The Jump Journal

by Douglas Corriveau

  At the sound of my embarrassing voice crack, she wheeled around with a panicked, yet somehow fierce, expression as if she had already made up her mind to beat the crap out of whichever member of the Chipmunks stood behind her. I summoned words to my brain, hoped they were intelligent, and opened fire.

  “Wha….what are you doing?”

  Wow. Genius.

  “What am I doing??” Her green eyes flashed. “What are you doing? Just lying in wait for the first girl who runs in the woods by herself?” She frowned and processed what she had just said. “Man, that made more sense in my head.”

  I found my tongue at last.

  “You’re not kidding. And besides, even if that was my plan, could I have picked a worse place to do it?”

  She sniffed disdainfully.

  “You might be a pervert who’s a little bit thick, for all I know.”

  I was about to lash out with a comeback when I noticed her haughty expression crack, struggling to maintain her composure. She was trying not to laugh. I held out my hand.

  “Ryan.”

  She shook it. It was a solid handshake; firm, not overbearing. I decided I liked her.

  “Rachel.”

  “You go for runs in the boonies of Michigan often, Rachel?” I squinted at the setting sun. “At…almost four, no less?”

  Rachel planted a hand on her hip and pointed over to the tree where she tripped over me.

  “You always write in your diary over there at…..almost four?” She deepened her voice at that last part, mimicking my inflection almost perfectly. I chuckled to myself, but kept my face placid. I knew this type; she was a bloodhound. If I gave an inch, she would keep pressing until I said what I suspected where her three favorite words: “I give up!”

  “It’s a journal,” I whined in the petulant tones of a teenager. “And yes, actually I do. But I imagine I live quite a bit closer to here than you.”

  The petite brunette gasped with mock horror.

  “Is this where you take your victims??”

  “Ouch. And no, I happen to live right over there.” I waved a hand back towards the cabin, barely visible against the sunset. Rachel shielded her eyes against the last rays of light and uttered a squawk of astonishment.

  “I’ve run by here for years and never noticed this place! And you live out here??”

  “Me and Chaplain. Yeah.”

  She raised an eyebrow.

  “What are you guys, hermits or something?”

  I started to answer, but I had no real response. The truth was, I wasn’t sure what I was.

  “Something like that.”

  “Well, good for you,” she laughed. “Personally, I like the comforts of civilization.”

  “You must be running double marathons if you’re coming from civilization.”

  “Aw, you’re sweet. You’re also wrong. My town’s about an hour’s run from here.”

  “So, like six miles?” I grinned.

  “More like nine, thank you very much.”

  I whistled appreciatively. She took a bow.

  “This particular run is taking me far longer than I’d like,” she grumbled, her eyes glinting with amusement. I threw up my hands defensively.

  “Hey, don’t let me stop you! I have to get back to the torture chamber. Igor and I have more skin to filet.”

  “That sounds like fun. I’ll let you get back to it,” she smirked, clearly pleased that I wasn’t just rolling over for her. “It was nice to meet you, Ryan.”

  “You too!” I called to her retreating figure. She had turned on her heel and taken off like an Olympic sprinter at the starter’s gun. I shook my head. I figured she was the type who always had to have the last word.

  Still, it was nice to have a friend.

  Our paths didn’t cross again for another two weeks. I faithfully wrote in my favorite spot by the tree every day, hoping for company, but none came. I assumed that she was avoiding taking that path on purpose, but just as I was about to throw in the towel, a lithe shadow fell over the journal’s pages.

  “Aw, you’re still keeping up with your diary,” Rachel’s voice carried her smile as easily as her face did. “So precious.”

  “Journal,” I corrected automatically. A genuine grin grew on my own face in response, an occurrence that was happening a lot more often lately. “You’re two weeks late.”

  “Oh? I wasn’t aware that we had an appointment.”

