My Brother's Shadow

by Tom Avery

  I didn’t make it to the fountains but stopped a few feet away, stuck, staring.

  Poppy looked up. In her cool blue eyes I didn’t see the usual hatred, the usual anger. For a moment she looked scared. For a moment she looked lost. She looked unsure of herself for the first time. Then she stood. And as she approached, her face changed, it hardened and Poppy was back.

  The pinecone in my throat got bigger and bigger.

  “You’re still a freak to me,” she spat.

  The words hit me. Hard. The words pounded at my heart. But for all their crushing power, they didn’t break through. And I knew then that the scars were healing. Damage was being undone. I knew then that I was ready.

  In my mind my brother whispered once more.

  “Let me go.”

  SUNFLOWER SEEDS

  There are three words that ring through my mind as I set out for school the next morning.

  “Let me go.”

  “Let me go.”

  “Let me go.”

  I see Mo in my mind, red and bloody. I see Mr. Wills drying his eyes. I see my class clapping. I see my mum’s foul drink circling the drain. I see my friend, his deep gray eyes watching me, searching me, knowing me.

  In my pocket, clutched in my sweaty hand, is a small white envelope.

  I’m early. I know I’m early. I’m meeting someone. It’s the best time to catch her. She’s always at school early.

  At the gates I have second thoughts. My hand tightens around the small packet. I don’t want to let it go. For so long I’ve kept it close, kept it all close. I’ve locked it away, locked myself away.

  I press my head against the cool, painted brick that forms the wall around our playground. I close my eyes.

  “Let me go,” Mo whispers.

  Behind me I hear footsteps, light, cautious, but wild. I open my eyes to the boy. He’s early too. And in that moment I love him more than ever. In that moment I need him more than ever.

  He looks at me, considering, expectant.

  “I’m … I need to …” I start but don’t finish.

  He cocks his head and smiles. A secret smile.

  “Come on,” I say. I can’t speak the words, but I can show him, show him what I came to do.

  We hold hands as we enter through the black gates. He doesn’t let go and neither do I as we circle the playground, checking amongst the flower beds for a telltale stripy sweater. I think she’s not there until …

  “Hello,” Jo says.

  I drop the boy’s hand. I’m surprised, not embarrassed.

  “Hello,” I reply.

  My friend stares. His seawater eyes absorbing the purple, green and orange of the gardener’s knitted jumper.

  Jo’s carrying a tub, big and green, in both hands.

  “It’s a bit early to be here, isn’t it?” she asks, then heaves the tub towards the nearest bed. Creeping vines stretch up and cover the wooden structure that shields the climbing frame. Jo makes our playground a jungle.

  “I wanted … I need …”

  The gardener puts down the tub. I see that it is full of soft brown soil. I can smell its earthiness and I think that is how Jo must smell—earthy and real and deep.

  She stares for a moment. “Maybe you could help me, Kaia? You can talk as we work,” she says.

  It’s a simple job. We’re refreshing the soil.

  “Over time—and these creepers have been in for a good few years now—plants will take all the goodness out of the soil. You’ve got to give them fresh, new goodness to feed on. Most plants love a change,” Jo says. “But you’ve got to do it carefully. Wait till they’re ready. Give them time.”

  The boy doesn’t help. He climbs and hangs and leaps around the frame. I watch him as I pat the warm earth.

  “So,” Jo says, the last fork of dirt applied. “How come you’re here so early?”

  I wipe my grubby hands on my jeans—they weren’t that clean anyway. I reach into my pocket and pull out the envelope.

  Two pairs of eyes are on me—the boy, perched high in the vines; Jo, quiet, waiting—while I hold the package tight, almost to my mouth, then slowly, slowly, my arm like a growing branch, my hand unfurling like a spring bud, present it to the gardener.

  She echoes my speed and takes it slowly. Slowly, slowly.

  She opens it. My precious envelope.

  “Sunflower seeds.” She states this, then questions. “You want to plant them?”

