The Clay Lion

by Jahn, Amalie

  The news that I had used my trip voucher came as a surprise to them. Over the course of the next hour, I outlined for them the events of our original timeline, specifically those that were changed by my trip. As I poured out all of the important details from the first timeline that were no longer a part of their memories, they gained valuable insight into the history of how our present lives came to pass. I described my depression following Branson’s death, the weeks spent researching with Dr. Rudlough, and their decision to let me use my journey.

  They listened intently and I was aware of how calm they were given the significance of the information I was revealing. At the end, I stressed the importance of another trip to keep the ball from going on the roof so Mr. Cooper would never be alerted to its need for repair. I suggested that Mother go, as I realized how therapeutic the trip had been to my soul, having had another six months of time with Branson. I thought, perhaps, it would have the same effect on her.

  “It doesn’t make sense for me to use my trip…” Mother argued.

  “But Mom,” I begged. “There’s still a chance we can save him. Please!”

  “You didn’t let me finish,” she continued. “It doesn’t make sense for me to use my trip because I’m not familiar with your research and I certainly don’t know all that you know given that you have lived the events leading to Branson’s passing, not once, but twice. You definitely changed quite a bit during your trip, and without firsthand knowledge of the events of your original timeline, I would be at a great disadvantage. It would be almost impossible for me to keep up with the differences. If anyone is to go back,” she paused, as if uncertain about what she was about to say, “it should be you.”

  I held my breath. I looked from my mother to my father and back again. It had never occurred to me that I should be the one to take another trip. It was especially rare in our society. People only made one trip, if ever. Two was just about unheard of.

  “How would I go a second time?” I asked. “The government will have record that I have already used my voucher in their database.”

  “You can have my trip,” my mother replied without a moment’s hesitation.

  I had never known anyone who gave his or her trip to someone else. It was allowed, but in my eighteen years, I had never heard of it being done before. I did not even know what sort of process I would need to go through in order to use my mother’s trip. Or what excuse I would need to have as a reason to source another person’s trip.

  “I can?” I asked, tears forming in my eyes.

  “Yes,” Mother said. “I wouldn’t have it any other way. Let’s see this thing through. When we’ve exhausted our options, we’ll stop. That, or when we cure him.”

  I had never been so grateful for my parents and their understanding. I sensed that saving Branson was only part of what was inspiring their decision. My mental health was the other reason, I suspected. Clearly, having a purpose had pulled me from my depression, and since then, I found it was easier and easier to curtail my own sadness. I think they assumed that even if I was never able to save Branson, the process alone was healing my soul. Maybe they were right and my mother was giving me another opportunity to try. I certainly was not going to squander it.

  The next day, she and I got online to research cases when a trip had been transferred and what purposes had been approved by the government. There had been many cases over the years of which I was completely unaware. There were instances when people used their trip early in their lives and needed another trip decades later. In other cases, malfunctions had occurred during transport. We found people who had been willed second trips by loved ones after their death. Sadly, none of the incidents we discovered provided the loophole we were seeking.

  Finally, as we were about to give up, the phrase “history of depression” caught my eye at the bottom of a search. I scrolled back to the top and reread the entire case. I entered “second trip – history of depression” into the search engine, and scanned the results. I glanced over at my mother, sitting next to me at the table. She knew what I was thinking.

  “Do you think Dr. Rudlough could help us?” she asked.

  “Yes,” I replied.

  Mother made a call to his office and within an hour, we were in the car on the way across town. Luckily, Dr. Rudlough was as intrigued by my circumstances as he had been the first time around. He offered to clear his afternoon calendar without hesitation and requested that we come in immediately to discuss my trip.

  Upon our arrival, Dr. Rudlough greeted my mother and me with open arms. After formalities were exchanged, we sat down on the sofa in his office and I recounted the narrative of our original timeline together and my journey to the past. He listened intently and took notes as I spoke. As I finished, my mother took over and explained our desire to send me back for a second trip in an attempt to prevent the ball from landing on the hardware store roof. She added that she thought it would be a benefit for me to “see the process through.”

  “We found evidence online that the government has approved transference of trips in cases where it was deemed medically necessary as a treatment for the mental health of a clinically depressed patient. Our problem is that Brooke has never been officially diagnosed with any disorder,” Mother explained, glancing over at me.

  “I see,” replied the doctor thoughtfully. There was a long pause. The clock on the wall ticked by the seconds. I picked at a hangnail on my thumb as my mother gently squeezed my knee. Finally, he added, “I think I know someone who can help.”

  He pushed the call button on his desk phone. “Linda,” he said, “please get Timothy Richmond on the line.”

  No one spoke as we waited. The clock continued to tick and my thumb began to bleed. Finally, the phone rang.

  Dr. Rudlough spoke candidly with ‘Tim’ as though they were old friends. He asked about his wife and children. They discussed his brother’s boating accident. At last, he broached the topic of my trip and the required diagnosis. It was difficult to discern listening to only one side of the conversation whether Dr. Richmond was going to be sympathetic to my plight. After a few minutes, they made plans for dinner the following weekend, pending spousal approval, and said good-bye.