  She plopped down next to me and leaned her head back against the oak’s trunk. We sat in comfortable silence for a bit, and I marveled at how easy it was to be friends with this girl. She was no Tara, that was certain; she didn’t affect me the same way. It was just natural, you know? It’s like when you discover a previously hidden talent of yours. It comes as easily as breathing.

  “I told my dad about you tripping me in the woods.”

  “Yeah?”

  “He told me to ‘Speak softly and carry a big stick, but the first part is optional,’” she quoted, her voice a comical imitation of an older man’s bass tones. I shot her a quizzical look. She shrugged and rolled her eyes, evidently non-plussed as well by her father’s advice. “He’s always saying stuff like that. He thinks he’s hilarious.”

  “I’m 150% sure that being a dad means you have “dad” jokes.”

  Rachel nodded sagely.

  “Prone to cause eye-rolling in children over the age of eleven. Ask your doctor if Dad humor is right for you,” she intoned in the cadences of a TV infomercial. I chuckled and savored the feeling of conversation with someone my age. Chaplain was a wonderful friend, but he was a mentor, not a peer. Rachel could relate; as we talked, I found out more and more about my woodland friend. She was a year post-high school, but she had decided not to go to college yet. She was the middle child, blessed and cursed with an older brother and a younger sister, both of whom took after her firefighter father. Rachel proudly claimed to be the spitting image of her late mother, who had passed away of cancer when she was six.

  In turn, I told her everything that I could. I wasn’t stupid; no matter how awesome Rachel was, she didn’t have the same blind faith in people that Chaplain was gifted with. Telling her that I could travel through time would be like announcing I was the reincarnation of Mufasah from “The Lion King”. I didn’t figure that would go over well, and I had less than zero inclination to prove that it was true. After months of fighting the urge over and over again, I finally reached a place when encountering obstacles no longer sparked an impulse to jump. By all appearances, I was no longer an addict.

  What I did tell her was that I was recovering from an addiction and my simple life with Chaplain was helping me to heal. It wasn’t a lie; it just wasn’t the whole truth. Honestly, what would you have done? I didn’t dare begin a new friendship based on the same lies that I’d told Tara in our relationship, but on the other hand, I would lose this friendship by giving the whole truth. What a life. Luckily, she didn’t judge.

  “I figured you had a past if you were “hermitting” it up in the woods of Michigan,” Rachel said gently after I had finished my abbreviated story. She slugged me in the shoulder in her usual show of care. “I just can’t get over that you, and thisChaplain guy, live out here all by yourselves. Don’t you ever get lonely?”

  “We have everything we need,” I murmured, quoting Chaplain. “But I’d be lying if I said that it was easy all the time. There are ghosts that followed me here, and sometimes they’re…very noticeable. Chaplain’s got ‘em, too. I know he’ll never complain about them, but they’re there.” I shook my head, trying to clear my head. “It’s not like I’m alone, anyway. You run by here, I’ll see you around.”

  She grinned in response and slugged me in the arm again.

  “I gotta go before Dad starts thinking my mile times are getting seriously high.”

  “What, is he competitive?”

  “No, but I am!” Rachel bounced to her feet like a tiny, brunette Energizer Bunny. “I’ll see you around, kid.”


  “I’m older than you are!”

  I found myself speaking to her dust trail once again, but before she sprinted totally out of view, a faint “So?” floated back to me through the trees.

  Stupid girl… Always had to have the last word.

  Chapter 19

  Rachel and I met at least once a week for the remainder of my time with Chaplain. The older man’s thoughts on this friendship were a mystery. Every time that I mentioned her, his face evenly maintained whatever expression it had worn seconds before. Occasionally, I tried to bring it up in conversation.

  “Chaplain, do you know Rachel’s family?” I asked one day.

  “Know of them, rather. Her father’s the fire chief in the local town, her mother passed on to the Lord’s kingdom the year I started my solitude.”

  That peaked my interest. Chaplain rarely ever talked about his past. Actually, I realized, he never talked about it. I abandoned the subject of Rachel in pursuit of more information on my companion.

  “When was that?”

