The Clay Lion

by Jahn, Amalie

  Dr. Richmond did not say anything, so I continued. “I have to go back because, well, it just feels so wrong that he’s gone. He’s not going to grow up and get married and have kids and do all the stuff he had planned. I guess it’s selfish that I want to see him do all those things. And I want to have him there when I do those things. He was just snuffed out, you know? Like a candle. He was there and then he wasn’t, and it feels so random and unfair. I’m gonna make it right because I think I can. And if I can’t, then at least I tried, you know? Then I can keep on living, knowing that I did all I could. I guess that’s why I’m going back. I owe him.”

  I concentrated on a scab on my hand. I picked around the edges, gently pulling to see if it was ready to come off. I waited for Dr. Richmond.

  “Are you happy, Brooke?”

  I looked up from my scab. He was scrutinizing me, waiting and watching. I scanned my mind for the right answer. I was here to get my depression diagnosis, and depressed people were clearly not happy. But was I happy? It occurred to me that happy was a relative term. My definition of happy could be completely different from Dr. Richmond’s definition. Wasn’t it all subjective? I chose my words carefully.

  “I am happy that I’ve been given an opportunity to set things right. I am not happy that I have to do it.”

  Dr. Richmond’s faced cracked into a smirk and his eyes had a glint of humor in them. “You are a bright girl,” he said, “and resourceful. I’m beginning to understand why Bill sent you to me.” He paused. “I want you to be honest with me for the remainder of our sessions. Know that I will be writing a masterful report detailing your depressed state and it will include my authorization for treatment to include another trip to your past. But you do not have to choose your words so cautiously. Nothing you say to me from here on will affect the outcome of that report, but it may affect your well-being in the end, when all is said and done. Do you understand what I am saying?”

  “Yes,” I replied, still partially unconvinced.

  “Good. Then I assume you took some time to think about what we discussed last time?”

  “About when I stop…” I confirmed.

  “Yes.”

  “I did.”

  “And? What did you decide?”

  “I decided I’ll know when I’m ready.”

  Dr. Richmond’s smile could not be contained and he laughed aloud. “My apologies, Miss Wallace. You just remind me a lot of myself.”

  “Well,” I ventured, “you turned out okay.”

  He laughed again, “Touché! I guess I did!”

  Throughout the next four sessions with Dr. Richmond, I discovered that his brother had died as well, in a car accident at fourteen. Dr. Richmond had been behind the wheel. He had been sixteen years old. Like me, he had been convinced that he could go back and fix the past, however, unlike my parents, his were far less compassionate. By the time he was eighteen and of legal age to use his trip, he had turned to drugs and alcohol to ease the pain of his situation and the government had denied his trip on those grounds. Luckily, one of the employees along the application process had been aware of his distress and had enrolled him in a support group for grieving siblings. In the end, Timmy Richmond became Dr. Timothy Richmond, after earning his medical degree in psychiatry. And through it all, he had never used his trip.

  True to his word, I was given a manila folder documenting our time together at the end of our six sessions, detailing my ongoing treatment for depression to include more time with my deceased sibling.

  The night before my scheduled appointment at the USDTS, I stayed up all night looking through old photos of Branson and me growing up. There were pictures of the two of us in Disney World, beaming on either side of Mickey Mouse, skiing with our dad on Cook Mountain, roasting marshmallows around a campfire, playing soccer, fishing with our grandparents, school concerts… the memories seemed endless. By morning, the tears I had shed throughout the night and the exhaustion left me looking like someone suffering from severe depression. I was quite pleased with myself.

  Mother accompanied me to my appointment with my caseworker. As luck would have it, my previous caseworker was on maternity leave and I was placed with a substitute, Henry Brackswell. He seemed only slightly older than I was, perhaps in his mid-twenties, and he was far more pleasant than Gina had been. I had no idea how the government was able to keep track of data from trips that had been taken, especially in the event that a timeline had been altered as mine had been, but my original file was lying on his desk when we arrived. Although not a single soul other than I had memories of what initially transpired before my trip, the government was somehow able to keep track of multiple realities. It made my brain hurt to think about it.

  Mr. Brackswell took my new file, which included the documentation from Dr. Richmond, from my hand as I sat down. He looked at me with a mixture of pity and genuine concern.

  “It says here that your doctor would like you to return to the final months of your brother’s life in order to complete your therapy. Is this correct?”

  “Yes,” I answered solemnly.

  “I see. Well, this is highly unusual, but there are documented cases of the government allowing use of a second trip for such an occasion, so I will pass your case along to finalization. Because you have already successfully completed the preparation program, you will not be required to attend again, but you will have to fill out the final paperwork a second time.” He looked up from his computer screen and met my gaze. “Do you have any questions?” he asked.

  “How soon can I leave?”

  TRIP TWO

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  Much like the first time, the actual travel between timelines was quite simple. The only item to join me on my voyage was the clay lion, smuggled in the depths of my pocket.

