by G Sauvé
“What did it say?”
“Why don’t you read it and find out for yourself?” she offers, revealing a yellowed sheet of paper. It’s old but perfectly preserved.
I reach out with trembling hands and carefully unfold it. It’s a short, handwritten note.
This is my son, Will Save. He is all I have left in this world. I don’t want to give him up, but I have no choice. It’s the only way I can keep him safe. Please tell him I love him and make sure he gets this box when he turns fifteen. It may well save his life.
—A.
By the time I’m done reading the letter, tears are streaming down my cheeks. I can’t believe how much I learned in that one short paragraph. Not only do I now have proof my mother didn’t want to give me up, but I also know her name starts with an “A.” It’s not much, but it’s more than I ever expected to uncover.
I re-read the letter. Twice. It’s not until the third passage that I notice there’s something written on the back. It’s a detailed list of instructions. For some reason, I was to receive that mysterious box within the hour following my fifteenth birthday. It also specifies I not be told of its existence until then. The last line is a set of numbers. It takes a moment before I realize it’s my exact date and time of birth. Apparently, I was born at 12:01 AM.
I glance at the nearby clock. It’s 12:18 AM, which means Grace succeeded in fulfilling my mother’s request. It also means the appearance of the yet unidentified symbol that now mars my left wrist coincided with my exact time of birth. That can’t be a coincidence.
“Aren’t you going to open it?” asks Grace, nodding to my mother’s present. After a moment, she adds, “I thought it would be more fun if I wrapped it.”
“What’s inside?”
“I don’t know. I never opened it.”
“Weren’t you curious?”
“Of course, but the box wasn’t meant for me. Opening it would have been an invasion of privacy.”
I smile. Only Grace would hold on to a box for fifteen years and never look inside. Still, part of me wishes she had. It would make things so much easier for me. Then again, when has my life ever been simple?
I grab the package and tear off the wrapping paper, revealing a small wooden box. According to the label, it holds a dozen cigars, but I seriously doubt my mother would go through all this trouble just to give me lung cancer.
Inside the box are two items. The first is a ring. The second is a letter. I grab it and unfold it, but my trembling hands keep me from analyzing it.
“Would you like me to read it?” asks Grace.
I nod, too overwhelmed to speak. She takes the letter from my hands and starts reading.
“Dear Will. I know you probably resent me for abandoning you, but please understand I didn’t have a choice. A bad man was after us, and the only way to keep you—and the entire world—safe was to give you up. But now you’re old enough to know the truth. It’s time for us to meet, to be a family again.”
My heart skips a beat. Not only did my mother not want to give me up, but she wants us to meet. I barely listen to what Grace says next. All I make out is an address—56 Rue Simard, Montréal—and a time—2:00 AM. The letter ends with my mother telling me that she loves me and she can’t wait to see me again.
I remain quiet for the longest time. It’s not until Grace mentions that my mother’s letter includes a postscriptum that I snap out of it.
“Keep the ring with you at all times,” she reads. “It may well save your life.”
A passage from my mother’s letter comes back to me. A bad man was after us, and the only way to keep you—and the entire world—safe was to give you up. What does that mean? Why would the world be in danger? And why did she make it sound like it’s my fault if something horrible happens? I wonder if it has anything to do with that dream I had.
I notice Grace staring at me, but I ignore her. I retrieve the ring from the cigar box and try it on. It fits like a glove, which is odd because it seemed too big up until the moment it encircled my finger. But I forget all about that when I notice the symbol that adorns it.
It’s not the same as the symbol that appeared on my wrist, but it’s similar enough that I stop breathing at the mere sight of it. There are two triangles; only instead of crossing tips, their bases hover mere millimetres apart. The top triangle is full but for the inverted triangle of emptiness that stands at its tip. The bottom one is its complete antithesis.
There’s no doubt in my mind the two symbols are related. In fact, everything that has happened in the past twenty minutes or so seems to be related. First, the mysterious dream in which I killed myself to escape the guilt of causing the deaths of countless innocents. Then, the appearance of the hourglass symbol on my wrist. And now this ring. Whatever is going on, it’s all related. But what is going on? And why is it happening to me?
There’s only one way to find out. I have to meet my mother.
I fear Grace won’t allow it, but one look is all it takes to prove me wrong.
“Do you want to finish your cake or should I wrap it up for later?” she asks.
I can’t help smiling. Grace may not be my mother, yet I have always thought of her as such. But now that I have a real mother, perhaps she can take on the role of my big sister. It suddenly hits me that I may not be an only child. What if I have more than a mother waiting for me? What if my father is there too? What if I have brothers and sisters? For all I know, I have an entire family waiting to welcome me home.
“I’m not hungry,” I admit.
“I expected as much,” says Grace, revealing a roll of plastic wrap. “Let’s go,” she adds once the cake has been tucked away in the walk-in fridge. With a final smile, she strolls out of the kitchen.
I hesitate, but only for a moment. I grab my mother’s letter and stuff it into my pocket as I hurry after Grace.