  He gazed distantly at the low ceiling as the fire crackled in the hearth.

  “1999.”

  I held my breath, but he didn’t expound any further. I fought the urge to shake him in frustration; six months of living with a man who concealed even his real first name had itched at my natural curiosity enough that I could barely stand it. The silence stretched to the snapping point, or more precisely, my snapping point.

  “What did you do before that,” I blurted so quickly that it didn’t sound like a question. As soon as it was out of my mouth, I wanted to cut off my foot before it could get lodged any deeper down my throat. I started a fumbling apology, but Chaplain waved me off with a melancholy chuckle.

  “Nay, lad. Don’t worry, I remember a boy’s inclination to turn over stones. Some things need to see the light o’ day.”

  His Irish accent lilted more prominently than usual and his startling eyebrows lacked their liveliness. Had he been drinking? I grew worried. Drinking was about as natural to Chaplain as river dancing was to me. I scanned the small cabin and noticed a cabinet in the cupboard slightly ajar. I had little doubt that if I investigated further, I would find alcohol of some variety stashed away, but I was yanked out of my concern as Chaplain heaved a sigh and began recounting his life.

  “I was far from a recluse, lad. I had a wife back home, in Ireland.” He looked at me seriously, his green eyes full of drunken innocence. “I’m Irish, you know.”

  “Uh-huh,” I swallowed back my laughter. Chaplain failed to notice, and continued:

  “I was happy, you know; in love and proud of it. I came to these shores in 1994, expecting nothing more than a few solid business transactions.” His expression lightened briefly. “I also wanted to try peanut butter.”

  “Oh?” This time, there was no hiding the shakiness of laughter in my voice. As I chuckled, it occurred to me that Chaplain wasn’t actually a priest! He had a wife, and it sounded like his occupation had been in business. My jaw dropped in wonder, but he didn’t notice. His face suddenly fell heavily into mournful introspection.

  “Ah, lad, I was a fool. I let my pride cloud my sense. There was a woman here…..a beautiful girl.”

  I squeezed my eyes shut in sympathetic agony. I knew how this story ended. His eyes misted, unheeded, as he stumbled through his story.

  “I did what any lover should never do, and I couldn’t bear it. I fled here to this……escape, where I promised I’d never hurt another through my actions. God found me, gave me peace about what I’d done. I just—“

  He broke down completely, gasping his words through sobs.

  “I don’t have the strength to face her after what I’ve done, God help me, I can’t do it.”

  I eased myself down next to him and wrapped an arm around his small frame. So there it was. We had common ground after all; he had cost himself his love just as I had. As Chaplain shook with the force of his pain, I mingled my misery with his. I realized that Chaplain’s last statement might as well have been pulled from my own mouth. God help us both.

  That night, I didn’t sleep. I couldn’t. What had the world around me come to? I dimly remembered when it had been full of light, hope, even optimism, but holding on to those memories was like trying to recall a pleasant dream once you’ve snapped awake. I rolled upright, wincing as the worn couch beneath me creaked. I shouldn’t have worried; after Chaplain’s emotional breakdown, the poor man was passed out. I just needed to be outside with my thoughts.

  The chilling January air bit through the worn leather jacket Chaplain had found for me, but after months of journaling in less than comfortable temperatures, I barely noticed. Besides, I could have been being mauled by a mountain lion that night and failed to notice. The evening’s events had torn open a sucking black hole in my peaceful denial; the issues that I had buried under work, journaling, and Chaplain’s company reared their ugly, familiar heads.

  What felt like minutes passed, but when my surroundings snapped back into focus, I noticed the dull ache of fatigue in my legs and the slight glint of light on the horizon. Gritty, cracked asphalt gnawed hungrily at the worn soles of my shoes. Somehow, I had unknowingly wandered far enough from the cabin to find myself on the closest main road. It was starting to become a habit.

  It’s alright, I thought to myself, you can figure out where you are.

  The pre-dawn light flashed against a worn metallic sign that read “Welcome to Scottsdale”.