  I chose to return after the “cream transfer” but before the “ball on the roof incident,” as I would come to call them. It was the first Wednesday of December and the house was quiet. I had just gotten home from school and Branson was apparently occupied at the store. Mother and Father were still at work. I had the house to myself.

  I had spent just eight weeks living in the present, in a world where Branson no longer existed. It felt strangely comforting to be back in the past where life felt normal and as it should be. At least for the moment. I found myself wandering around the empty house, finally making my way quite unexpectedly into Branson’s room.

  I had rarely been in his room without him being there over the years. It was not because I was unwelcome, and although there had never been any secrets between us, it just always felt as though it was an invasion of his privacy. I had helped my mother clean his closet one year while he was at Boy Scout camp for a week. I had retrieved things from his room repeatedly when he had broken his foot in seventh grade and was cloistered in the family room for three weeks. I had never been particularly curious about what his room was like without him, so I had avoided going in there. But today, knowing what I knew about our futures, I ventured inside. In many ways, he was already a ghost to me.

  The blinds were still drawn from the night before and my eyes took time to adjust to the darkness. Bed linens lay strewn across his mattress and there were several piles of clothes, both clean and dirty, on the floor. I was immediately overcome by Branson's familiar smell. From the time he was small, whenever he would play hard and get sweaty as a boy, Mother would tease that he smelled like a little, wet dog. It was that musty sweetness that seemed so powerful to me after being away from it for so long.

  I moved around the bed and sat at his desk. There were five books, all half read, along with his sketchpad. I opened the cover and was taken aback by the eyes of the beautiful girl staring back at me. It was Jill Overstreet, a girl Branson befriended in Sunday school when he was only three years old. She had attended his birthday parties in grade school and rode bikes with him to middle school dances. Her face was on the second and third pages as well. I flipped through the rest of the pad. There were doo
dles of soccer balls and cartoon men. There were magnificent landscape drawings of the mountains behind our house. There was a fruit bowl that I assumed was an assignment for school but was beautifully drawn nonetheless. There were several more portraits of Jill. Finally, on the second to last page, I saw my own face.

  It was just my profile. I had a far off look in my eyes. Perhaps he had drawn it, unbeknownst to me, as we were watching a movie together or doing homework. His attention to detail was spectacular. He had drawn each freckle and strand of hair, down to the cowlick at my hairline, with such loving precision. My brother, my wonderful brother, with so many gifts to share, has chosen to spend his time drawing my portrait. The drawing blurred and I used my sleeve to wipe my eyes as the tears cascaded down my cheeks. To think that his life was about to be snuffed from the world was just too much to bear. Carefully, I tore the page from its spirals, making sure to leave no trace of its existence. Perhaps he would forget he had drawn it and it would go unnoticed. I was willing to risk it. I had to have the portrait, a physical memento of his love for me.

  I was awakened from my trance by the sound of tires on the gravel drive outside and I knew that my mother was arriving home from work. I returned the sketchbook and desk chair and closed Branson’s bedroom door behind me as I left. The clay lion I had brought back with me was still in my pocket and I placed both the figurine and the portrait in the bottom drawer of my desk. I was initially distraught to find that the letters from the hardware store attic were no longer there, but quickly realized it was because I had not yet procured them in the current timeline.

  Clouds were building in the evening sky. They would develop to become a substantial snowfall, the remains of which the children would play in beside the hardware store the following week. I had several days to pluck up the courage to do what I knew needed to be done. It was time to become the lion.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  It was not until the night before I was scheduled to stop the ball that I remembered Charlie Johnson. Once I had returned to the present timeline, I had not thought of him again. It was as if he only existed for me in the past, although clearly he was living in both the past and the present. I realized that along with a second chance at stopping the ball, I also had a second chance to meet Charlie. The anxiety of what I was facing kept me from sleeping well and I dreamt fitfully of snow boots and kickball.

  Branson, throwing himself onto my bed with great fervor, woke me the next morning.

  “You’re so late!” he yelled. “Your alarm has been going off for half an hour! Wake up sleepyhead!”

  I pried my eyelids open and looked at the clock. Indeed, I had overslept and I needed to move quickly if I was going to get us both to school on time.

  “Why didn’t you get me up sooner?” I scolded.

  “How did I know you weren’t up? Thought you might be up here primping. I’ve already eaten, but you have to hurry! I have a math test first period!” he called over his shoulder as he raced back down the stairs.

  I dragged myself out of bed. Methodically, I showered and dressed, arriving at the breakfast table in record time to find that Branson had prepared a bagel and orange juice on my behalf for the road.

  “You can eat but it will have to be in the car. We gotta roll!” he ordered, throwing my car keys at me as he shrugged on his coat. I was sliding on my boots when I remembered what a pain they had been the last time. I laced up my sneakers instead.

  We sped through the front office of school just as the first bell was ringing.

  “Chad’s mom is picking me up, so you don’t need to wait for me after school,” Branson called as he ran into his first period class.

  “I know,” I said.

  He looked at me strangely and disappeared into his trigonometry class.

