Tin Men (The Clay Lion Series Book 2)

by Amalie Jahn

  “My name is Charlie Johnson,” I began, “and I was wondering if I could have a moment to speak with either you or Mr. Weddington?”

  She smiled smugly at me. “Congressman Weddington is a very busy man. And I’m expected at a speaking engagement at one. Have you made an appointment with my husband?”

  My heart sank. “No, Ma’am.”

  “Oh. Well, then, have a good day,” she said, turning back in the direction from which she came.

  Every cell in my body seemed to be vibrating at the same frequency and I knew I couldn’t let her walk away. “No, wait!” I cried. “I need to ask you about your daughter, Victoria!”

  She froze mid-step and slowly turned to face me. There was something akin to recognition in her gaze.

  “What about Victoria?”

  I was reluctant to continue because I sensed that she had no intention of assisting me, regardless of what I had to say. And yet, I knew my options were limited.

  “I was wondering what you could tell me about the child she gave birth to 21 years ago.”

  Although she was obviously well-trained in human relations, I was able to catch the panic that flickered briefly across her face before it was quickly masked by a false sense of outrage.

  “How dare you!” she bellowed. “Whatever you’ve heard are lies and false accusations!”

  “No, Ma’am. I haven’t heard anything,” I stammered. “I was just wondering what happened to the baby?”

  I heard a second voice from within the house but couldn’t make out what was being said.

  “It’s nothing, dear,” she called over her shoulder, “just a kid who is on his way out.”

  I knew I was about to have the door shut in my face, and when it did, I would lose my only opportunity to discover the truth about Victoria’s baby.

  “Please, Mrs. Weddington,” I begged, “I think I may be her son.”

  For an instant, her face softened, and my breath caught in my chest, hoping she was about to divulge some piece of information. Something to confirm what I already presumed to be true. She stared at me suspiciously, and my heart thumped heavily as I waited for her to respond.

  She took a deep breath, pulling herself to her full height before she spoke. “I have no idea what you are talking about young man, but may I suggest you leave the property immediately before I call the authorities to have you arrested for trespassing.”

  I became frantic. “But please,” I cried, “what happened to her son?”

  Her words cut like knives. “There. Was. No. Son. See him out, Francis.”

  There was a hand on my shoulder. The tapping of heels as she fled from the room. The door slamming in my face.

  As I stood on the front porch, shaded from the sun by grand Georgian columns, mimicking those of the Capitol in which Weddington spent most of his days, I shivered. I had failed.

  Inside the car, Brooke and Melody greeted me with apprehensive faces. I bowed my head in solemn defeat and neither spoke as I drove away from the house. It was Brooke who finally broke the silence almost 15 minutes later.

  “Maybe this is the universe telling you to just let things be. You have a good life, Charlie. Even if you never find out what happened to her, you’re still gonna be okay.”

  She was trying to console me, but her words drove an unintended wedge between us. My carefully suppressed anger began to simmer beneath the surface once again. I was suddenly jealous of her perfect, loving family, and furious at how quickly she dismissed my desire for the truth about my own biological ties. I knew if I spoke, I was going to say something I’d regret, so I continued to drive without taking my eyes from the road.

  Brooke and I rarely fought, and when we did, it was usually due to a misunderstanding. She was quick to internalize simple, thoughtless comments, and I had difficulty reading and responding to her ever changing moods. Our first Christmas together, she suggested celebrating with her family early in the day. I made an offhand remark about my family not being nostalgic enough for her Victorian sensibilities. Of course, she became upset, assuming I didn’t value her family’s traditions, which were particularly important to her since Branson’s death. Sadly, by the time I realized my mistake, the damage was already done. I still regretted having spent Christmas day apart that year, and I knew it was only because I hadn’t been more careful with her heart. Remembering this misstep reminded me that her comments about the search for my mother came out of genuine concern, and after several silent minutes, I was able to reply. I attempted to reason with her using the only weapon in my arsenal. Branson.

  “If there was a chance, any chance at all that you could have discovered why Branson got sick so you could save him just by digging a little deeper and trying a little harder, would you have done it?” I asked.

  She was silent. When she didn’t respond immediately in the affirmative as I expected, I turned to see her face. Her rosy complexion was blanched, and she was staring at her hands folded in her lap.

  “Brooke?”

  She turned to me with tears in her eyes. She bit her lip, returning her gaze to her hands. “I’d be just as pigheaded as you’re being,” she finally replied.

  I couldn’t help but grin at her. “Pigheaded, huh?”

  “Yes. Pigheaded. But I get it. I really do, Charlie. It’s just that…” She trailed off.

  “I know. You think I’m going to get hurt. I’ve got it.”

  She was worried. I couldn’t imagine why, but it was nice to know that she loved me enough to be involved. I could count the people in my life who were genuinely concerned for my well-being on one hand. It was comforting to know she was one of them.

  “So now what?” she asked.

  “How about lunch?” I sighed, defeated.

  “No, silly,” she said. “What about finding your mother. It seems like we’ve hit a brick wall.”

  “I have an idea,” Melody chimed in from the back seat.