“Where are we going?” I ask when I catch up with her.
“We’re not going anywhere,” she says. “You are.” She reaches into her pocket and produces a set of keys.
“Are you sure you want to do this?” I ask. “You could lose your job.”
She dismisses the notion with a wave of her delicate hand.
“No one will know it was me,” she says. “Plus, you’ll be back before anyone realizes you’re gone.” She peers deep into my eyes as only a parental figure can and adds, “Won’t you?”
I nod, though I fear it may be the first lie I ever tell her. We continue in silence until we reach the main entrance. Grace unlocks the door and returns the keys to her pocket.
Now comes the hardest part. Saying goodbye.
Grace pulls me in for a tight hug. For some reason, it feels more like a “goodbye” than a “see you in a few hours.”
“I hope you find your mother,” she says.
“I’m scared,” I admit.
She pulls away and peers deep into my eyes. She’s crying, but a broad smile curls her lips.
“You’re fifteen now,” she says. “You’re almost a man.”
She’s right.
“Thank you,” I say. “For everything,” I add as I open the door and step out into the cool night air.
Is It Real?
W ill Jr. came to with a yelp. His heart thrummed within his chest. His hands shook. His throat felt like sandpaper, yet he managed to croak out a few words.
“Wh-what just happened?”
He felt sluggish. His movements were jerky and unpredictable. His vision was blurry. He tried to focus, but all he could make out was the occasional detail.
Dust. Boxes of junk. Old, mouldy furniture.
He was in the attic. That explained the heterogeneousness of his surroundings, but not what he was doing there. Or why he felt like he had just been run over by a herd of lava demons.
It was not until he spotted the small wooden box that lay before him that things finally started making sense. Details began falling into place, and in a matter of seconds, everything made sense.
One look was enough to reveal it was still attached to his arm. At first glance, it resembled a watch, but Will Jr. knew better. Overwhelmed by the urge to free himself from it, he grabbed hold of the mysterious device and pulled. To his utter surprise, the wristband split into a dozen jointed barbs and retracted into the metallic disc. Breathing a sigh of relief, Will Jr. snatched it up and chucked it away.
The memory organizer flew through the air for a brief moment before hitting an old dresser. After a short plummet, it rolled around for a few seconds, then came to rest against the very box from whence it came.
Will Jr. stared at the strange device, breathing heavily. He did not want to believe it, yet there was no denying what he had just experienced. As impossible as it seemed, he had relived his father’s memories.
“No,” he muttered. He had not merely relived his father’s memories. He had become his father. It sounded insane, yet it was true.
Will Jr. had learned more about his father in the past few minutes—or however long he had spent linked to the memory organizer—than he ever had from his mother. Or his grandparents, for that matter. He could not help resenting them, but such feelings faded almost as quickly as they had appeared. With the help of the memory organizer, Will Jr. now possessed a veritable cornucopia of information about his father. All he had to do was let the mysterious device work its magic, and he would get to know his father in ways he would never have thought possible.
Will Jr. stood up and walked over to the memory organizer. It felt warm against his skin, but he knew it was not the metal that burned hot, but rather the memories it contained. The teenager took a seat and placed the device on his wrist. It came to life and encircled his wrist. Moments later, Will Jr. was overwhelmed by his father’s memories.
Memory 6
I shiver as I amble down the sidewalk. My hoodie is thick and my jeans adequate, but the pyjamas I wear underneath are still drenched in sweat. I consider hiding behind a bush to remove my sleeping attire, but I refuse to waste even a single second. According to my calculations, I have fifty minutes of wiggle room, but the last thing I need right now is for an unpredictable event to stand in the way of my family reunion.
Montréal is the second largest city in Canada, which means that no matter the time or the neighbourhood, there’s always something going on. But not tonight. Tonight the streets are deserted. The houses are dark and the cars idle. I don’t hear a single honk or bark. The city is quiet. Too quiet.
I walk on, refusing to let the ominousness of my surroundings get to me. Two turns and not so much as a single encounter later, I reach the subway station. I push past the revolving doors and look around.
The station is empty.
Still unsettled by the complete and utter lack of human presence, I make my way to the escalator and ride it down to the turnstile level where half a dozen ticket machines are waiting for me. I use what little money I have to buy a boarding pass, then make my way across the overpass.
It’s not until I reach the boarding platform that I remember the station has been closed for renovations for the past few months. From the looks of it, I’m one of the first people to use it since its grand reopening.
I take a moment to study the unfamiliar surroundings.
The new colour scheme is livelier than the last, but it’s still far from cheerful. On the plus side, the dreary benches that once lined the walls of the boarding platform have been replaced with massive stone benches. They stand back to back at a ninety-degree angle from the wall. Hanging between each of the twelve pairs of seats are television screens. That’s a good thing because I only just missed the train, which means I’ll have to wait ten minutes for the next one to arrive.
I take a seat and glance at the nearest screen. It’s 12:45 AM. The walk took a little longer than I expected, but I’m still on schedule.