  I strolled down the hallway to government. It was officially the third time I would attend the day’s lecture on the Fifth Amendment and I figured missing the first few minutes would not hurt. I managed through the day, exhausted though I was, making every attempt to keep the timeline as it was the time before. The afternoon dragged by slowly as if the sands of time were delighting in my desperation.

  As the final bell rang, I made my way to my locker and caught a glimpse of Branson down the hall. He was with Jill Overstreet, slouched against the wall, acting overly casual. I had to admit, he was adorable. Jill would be a fool not to be interested in him as more than a friend. He was speaking to her and she was giggling and pretending to be indifferent, but the spark was there. My brother was in love. Or at least smitten. I did not know how I had missed it the first times, but there it was. And then it dawned on me that Jill was going to lose him too in the event that I should fail. My heart broke for her and I was reminded of my goal for the afternoon. Stop the ball.

  Having worn my sneakers instead of my boots, I was rewarded with a much more pleasant walk to the store. The warmth of the sun was a familiar reminder of the beautiful day already lived, and I drank it in, turning my face towards its rays as I strolled across the field. I made sure to arrive early so that I could be present as the children arrived. My plan was to encourage the kids to play something other than kickball. Perhaps something that did not even require a ball.

  I had been sitting on the front steps of the hardware store for less than ten minutes when the first of the children arrived, three boys and two girls. I recognized Melody Johnson right away. She was skipping hand in hand with another girl as the boys ran off in front. None of them had a ball and I took the opportunity to approach them with the hopes of encouraging them to engage in another activity.

  “Hi guys!” I called, waving as I moved toward the group.

  “Hi,” said one of the boys cautiously, as if being approached by a wild animal.

  I had prepared for their distrust. “I’m a camp counselor over at Seneca Grove in the summer. I saw you all headed over here to play and thought that maybe you would like me to teach you some of the games we play at camp. It’s such a nice day and all…”

  Not quite sure what to make of me, they looked back and forth at one another. My mind raced, searching for an idea that would help me seal the deal. “We play a game called ‘TV Freeze Tag.’ Think you might be interested?”

  The tallest boy’s eyes lit up and a smile spread across his face. “Yeah!” he exclaimed, “Teach us how!”

  Once I had his approval, the other four eagerly joined in. As I finished explaining the rules, the rest of the original crew showed up, including the boy with the kickball. I was relieved when he gladly laid it to the side to join the others.

  We spent the next hour running around the vacant lot playing freeze tag. Between the fresh air and exuberance of the children, I felt more carefree than I had in ages. Happily, the ball laid forgotten under a pile of coats on the edge of the lawn, having never been kicked at all, much less anywhere near the hardware store roof, the entire afternoon.

  I was tagged, frozen in place, when I heard a car pull up across the street and a voice call someone’s name. Involuntarily, I turned to see Charlie Johnson, right on time to pick up his sister, strolling across the field toward Melody. In that moment, he saw me and our eyes locked. He stopped for an instant, smiled at me and then turned to walk in my direction. Behind me, Melody touched my shoulder and unfroze me, yelling “run” as she passed by. I took off, continuing with the game, and to my surprise, Charlie ran up alongside of me.

  “What’re we playing?” he asked, throwing his coat into the pile.

  “TV freeze tag,” I responded, surprised that I could find my voice at all between the running and close proximity of the boy from my past.

  “Who’s IT?” he called, turning in the opposite direction.

  “Jeremy,” I yelled back.

  And so Charlie, the children and I played freeze tag together until the sun sunk behind the horizon and the cool air settled in. One by one, kids grabbed their respective jackets and turned off toward home, eventually leaving only Charlie, Melody, and me
.

  “Thanks for playing with us Brooke,” Melody said.

  “It’s my pleasure,” I replied as I pulled on my hoodie. “I can’t remember the last time I had this much fun.” And I meant it.

  We began walking toward Charlie’s car when he asked, “Do you go to Grant High?”

  “Yes,” I replied.

  “I go to Hawk’s Ridge,” he said, not boastfully, but in an attempt to make conversation.

  “I know,” I said. As soon as the words escaped me, I realized my mistake. I fumbled to recover. “I think Melody told me that’s where you all went.” I looked to the beautiful little girl, silently willing her to corroborate my story.

  She looked blankly at me for a moment, and then, as if my fairy godmother was whispering in her ear, she suddenly understood what she needed to say.

  “Oh, yeah, I told her,” she said. “I’m cold. I’ll wait for you in the car. Bye Brooke!” She smiled knowingly at me and raced off in the direction of Charlie’s waiting vehicle. I waved after her.

  “It was really nice of you to play with the kids today. It’s been a long time since I’ve run around like that,” he laughed, kicking at a small pile of slush on the ground.

  “Me too,” I said. I wished that I had something more to say but my mind was blank. Of all the things I had prepared for, having a conversation with Charlie Johnson was not one of them.

  “Some friends are having a bonfire out by the lake tomorrow night. You should come,” he said. When I did not respond he added, “I could pick you up.”