  I looked at her in the rear view mirror. “Do tell, little sis.”

  “What if you used your trip to go see Victoria?”

  It was the second time she brought up time travel and the second time the mention of it caught me off guard.

  It was a funny thing, the presence of time travel in our society. One would think it would take more of a precedence in our day to day lives, but the reality was, I rarely thought about that option in my life. Traveling back in time was something other people did, but I never really had the desire.

  My father explained about the existence of time travel to me when I was just five years old. He told me, since I was going to school for the first time, I would probably hear about going back in time from the other children, and he wanted me to know the truth. He explained how dangerous it was, citing different ways people’s lives were ruined by going back too frequently, which resulted in the government allowing each of us only one trip. He also said I never needed to worry about using my trip because it would never be necessary. Life, he said, was about moving forward. Not backward. And so, for most of my life, I never even considered using my trip.

  But in seventh grade, my science teacher and her husband celebrated their 25th wedding anniversary by going back in time together to relive their honeymoon. I have no idea why she chose to tell us she was going. Trips are practically instantaneous in the present timeline, as travelers leave and return on the same date, regardless of how long they are gone or how far back they choose to travel. Therefore, if she hadn’t told us, we would have never known she was gone, but I suppose excitement prevented her from keeping it a secret. She was one of the few people I knew to have used her trip, although I assumed others had but simply chose not to disclose it. After class that day, I overheard her gushing to a fellow teacher about how glorious it was to see Paris with her husband once again. It was the first time I ever considered using my trip.

  After that, there was a short period in my life when I let the prospect of time travel consume me. I began reading stories online and in books, trying to
understand the reasons why people chose to go back in time. I laid in bed at night imagining what I would choose to relive when I was older. I considered changing the past, even though I knew it was strictly forbidden. I became fascinated by the horrifying accounts of those who made unexpected changes to their timelines which led to catastrophic results. It was the first time in my life I considered using my trip as a way to find out the truth about the secrets my parents were keeping from me.

  I blinked twice, as if to bring myself from a daze, and smiled brightly at my sister. “Now that’s not a half bad idea!”

  “You could go back to before she died and ask her if she’s your mother.”

  “That’s a horrible idea,” Brooke interjected sternly.

  I furrowed my brow at her. “No, it’s not. It’s a great idea.”

  “Going back in time is a horrible idea. No good can come of it,” she said, crossing her arms atop her chest defiantly.

  I couldn’t understand why she was having such a visceral reaction to the suggestion of going back in time to see Victoria.

  “Brooke, think about it. Going back to see her is really the only way I can find out for sure if she’s my mother.” I watched her seething in the seat beside me. “I think I’m going to look into it.”

  She didn’t speak. She didn’t even move.

  “Brooke?” I said, reaching across the center console to place my hand on her knee. As soon as I touched her, she recoiled, pulling her legs to the side, just beyond my reach.

  “I won’t help you do it,” she said finally.

  And just like that, I lost her. She retreated into her own thoughts and refused to speak to Melody or I for the remainder of the ride home. I had no idea why the idea of using my trip made her so angry. She clearly had issues with time travel we had never discussed. I was hesitant to upset her further by pressuring her to discuss the reason for her objections, so instead, as we approached the city limits, I offered to take her home.

  “I love you,” I said as we pulled into her driveway.

  “If you love me, you’ll forget about using your trip. I’m begging you.”

  “I can’t promise you that,” I said. “But I can promise that I’ll find a way to get the information I need without changing the past so I can come straight back here to you.”

  Glaring at me, she leaned her head back into the car through the passenger side window. I’d never seen her so agitated.

  “If only it was that easy,” she spat at me. “I’ll help you find another way to track down your mother, but if going back in time is the path you choose, I won’t support you, and I won’t be waiting for you when you get back.”

  She turned on her heel and headed toward her house, slamming the screen door behind her as she disappeared inside.

  “I’m so sorry, Charlie,” Melody began to cry. “I shouldn’t have said anything. Now you and Brooke are fighting and it’s all my fault.”

  “No, it’s not. We’ll be fine, you’ll see,” I told her. But as I said the words, I had trouble believing them myself. My best option was to find a way to convince Brooke that going back in time wasn’t as terrible as she thought. The only problem was how to do it.

  C HAPTER THIRTEEN

  I decided to give Brooke time to cool down. I didn’t call. I didn’t text. I hoped that perhaps she would come to see things my way, but sadly, as I sat in front of the television watching mindless sitcoms with my mom, my phone remained silent in my pocket. I hated not speaking to her, and the thought of not having her support tore me up inside.

  She was always my cheerleader, regardless of the situation. When my father gave me a hard time about not attending Harvard in front of several hundred people at my uncle’s retirement party, she bravely spoke up to defend my decision. After a rash of car vandalism on campus, she happily led a campaign to install street lights on the unlit parking lots. And during the fall of my junior year, when I decided to drop my minor in economics in favor of a dual major in business and sociology, Brooke helped me break the news to my less than enthusiastic father.