  I nod. And it’s out, it’s done. My breath, which I did not know I was holding, comes in one long draft. My heart pounds. I wipe a tear from my eye.

  “We can do that, Kaia.” Jo is nodding, smiling. “Maybe we could start a gardening club. Might have to talk to your teacher. You could talk to some of your friends. These could be our first project.”

  I nod. I smile. Then I grab Jo’s big, woolly, stripy jumper and I squeeze her and I still haven’t said a word.

  “I’ll take that as a yes,” she says.

  * * *

  It was a week after the funeral.

  I was sitting alone. It felt like I had not been alone for a long time, so many people in and out. But even in the middle of all that I still felt like I was all alone in the world. Moses was gone.

  I sat on the floor, in front of my mirror. I was counting the freckles speckled across my nose. They made me think of glitter. Mum did not have freckles. Moses did not have freckles, had not had freckles. It was where I saw a dad I’d never met, right there in my freckles, a dad who lived in some distant land with a family of his own.

  Behind me, in the reflection, my bookcase called to me. Freckle counting could only draw me away from the pain for moments. Could I escape into a book?

  I stood and flicked through my stories. No cover held me, none of those shiny pink ones that I had loved. Then I saw it, the corner peeking out from beneath my bed—Trees of Britain: An Illustrated Guide.

  Kneeling as if in prayer, I laid the book like something sacred on my duvet. I ran my hand across the cover. I ran a finger along the unbroken spine.

  As the fresh tears fell I whispered, “Sorry, Mo,” and opened my birthday present. I had thanked him for it on the day and kissed his stubbly cheek but then the bike appeared and my book lay forgotten.

  I flicked through the pages, offering a tear to each leaf. I flicked till I found the reason for my brother’s question—“Are you enjoying the book?”

  There, beneath the illustration of a cherry tree in blossom, was hidden a handwritten note. Beside this, a small white envelope.

  Dearest Tiny,

  Happy birthday, little one. You’re getting so old. You’re like an old, old lady. Soon your hair will be turning gray and you’ll be hobbling to school.

  I’ve thought of a well good project for us to do before your knees give out and your back’s too weak. Let’s plant a garden! It’s pretty rough, our patch of grass and few old bushes. Mum says we can do it.

  Pick a tree you’d like, there’s a garden center just near your school that does baby trees. Here’s a packet of seeds to get us started. They’re sunflowers, like my sunny, fluffy-headed, tiny sister.

  Have a good, good day.

  Big Love,

  Your brother, Mo

  HAPPINESS

  My mum got the job. She got the job. And as far as I can tell, she hasn’t touched a bottle since she poured all that horrible drink down our sink.

  Actually, she has touched a bottle—we had Chinese food to celebrate Mum’s job and it came with a big bottle of Coke. We had chicken in black bean sauce, sweet and sour pork, rice and prawn crackers. I felt a bit strange eating it; Chinese food was always Mo’s favorite. I don’t think Mum even thought about that, though. She got the job.

  This all happened; then cycle training started. It is as brilliant as I hoped. No Mr. Wills, fresh spring air, time with my friend, and maybe, maybe some new friends.

  Our instructors are pretty good too.

  Ben’s in charge and he’s got a beard. That mak
es him sound old. He’s not. He’s really young. Young compared to all the teachers, anyway. But he’s got a beard. Beards are usually reserved for old people; granddads have beards, not young cycling instructors. Anyway, he does have a beard. The boy kept pointing and growling. Don’t ask me why. Maybe he’d never seen a beard before.

  Mary’s young too. She really likes my bike. I told her that my brother painted it for me. She said that I was really lucky to have such a fantastic big brother. I didn’t tell her that I don’t have a big brother. Luzie touched me on the arm after Mary started talking about something else. And somehow this touch made my heart unclench and my breath come easy.

  Yes, I had friends.

  We’d done all the basics. They checked that we could, well, cycle in a straight line. Then they taught us how to turn corners safely, where to position ourselves on the road, what to do at traffic lights and all that stuff.

  We cheered each other when we got things right and we laughed at each other when we did something daft. The laughing was almost as good as the cheering. I don’t know why.