As I wait, my mind begins to wander. What will my mother be like? Will she be tall and beautiful or short and ugly? What about my father? Will he be there, waiting to embrace me? Will they be proud of the young man I have become? What if I get there and there’s no one? What if this was all a practical joke? But who would do such a thing? And why?
I’m in the process of driving myself crazy with all these questions when a scream echoes throughout the station. I scan my surroundings, but there’s no one in sight. I’m just about to accept the fact that I truly did drive myself insane worrying about my family reunion when the echo of footsteps reaches my ears.
The sound grows closer with surprising speed, indicating that whoever is approaching is doing so at a rapid pace. I catch a glimpse of a shape hurrying across the overpass, but it vanishes from sight before I can make out the person’s gender. If the scream I heard is any indication, it’s a woman.
From where I sit I can’t see the staircase, but I have a clear view of the platform where the newcomer will emerge. I wait, but no one appears. The footsteps have stopped, indicating that whoever just crossed the overpass has halted somewhere on the stairs.
I wait a few seconds, but nothing happens. Should I investigate? Perhaps the woman needs help. But, in the end, it’s curiosity that drives me to my feet. I near the corner and slow down. When nothing happens, I step out of cover.
It’s her. The woman I heard before. She hurries down the stairs toward me. Her hair is black, and her stature is small, but I can’t make out much else because she’s currently glancing back over her shoulder. By the time she turns back around and realizes she’s headed right for me, it’s already too late.
She slams into me.
Pain explodes from my chest as we topple to the ground and skid across the floor.
The ache is overwhelming. My muscles convulse as wave after wave of pain washes over me. My jaw snaps shut, trapping the tip of my tongue between my teeth. But a sore tongue is the least of my concerns. It feels like I’m going to die. In fact, death would be a welcome release.
I don’t know how long it lasts. All I know is the pain ceases as soon as the woman pries herself off of me. Agony gives way to intense heat, but that too quickly fades. Within seconds, I’m back to normal.
I stare at the woman, too stunned to speak.
She’s in her late thirties. She could be beautiful, but the large scar that mars her right cheek robs her of it. Her skin is as pale as a fresh blanket of snow while her hair is the colour of charcoal. Even her eyes are reminiscent of cooled embers. But what hits me the hardest is the symbol that adorns her left wrist.
It’s an hourglass.
Memory 7
I study the symbol. It’s grey instead of black, almost as if someone tried to wash it away with bleach, but otherwise, it’s identical to mine.
What does it mean? Why does this woman bear the same mark as me? Who is she? These are only some of the questions that bounce around my head.
It takes a while, but I eventually manage to tear my gaze from the woman’s arm, only to find her staring at my own wrist. The look of disbelief that deforms her traits proves she’s just as shocked as me.
I’m about to ask who she is when a man’s voice fills the air.
“We should go.” At first, I don’t understand where the voice is coming from, but then I spot him. He stands behind the woman, his face twisted into a permanent scowl. I can’t tell if the effect is natural or the result of a horrible accident, but it doesn’t matter.
The woman hesitates. It’s not until the echo of footsteps reaches us that she finally makes up her mind. With a final glance in my direction, she runs off, the scowling man close in pursuit.
I wonder who they’re running from.
I pry myself off the ground, only to see a massive shape fill my vision. I barely have time to identify it as a man before he barrels into me.
I go flying for the second time in less than a minute and end up right back on the ground. This time there’s no explosion of pain, but the force of the impact is enough to stun me.
The man p
auses long enough for me to notice his crew cut and bulging muscles. His salt and pepper hair and matching beard stubble do little to attenuate the effect achieved by his erect posture and the massive burn marks that riddle his right arm. There’s no doubt in my mind he’s a soldier.
Trailing close behind the hulking military figure is a beautiful young woman. She’s about my age, though, if I had to guess, I’d say she’s a year older than me. She looks like a living, breathing Barbie doll. Long blond hair. Blue eyes you can get lost in. Curves that would make a supermodel jealous. In other words, she’s the girl of my dreams.
The soldier rushes on without so much as an apology. His partner halts and gives me an apologetic smile. She offers me a hand, which I hesitantly take, and pulls me to my feet with surprising ease. She may appear delicate, but she’s quite strong.
“Sorry,” she says. I can’t identify the dialect she uses, yet I have no trouble understanding her.
I’m about to tell her she’s not to blame when she runs off. I can’t help staring as her hips sway from side to side, but I forget all about that when I notice the gun in her hand. It’s unlike any of the weapons I have seen in movies, yet there’s no doubt in my mind it’s a pistol. Her grey-haired partner is also armed. In fact, he’s in the process of pointing his weapon at the scar lady and her scowling partner. They’re nearing the end of the boarding platform, completely unaware they’re about to get shot.
I stare for a moment, frozen in shock, before it hits me. I’m about to witness a murder.
Memory 8
I ’m not brave. It’s not that I don’t want to be; it’s just that every time I try to be courageous, I freeze up. By the time I decide to take action, it’s too late, and all I can do is flee.