The Toybox

The box was dusty, its sides moist and soggy, draped with shadows and cobwebs that were nestled in the back of my wardrobe. The bottom almost gave way as I hoisted it into my arms, dust tickling my nose, burning my eyes. A tiny handprint was visible, layered beneath particles and dirt, barely an outline, a shade lighter than its surroundings. Dust (or nostalgia) made my eyes water. It had been a long time. The name, Emery, was still scrawled on the side, in thick, black letters, but had faded over time. It didn’t need to be there. Who else was the box for?

I placed the box in the middle of my small room, nudging aside piles of clothes and books and cords I was sure I’d need someday but didn’t know what they charged. My suitcase was open nearby, spewing clothes I’d yanked from the hangers in my closet. A plume of sediments rose into the air as the box hit the ground, and I coughed as they entered my lungs. The sides bulged. It was fuller than I remembered. But a lot of it would have to go.

I gently unfolded the top. Black, glassy eyes stared at me, piles of matted fur, tangled, limp. On top, a toy dog, missing one ear, spewing stuffing out of its head. Its fur had been darkened over years of dirt and sweat and spilled food had never been washed out. Gummy-bear, I’d named it. It had short ears (when it had ears) and a button nose that made it look like Paddington.

‘But it’s a dog, Emery,’ Dad had said. ‘Why name it Gummy-bear?’

‘He can name it whatever he wants. It’s his toy, after all.’ Mum defended me. She smiled, one of her brilliant, dazzling grins that made warmth blossom in the pit of my stomach. ‘Happy birthday, Em.’

Dad laughed, slapped me on the back with an open palm. I almost stumbled forward, but I was grinning too.

‘Of course you can. You are eight, after all.’

I grinned, poking my tongue through the gap in my teeth. It still tasted mildly of blood and metal from when I’d yanked my baby tooth free from my gums.

That was the last birthday we all spent together.

I dug through the toys. Each brought me back, further and further into the past, before loss, before grief, before everything fell apart. When all I knew was togetherness and pointless fights over dinner and being forced into the bath at night. Before our family fell apart and the smell of the hospital became the smell of my mum. Before Dad grew cold and quiet and distant and only grunted one-word responses over cold take-out, and stopped telling me to eat my veggies and that I needed to be clean. Before his face became heavy and waxy and unmoving, puffy beneath his eyes, like he had aged a decade in a day.

Before Mum died.

I was nearing the bottom of the box. A toy bear with magnets in its hands that I used to stick on the fridge. A smart-looking fox with a bow around its neck.

A present.

I froze. The wrapping paper was dull, with zigzags patterned across its surface. A tear in it revealed dark fur beneath, still fluffy, smooth.

I gingerly picked it up. The paper crinkled in my hands. In familiar block letters was written, To Emery. Happy nineth birthday. Love, Mum.

My gaze drifted from the box, as if waiting for someone to burst in, take the present from me, tell me it wasn’t time yet. It wasn’t my birthday. I had to wait, like when I snuck out at eleven the night before my birthday and rifled through my parent’s closet, searching for my present.

But no one came. And I had been waiting a decade.

Tenderly, I peeled the wrapping paper back. It fell apart easily, tape barely clinging it together, the toy unfurling in my hands. I knew exactly what it was, but the giddy excitement in the pit of my stomach that I hadn’t felt in over ten years returned, as if I was eight all over again.

The bear was heavy. It had a weight inside of it. Its eyes were tiny buttons, sewn onto its face. Its fur was a deep, chocolate brown, impossibly soft, reminiscent of my own hair when I was younger. I jammed my thumb into its paw. It felt hard, as if there was something there. Perhaps it would make a noise. But it remained still, lifeless.

Maybe it needed batteries. I had batteries. Its voice wasn’t dead yet.

But where were they?

I wanted the batteries. Instead, I sank to my knees. I pressed the bear to my chest, allowing my moistening eyes to smear into its fur. I wrapped my arms around it, sobbing, wishing I could go back. Wishing Mum had stayed alive long enough to give me one final present. Why did she have to die? Maybe, if she hadn’t, things wouldn’t turn out like they had. Maybe I wouldn’t be moving out, barely a few hundred bucks to my name, a suitcase filled with too-tight clothes and barely a few toiletries that desperately needed to be refilled. Maybe I wouldn’t be so alone. Would things have been different?

I hugged the bear, feeling whatever was inside of it pressed against me, a weight, a being. My throat was thick. I sobbed. But it wasn’t enough. It was never enough.

Suddenly, the bear made a noise. A grunt, a groan. Mottled, mechanical. I froze. My tears hesitated, as if they were unsure if they wanted to slide down my cheeks.

The bear groaned again, a noise that came from deep within it. A sad, quiet noise, almost a sob.

Then, another. Louder. It shook against my chest. It cried again, its eyes glazed, like they had been brushed with resin.

The bear slipped from my arms as they went numb. It landed face-down on the floor, its small chest rising and falling shakily. Louder, it sobbed. It cried and wailed and I suddenly felt the hairs on my neck prickling, as if someone was watching.

I covered it with a t-shirt and pressed it to the floor, muffling the sound. The bear was crying. Crying. A mechanical voice, yet somehow thick with emotion. But that couldn’t be right. Toys couldn’t feel anything. It wasn’t sad.

Neither was I.

My sadness had evaporated. The weight, the tension in my shoulders. Gone, like the tears in my eyes. I felt lighter. For the first time in years. The world became saturated in colour once more, bright, vibrant, like I was stepping into my young eyes once again. The loss, the gut-wrenching sorrow, the fatiguing heartache. It had all vanished.

Still, the bear cried. It was sitting among the wrapping paper, concealed by my shirt, where Mum had scrawled her message to my nine-year-old self. I could see her now, in my mind’s eye: frail, fragile, a beanie covering her bald head, smiling with a face that had aged a decade since she had been diagnosed. Writing on the wrapping paper, covering a bear she dedicated to me. A final toy for my toybox.

I glanced back at the paper. Another note, more writing caught my eye, in small letters, on the backs of a scrap the bear sat beside. I picked it up.

The bear cried inconsolably.

It feels things you supress, the note said. I love you, my baby boy. You’ll get through this. I know you will.

The bear cried.

Loud, anguished.

The sound drained out of me, like a burst pressure bubble, festering for far too long.

That was my grief. Mine.

But I didn’t need to take it alone any longer.