  There were also times when she didn’t agree with my decisions but supported me just the same. Those were the times that meant the most. Like when I chose to skip a swim meet in favor of attending my roommate’s cover band performance at a dive bar in the city. She scolded me for bailing on my obligation to the team, but stood beside me in front of the stage, singing along like a maniac.

  As I lay in bed, throwing a football into the air above my head, I thought about calling her. And I thought about going back in time. The more I considered Melody’s idea, the more I realized how badly I wanted to find out the truth about Victoria. I knew there was no information online about her and, after the frigid reception I received at her parents’ house, I knew they would never give me the information I needed. Using my trip to find out the truth seemed like a reasonable and viable solution to the problem. I just didn’t understand why Brooke was so opposed to the idea.

  By eleven o’clock, I couldn’t stop myself from reaching out to her. I sent her a quick text which read, ‘I value your opinion. I’d like to talk. I love you.’

  After pressing send, I waited. The screen remained blank. I threw myself across the bed and tossed my phone onto the floor. Seconds later, I heard the familiar beep of an incoming text. I scrambled across the carpet and picked up the phone.

  ‘I’ll meet you tomorrow. At our spot. 9:00. There’s something you need to know. And… I love you too.’

  It took everything I had not to call. Or drive to her house so I could stand below her bedroom window to see her. I couldn’t imagine what she needed to tell me that I didn’t already know. But I knew I needed to be patient. So I slid between the sheets of my bed, closed my eyes, and hoped that my mind would allow sleep to find me quickly.

  By 8:45 I was already parked just off the side of the road, along the guard rail at the trailhead entrance that led to the falls. To call it a waterfall was a slight misnomer. It was actually more of a short drop in elevation in a small section of the river. However, the drop was steep enough that the water made an impressive crashing sound as it made its descent. During fall break, only a few weeks after we met, Brooke planned a hiking trip to the falls together as one of our very first dates. She packed a picnic lunch of fried chicken and carrot sticks, and we sat together for hours on a threadbare comforter, sharing the secrets of our lives.

  It was the very first time she told me about losing Branson.

  She didn’t cry when she described the horror of his disease or the pain of watching him endure it. She spoke with quiet resignation in her voice, saying the beauty of his life was that she was able to share it with him, if only for a little while. During that initial conversation, I assumed incorrectly that her lack of fury over the loss of her brother was simply because she hadn’t been as close with him as I was with my own sister. It took several months before I came to realize how deeply she had loved him and that her acceptance of his passing was something she fostered over time. Somehow, she moved past the pain and found peace.

  It was on that day, in front of the falls, the din of the cascading water muffling our voices, that I told Brooke I loved her for the very first time. It came out of my mouth before I realized what I was saying. Perhaps it was the way the sunlight danced in her hair, reflecting strands of copper and gold as she raced ahead of me through the forest, determined to beat me to the falls. It could have been her willingness to share her pain with me before knowing fully how I would react to the struggle she’d endured. Or maybe it was simply the calm I felt inside myself whenever she was beside me. Whatever the reason, I spoke the words.

  And for whatever reason, she spoke them right back.

  I watched with great anticipation as she approached from the opposite direction, parking her car nose to nose with mine. She raked her fingers through her hair and piled it on top of her head into a loose ponytail. Finally, after fumbling around inside her car for several moments, she looked up at m
e and waved, a weary smile on her lips.

  I met her on the side of the road and took her hand in mine. Her fingers were chilly and I folded them carefully between my own to warm them.

  “Hi,” she said finally.

  “Hey,” I replied. “Did you bring a blanket?”

  “No. I don’t have a lot of time. I need to be at the clinic by ten o’clock, so I thought we could just hike in. We won’t be able to stay.”

  I was disappointed. “It’s okay.” I paused to smile at her, remembering the conversation we shared each time we hiked together. “Maybe we’ll see a lion.”

  A glimmer of mischief played in her eyes. “There are no lions here, Charlie,” she replied as she always did.

  “Then maybe we’ll see a tiger.”

  “There are no tigers here, Charlie.”

  “Then maybe we’ll see a bear.”

  “Yes, Charlie, maybe we’ll see a bear,” she laughed.

  The ice was broken and as we entered the tree line, she began speaking without further instigation.

  “I need to talk to you about the time travel thing. And I need you to listen to what I’m saying. Not just hearing the words, but actually listening to what I’m going to say.” She looked at me sternly as if she was scolding a child. I tried not to smile.

  “Okay. Got it. I’m listening.”

  We walked along the wooded path, our feet crunching the decaying leaves and broken limbs from the oaks towering above our heads. Although the sun managed to weave its way between the branches, it was surprisingly cool on the forest floor as we made our way toward the falls.

  “I told you yesterday I think using your trip to find your mother is a bad idea. But the reason I think it’s a bad idea isn’t because I don’t want you to find her. It’s because I don’t want you using your trip. Not now. Maybe not ever.”

  “Why in the world not?” I interrupted.

  She continued walking straight ahead, carefully maneuvering over tree stumps and animal holes.

  “I used my trip, Charlie,” she said, stopping midstride to face me.