  Oh. That was strangely easy.

  I peered down the road, struggling to make heads or tails out of the silhouetted shapes ahead. I had to trot forward a few yards, before I realized I was looking at buildings. Twenty more yards, and I could make out scurrying shapes and flashing lights. I’m no good at estimating the time of day (once again, ironic), but I was more than a bit befuddled at the commotion in town at what I guessed was about 3 am. The activity was focused around one house that caught the peeking rays of the sun just a little bit better than the others.

  Coldly, I put the town to my back and out of my mind. What did it matter what nonsense they were up to? I had my own issues and my time was mine and mine alone.

  The breeze shifted suddenly and a snowflake drifted past my peripheral vision. As it danced in front of me, I stopped dead in my tracks. The snowflake dropped to the dew-soaked asphalt and hissed audibly.

  Snowflakes don’t hiss.

  Warily, afraid of what my gut already suspected, I looked up to the sky to find dozens of candle-like glows riding on the wind. I looked back over my shoulder at Scottsdale, where the distant strobes and figures still rushed about that one lit house.

  And that’s not sunlight.

  As if in response to my thoughts, the light I’d thought was framing the house burst through one of its windows, licking angrily at the walls of the structure. A solitary sound spanned the gap between me and the commotion; a panicked, high-pitched scream snapped across my already-taut nerves. Instinctual fear rose unbidden in my chest, demanding to be heard. Don’t do it, don’t do it, please don’t do anything stupid.

  My feet pounded the pavement. The house, the flames it contained, and the individuals racing around grew more visible with every step.

  Damn, my common sense complained. Well, here we go.

  By the time I was close enough to see the desperation on the firefighters’ faces, I could practically taste charcoal on the breeze. I’d witnessed fires before in my childhood, but always with the safety of distance. Now, as the inferno loomed over me, my eyebrows felt as though they were on fire. I wasn’t the only one feeling the intense heat; even the few individuals battling the blaze couldn’t enter the house. It was just too powerful. The female screams that had driven my mad sprint to there rose in volume and agony, followed by a massive creak from the house itself. As if in slow motion, the entire front of the house collapsed backward into the building. The screams stopped abruptly.

  You know the phrase “struck dumb”? When you witnes
s something that awful, you can’t react for a moment. No tears, no yells of terror, just blank silence. Everyone felt it; the firefighters, the spectators, and me. I didn’t even know who it had belonged to, but that voice had been young. There are no words for an innocent’s death, especially not such a horrible one. Desperate to see anything other than that hell, I cast my eyes over the watchers. They had been beaten into silence as well. The same expression of slack-jawed denial mixed with pain covered all their faces.

  “No!!”

  Like a piece of china, the silence was shattered by that single syllable. Instantly, the fire’s roar was deafening, the weeping was heart-breaking, and the man in the bathrobe was terrifying. Three of the uniformed firefighters could barely restrain him from barreling into that blaze. His fierce, proud face was contorted with the most intense blend of wrath and sorrow that I’d ever had the misfortune to witness. A petite figure dashed up alongside him, yelling over the calamity to get his attention. I couldn’t make out her words, but as the flickering red-orange light danced across her features, I knew it was Rachel.

  Instantly, everything clicked. The man was Rachel’s father. This was Rachel’s house. Those screams……..Rachel’s little sister. The agony twisting both of their faces had to be no less painful than the girl’s suffering in the flames. I couldn’t bear it. I railed against the universe.

  Why?! Why does everyone have to lose their loved ones?! I deserved it, but they don’t!!

  I refused to accept it. Every emotion boiled down to rage. If that was how the world wanted to play the game, let it try. It had forgotten all about my secret weapon, just like I had.

  With a shaky hand, I reached to a nearby lightpost for support. This was going to hurt. For strength, I glanced over at Rachel and her father, their distraught faces fanning my own internal fire.

  No more hesitation remained. Time bent, and I snatched up a fireman’s jacket and dove into hell’s mouth.