  Ben tried to teach me to look backwards. I couldn’t get the hang of it. I looked over my left shoulder, then my right, then my left again. By this point I was going so slowly that the bike just stopped and I tumbled to the ground. Shadid and Deon were even quicker than the boy at coming to help me up.

  Once I’d brushed myself down, Luzie called out, “You’re such a dappy one, Kaia.”

  Angelica did a mime of me looking one way, then the other, then the other, over and over again. We only stopped laughing when Mary started shouting at us to take it seriously.

  Most days we’ve had break and lunchtime with the rest of the school. But today we started going out on the road. Our cycle went over break time but no one minded, not even Shadid and Deon, who usually spend every break time playing football or pat-ball.

  When we stopped for our own break, we rested the bikes against a wall and stood in a circle. Mary handed out little bottles of water from her rucksack and we all chatted. We chatted about TV mostly. I didn’t have much to say.

  It was wonderful.

  COLLISION

  On the last day of cycle training, spring was in full bloom. The daffs were everywhere. Along the road, outside school, pink blossoms coated the cherry trees (Prunus serrulata), which when in bloom are the most beautiful trees around.

  The cherry is awash with color throughout the year, with coppery brown- to bronze-colored leaves throughout the autumn and even into spring, and vivid purplish-pink double flowers opening from crimson buds.

  I can say, I think with certainty, that it was the happiest I’d been since … well, you know.

  I think with certainty—but that means I’m not certain. Let’s change that.

  I’m fairly sure that it was the happiest I’d been. Now that sounds stupid.

  I was happy. Let’s leave it at that.

  Spring. Friends. Mum. I was happy.

  “Today, we’re gonna see what you’ve learned,” Ben said, first thing. “We’re going on a ride, further than we’ve been before. You’ll need to show us all your new skills.”

  “We’ll be watching all the time,” Mary added.

  But they weren’t, were they? If they were … well, if they were, it wouldn’t have happened. Not that I blame them at all. No, I blame me.

  We’d cycled for maybe fifteen minutes and we were already further than we’d been before. Ben and Mary had been cycling in amongst us, encouraging, reminding us of what we’d learned.

  “I can see you’ve remembered to look behind you, Luz.”

  “Make sure you indicate, Shadid. Put your hand out, that’s it.”

  “Yes, excellent, a good straight line, Kaia.”

  I was beaming.

  Now we’d hit a hill, not the steepest, but certainly the longest of the day. And little by little, bit by bit, they were pulling away.

  “Come on, slow-coaches. Keep on pedaling,” Ben called as he glanced back along the line.

  I was at the back with the boy; Luzie a little way in front. Under my thin T-shirt and baggy jumper I could feel droplets of sweat tickling their way down my spine. Ahead, my friends were standing on their pedals, pushing down, shooting forwards, little spurts of speed. I was steady, sitting in a low gear.

  Gradually the instructors got further and further away. Cars didn’t pull round us as a group now; they went round me and the boy, then in, then round Luzie, then in, then round the rest.

  As we reached the top of the hill, the road split. To the right, where Mary and Ben continued, the road flattened with houses on either side. To the left, the long height we’d just climbed slid down, much steeper than the road we’d taken. Off past the steep descent, over the roofs and chimneys of lined-up homes, a sea of green appeared—trees and trees, unidentifiable at that distance. The sea of Giant Park.

  I stopped to see the view and catch my breath. The boy stopped, his feet hitting the tarmac heavily. A car swung round us, the driver beeping his horn. We shuffled closer to the curb.

  The boy eyed the hill, his eyes flashing. I eyed the boy.

  “Shall we?” I asked.

  The boy eyed me, glinting gray piercing.

  “OK.” I grinned, pushing away from the tarmac, heading left.

  We picked up speed quickly, no matter how I squeezed the brakes. The boy giggled and I gasped. It was scary. It was exciting. It was wild.

  Parked cars flashed past, green, blue, white, white, red, yellow, blue, green, red, red, red, red.