  Dr. Rudlough hung up the receiver. He smiled at Mother and me.

  “I need you to fill out some questionnaire forms Brooke,” he explained. “Dr. Richmond and I can create a paper trail that will establish your diagnosis, however, it will take some time. I think your past behavior, combined with the reaction you will need to portray following your recent trip might be enough for a diagnosis and possible second trip.”

  “What reaction will I need to portray?” I asked.

  “We will need you to exhibit signs of clinical depression based on unresolved issues stemming from your trip. You will need to lose some weight, stay out of public places, and keep to yourself. I’ve scheduled half a dozen visits for you with Dr. Richmond to discuss your ‘condition,’” he explained. There was a pause, and then he continued carefully, “Brooke, even though you may not be clinically depressed to the point where the government would allow you a second trip, I genuinely think you would benefit from taking your sessions with Dr. Richmond to heart. Your mental state seems to have come a long way from where you were immediately following Branson’s death in your original timeline, but there’s no shame in taking care of yourself given the opportunity. So promise me you will take him seriously… it’s the only way I’ll agree to this. Do we have a deal?”

  Dr. Rudlough thought I was depressed. For real.

  “Okay,” I said. “So you’ll do it?”

  “No,” he answered smiling, “we’ll do it.”

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  On the way to Dr. Richmond’s office the following week, I found myself humming along with the radio and feeling as content as I had been in years. It was not that I missed Branson any less, but I had a plan. The fact that the plan included another six months of time with him probably helped, but nonetheless, I
was in good spirits as I pulled into the parking lot.

  Dr. Richmond was in his mid-forties with greying temples and a lean physique. He greeted me warmly as I entered his office. As I had expected, there were diplomas and achievements covering the walls, but the décor was bright and cheerful, quite different from how psychiatrists’ offices were typically portrayed. There was no mahogany wood paneling or bookshelves lined with heavy volumes of text. There was no requisite lounge chair. Instead, the walls were painted a buttery yellow and vases of fresh flowers were scattered about. I immediately felt at ease.

  Dr. Richmond led me to two upholstered chairs facing each other in the center of the room. After the introductions, he spent the majority of my session talking to me, instead of the other way around. He discussed what he knew of my case and invited me to interject if there were corrections to be made or information to add. Apparently, Dr. Rudlough had given him extensive background material because I could think of nothing else to include. With only a few minutes left in our session, he finally questioned me. “So Brooke, why are you here?” he asked with great sincerity.

  I looked straight into his eyes for a moment, but I could not hold his gaze. Why was I there? On the surface, it was simply a means to an end. If I wanted to use my mother’s trip to go back and save Branson, Dr. Rudlough said we needed a paper trail documenting my clinical depression. It was as simple as that.

  But then, I realized that he was not asking me why I was there, in his office, at that moment. He was asking me what had brought me to the place in my life where I thought it was okay to thwart government protocol, place other people’s careers in jeopardy, put the hopes and dreams of my own life on hold for what could amount to years, and most dangerously, risk making changes to the past that could destroy my life as I knew it? What made all of that okay in my own mind?

  The truth was, I did not know. I had always been a law-abiding citizen. I followed the rules at school. I did not play hooky. I drove the speed limit - most of the time. I made curfew. I held the door for elderly people. I valued life in all of its forms. I respected authority. I wanted to become a veterinarian and had spent the last few summers interning at the local clinic. I was a good person with a bright future, but I put it all on indefinite hold without a second thought. I had never even reflected upon the gravity of my decisions until that very moment.

  Finally, I met his gaze again. “He would do it for me,” I answered. “I’m here because if there were any chance of saving my life, Branson would do it. I owe him the same.”

  The doctor considered my answer, pausing for some time, and then said, “And what if you can’t save him this time?”

  I quickly replied, “I don’t know.”

  “Then that is what I will leave you with today. Before we meet next week, you need to decide what comes next for you. When do you let Branson go?”

  “Okay,” I said. “Thanks.”

  I grabbed my bag and started for the door.

  “Brooke,” Dr. Richmond called. I turned toward him. “I had a brother too, once…”

  I did not know what to say, so I continued through the door and shut it quietly behind me. I found myself sprinting across the parking lot into the safety of my car. Once inside, I sat without putting the key in the ignition. Fifty-five minutes of nothing and as the final minutes ticked by, somehow Dr. Richmond had rocked my entire world. The line of questioning I had just experienced was not what I had expected. I had no doubt that attempting to save Branson was the right thing to do, and it infuriated me that Dr. Richmond was trying to convince me otherwise.

  Suddenly filled with paranoia, I wondered whether my mother and Dr. Rudlough were in cahoots with Dr. Richmond in an attempt to thwart my plans. Perhaps all three were conspiring together with the hopes of getting me to change my mind about going back a second time. I pounded my fists on the steering wheel and let out a yell. Sadness had plagued my days for so long that anger came as a welcome release.

