint the squares if the rain washes them away. They don’t have to converse to one another.
They communicate by movement. In person. In the game of hopscotch.
I don’t like that call. I guess I’ll always do that.
But I’ve also learnt something important: not all protectors look like what we assume they should. People who look intimidating on the outside are sometimes the nicest people you know.
I almost took away the only actual friend my kid had.
I sit on a bench nearby and watch her dance in chalk squares next to a biker with a gray beard and skull tattoos. I’ve never felt so safe.