  My helmet slipped backwards. I reached up to reposition it. It felt flimsy compared to the power of our descent.

  The bottom of the hill rushed up to meet us: a crossing, some shops, traffic lights.

  Traffic lights on green.

  Traffic lights turning amber.

  I squeezed both brakes. They squealed. I slowed, a little, but not enough.

  The boy was no longer laughing; he tried to place his odd-shod feet on the ground, tried to stop. Brakes squealed.

  Traffic lights turned red.

  We careered forwards.

  I see it coming. I think I see it coming. From the right, red, blood red, filled my vision.

  I heard it. A third set of brakes squealed. A horn blasted. The boy shouted.

  I feel it. Air driven from my lungs. Pain beyond feeling.

  Then nothing.

  Nothing.

  Darkness.

  GOODBYES

  Darkness for a long time. Dark and cold. I heard voices.

  “Broken,” they’d say.

  “Lost blood.”

  “Too much damage.”

  Tears I heard too, muffled, as if from behind a thick curtain.

  “Kaia.”

  “My Kaia.”

  “Please wake up.”

  But mostly it was dark, dark and cold.

  Then it was light. Not the light of the waking world. A light all around, coming from everywhere, and I wasn’t there, but I was there. And there was Moses and he was there. No cap on this time, eyes alight with a secret smile.

  “Well, that was stupid, wasn’t it, Tiny?” he said.

  I laugh, but I don’t laugh because I’m not there, not really.

  Now, looking back, I know that I should have been wondering if I was dead. But I wasn’t thinking that at all. I wasn’t thinking at all.

  “You know what I need to say, don’t you?” the angel Moses said. And I did know.

  “Well, goodbye, then,” he says.

  “Goodbye,” I say inside.

  Then it’s dark again.

  I woke up today. Warmth first, then light, real light this time.

  Have you ever woken up and just felt so hungry that you’re not sure you’ll even make it to the kitchen before you collapse and are forced to eat your own arm? No, perhaps not that hungry. Anyway, as hungry as you’ve ever been, I was hungrier. I felt like someone had removed my stomach. I just had an empty space where it should be.

 
There was no food around when I awoke and no people either. I was in a white room, white walls, white window frames, white ceiling, white sheets on my bed, firmly tucking me in. The door was blue, though, and the floor speckled blue linoleum. And one wall was covered in a multicolored array of cards, some shop-bought, most hand-drawn, which I assumed must have belonged to the person who slept here before me. I certainly didn’t have that many friends.

  To my right was a machine, which gently bleeped away; to my left a metal stand with a bag hanging from it. Both of these had tubes or wires connecting them to my body, one up my nose, one into my wrist, several stuck to my chest.

  My body, my body, the crash came flooding back to me: red, blood, blood, red. My body didn’t feel too bad. My right arm was set in a cast. I could feel bandages wrapped around my chest. My face felt tight, almost rigid. But apart from that, I felt all right.

  I knew it must be a hospital room, I’d seen enough on TV. Even though my hunger was crippling I didn’t call for a nurse, not right away, at least. I stared out the window.

  I could only see sky, blue, blue sky, washed in a few places with a wisp of white cloud. High above, a lone gray gull squawked and carried on its way, down to the river, then out to sea. I could have kept staring into that blue abyss but my door opened with a sigh and in came a large, singing woman.

  “When we’ve been there ten thousand years, bright shining as the sun,” she sang as she backed into the room, her backside wiggling.

  The bucket she wheeled in told me that she was a cleaner. She began another line, “We’ve no less days …,” then turned and saw me staring.

  “Hello,” I said.

  “Oh, sweetheart, hello,” she said, then straightaway, “I’ll get the nurse.”

  “Wait!” I called out, but I was too slow; she was gone. I stared out the window again but the gull did not return.

  “She can’t be awake, Janelli.” A voice drifted down the corridor towards me, followed by a tired and pregnant nurse.

  “Hello,” I said again.

  “Oh my word!” the nurse exclaimed, then quickly, “I’ll get the doctor.”