  After several minutes, I started the engine and began driving, but instead of going home, I headed out of town. I drove over twenty miles, out into the mountains, and stopped at one of the scenic overpasses that most locals took for granted. I parked the car and made my way on foot to the edge of the overlook. Then I climbed over the railing.

  It was beautiful as I made my way down the ravine into the meadow below. With no regard for my lack of food or water, or the fact that I would eventually have to climb back up, I just continued hiking. Forsythias were blooming and the smell was almost overpowering. I could make out several different species of songbirds chirping above my head, busying themselves with their nests. Under my feet, small shoots of this and that were pushing their way out of the forest floor. Anyone looking at me from afar would have thought I was delighting in my self-made excursion.

  Unfortunately, I was unable to get out of my own head. The wonder of my surroundings was lost on me in my anger and frustration. Paranoia clouded my mind and thoughts of my family’s deception enveloped me. Could my mother have set me up? Was it all a part of a larger plan to fix what they thought was broken in me?

  After miles and miles of wandering, both through the forest and within my own head, I decided that my mother’s intentions for me to use her trip were genuine. Similarly, Dr. Rudlough could have easily sent us on our way after listening to our requests, but he had not. I reasoned that they both genuinely wanted me to succeed in saving Branson. Dr. Richmond was the wild card. “I had a brother too, once,” he had said. I was unsure of how to interpret his comment. Was he sorry he did not attempt to do anything about it? Or was he sorry that he did?

  My stomached growled, pulling me from my thoughts. I tugged my phone from my pocket to check the time. It was 2:47 in the afternoon. I had been hiking for over four hours. I had no idea how far I had gone or how long it would take to get back to the car. I took notice of my surroundings for the first time that afternoon and was pleased that I recognized where I was. Branson and I had hiked the exact area of the valley on many occasions. With new resolve and a new outlook on my situation, I took my bearings and headed east, back up the ravine to the overlook where my car was waiting.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  Having decided that both my mother and Dr. Rudlough wanted me to succeed, I was left with Dr. Richmond’s “homework assignment” reverberating in my brain. I had agreed to the therapy sessions as a means of paving the way towards using my mother’s trip. With television as my reference, I assumed each visit would be spent with me recounting how sad I was after my brother’s passing or describing how difficult it was for me as I learned to live without him. Dr. Richmond, for his part, would nod his head in affirmation week after week. I had not bargained on actually having to confront my own demons. Until the first session, I was unaware that there were any to confront.

  After almost a week of stewing, I decided that, rather than allowing my anxiety to be my undoing, I would discuss Dr. Richmond’s assignment with my mother. I approached her the night before my second session as she was preparing supper, a part of the day that I was happy had become routine again since my return from the past. Her hands were covered in buttermilk and breading as she coated the fish to bake in the oven. She looked older than I remembered, but content as she placed the last of the fillets onto the baking sheet.

  “Mom,” I began, sitting down at the table, “what happens if the roof thing doesn’t work? What if he still dies?”

  She stopped, her back toward me, hands in midair. She moved slowly over to the ceramic farmhouse sink and washed her hands methodically. She dried them on her apron and finally turned to face me.

  “What if he does?” she returned.

  “I think I would probably keep trying,” I said honestly.

  “Okay,” she said.

  I waited for her to continue, but she remained silent. Finally, I added, “Dr. Richmond wants to know when I will stop. When I will go back to my life. My regular life.”

  My mother looked at me. She sa
t down at the kitchen table beside me, taking my face in her cool, damp hands. “Are you ready to do that now?” she asked.

  “No,” I replied.

  “You will know when you are. And when that time comes, your life will be waiting for you.”

  I smiled at my mother. Somehow, she always knew what to say. I had never appreciated that about her before.

  “Do you think Branson would want me to do this for him?” I ventured carefully, afraid to allow the thought to escape my lips.

  “I think he would want you to do whatever gives you peace,” she replied sensibly.

  “Me too.”

  I slept soundly that night. For the first time in weeks, I felt secure in my path. I was ready for Dr. Richmond at our second session the following day, armed with my resolve and my mother’s blessing. He seemed excited to see me and greeted me at the door to his office, shaking my hand and leading me to the same armchair from our first session. We sat for several moments in silence, as if he was waiting for me to begin. Finally he spoke.

  “Tell me about Branson,” he said.

  There it was. The “shrink” thing. I let the air out of my lungs and held my breath, listening to the sound of my heart beating within my chest. For a moment it was all I could hear.

  I said nothing for what seemed like hours but I knew in reality was only seconds. I allowed air into my lungs and, with nothing to lose, spoke candidly for the first time ever about my brother.

  “He was my best friend. He teased me constantly, but never spitefully. He understood me and I understood him. We used to fight sometimes, but only because one of us was being stupid, not because we didn’t like each other. I can’t explain how he filled my life, but he did, and now there’s a hole where he used to be. At first, it was as if the hole would never fill back up, but I guess it has been, a little at a time, without me even knowing. It was good to see him again when I went back. Hard, but good.” I paused, considering my own revelation.