The Clay Lion

by Jahn, Amalie

Everyone wore their dresses and suits, except for me as I was unable fit my casts into anything other than oversized sweatshirts. We listened to music and ate a lot of food that had absolutely no nutritional value. We played video games and card games and board games. And when it was over, everyone went home. Branson and I found ourselves alone together, sitting on the couch, surrounded by the mess that signifies a successful party.

  “Thanks for convincing everyone to bail on the actual dance,” I said.

  “It wasn’t a hard sell. Everyone wanted to be with you. That and the dance is always pretty lame anyway,” he teased.

  “I would punch you if I could, but I can’t reach you,” I said, straining to use my arms.

  “I knew I liked those things,” Branson laughed. Then suddenly, he was serious. “I’m glad to have you home Sis. For a while, I thought you were going to die.”

  “I wasn’t going to die Branson,” I scoffed. “I was there the whole time.”

  “It didn’t feel like it. It felt like you were gone. It sucked.”

  “I’m sorry,” I replied, immediately remorseful for the pain I caused him.

  “Don’t be sorry,” he said, “it was just an accident. I’m just glad everything is going to be okay.”

  I thought for a moment, carefully choosing what I wanted to say to him. “Branson, you know, everything might not always be okay.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I mean, you never know. The car accident thing came out of nowhere and it just happened. And I’ll recover. But stuff happens every day to millions of people. Stuff that is awful and unexpected. But even if things don’t always turn out the way we think they will, we have to keep being strong, you know?”

  “Are you on drugs, Sis?” he asked.

  I rolled my eyes at him. “Nevermind,” I said.

  Branson jabbed me, gently, in the ribs. “No, I get it. The crash was scary. I was scared. You were scared. Mom and Dad were scared. I’m just kind of ready to not think about it anymore, you know?”

  “I know, but some of us have these little reminders,” I said holding up my arms, laughing at myself.

  He laughed along. It was nice hanging out together, just the two of us. Finally, I felt comfortable enough to broach the subject I had been avoiding since coming out of the coma.

  “Did you get to go camping last weekend?” I asked quietly.

  “No. But it’s okay Sis,” he added quickly. “There will be other camping trips. We can try again in the spring.”

  “I’m sorry,” I said, and I found that I actually meant it. As much as I was hoping and praying that by not going camping Branson had avoided the exposure that would cause his disease, for the first time, I felt like I would be okay if it did not.

  “I’m about to turn into a pumpkin,” I said, hoisting myself from the sofa to head up the stairs to bed. “Thanks again for hanging out tonight.”

  “I got your back, Sis,” he replied.

  He always had. I prayed he always would.

  CHAPTER THIRTY TWO

  Over the course of the next several weeks, life remained much as it had in all three previous timelines. There were school assignments, trips to the mall, and Branson’s soccer games.

  In mid-November I found myself seated, once again, in the bleachers with Sarah and my mother watching the fateful game against our cross town rivals. Once again, Sarah discussed her college applications. Once again, Doug Simms broke three toes. Once again, we lost, five to seven. But for the first time, Branson did not remove his shin guard. He did not pull himself out of the game. He did not develop the rash.

  My heart soared with newfound hope. I cautioned myself that I had been optimistic in the past, only to be dismayed when his cough returned. And yet, I was unable to stop myself. As the game ended, mine was the lone smile in a sea of gloomy faces.

  “What has you so cheerful?” my mother asked as she assisted me down the bleacher steps. “We got pummeled. Branson’s going to be heart broken.”

  “It’s just a game Mom,” I replied.

  “Don’t let your brother hear you say that,” she cautioned, smiling herself.

  School held renewed interest for me. With the promise of college looming in the not so distant future, I spent time mastering as many skills as I was able during class time and finished each of my college applications. As I had in the original timeline, I planned to attend State and enroll in their pre-med program in veterinary medicine. Having a future felt real for the first time in years. I promised myself I would not be derailed again.

  I did make a conscious decision about college that I hoped would carry into the future with me. I realized that when I eventually returned to the present timeline, it would be 15 months in the future. I would return to the exact date I left Jasper Industries in June of the following year. If I chose to attend college in the fall, regardless of what happened with Branson, I would have no memories of my entire freshman year, as it would be completed by the time I returned from my trip. Having no memories of classes attended or knowledge learned would put me at a huge disadvantage when I returned to the present, as I would immediately have to enter my sophomore year.

  I hoped that by acknowledging this truth that I would find a way to postpone entering college until I returned to the present after my trip. Perhaps I could intern at the vet for a year, giving myself an opportunity to network. Or, in the event that Branson should die once again, I could stay at home for a year to assist my grieving parents. Either way, I planned to defer my college acceptance for a year. I sent letters stating my intentions to each of the colleges to which I had applied.

  Branson and I continued to live our lives as we always had, with respect and love for one another. Although our daily life was as it always had been, I constantly reminded myself that our days were very possibly numbered and that each moment together was a gift. I tried not to get angry when he did not empty the dishwasher when it was his turn. I did not yell when he played his music loudly as I attempted to study for a calculus exam. I watched him shovel his dinner into his mouth each night without making fun of his poor etiquette. If these were to be our final months together, I would make every effort to soak up as much of him as I could.

  CHAPTER THIRTY THREE

  November rolled peacefully into December. The casts were removed from both of my arms and I began regaining my strength. Branson resumed working at the hardware store to assist the Cooper’s with the seasonal rush, and for the first time during any of my trips, I was positive that the events that were about to unfold would have life altering consequences. I resolved to make sure that the Coopers were aware of their damaged roofing, one way or another.

  On the day of the “ball on the roof” incident, I was pleased to find that for the third time straight, the day was unusually warm. I decided that I would spend the afternoon tucked away in the attic of the hardware store as I had been during my first trip so that I could bear witness to the discovery of the damaged roofing. I reasoned that if for some reason the ball was never kicked onto the roof, I would find a way to alert the Coopers to the damage myself.

  It was far more challenging scaling the fire escape than it had been on my first trip, as my weak arms prevented me from climbing as easily as I had in the past. It was with great difficulty that I hoisted myself to the small door on the third floor that led to the attic space. Luckily, my fingers still functioned well and I was able to jimmy the lock with little effort.

  Once inside the musty attic, the same comfort I felt there in the past immediately washed over me. Mixtures of shadow and light danced magically around the expansive corridor, drawing me into its secrets. Immediately, I began searching for the small wooden ammunition box. I found it behind an antique dresser, exactly where it had been when I discovered it the first time.

  I seated myself comfortably on the floor, cushioned by an old quilt and opened the box. Letter after letter, penned in the most beautiful handwriting, declared the author’s undying love for the bri
de he had left behind. I wondered what their fate had been. In my own mind, I pictured him returning from the war, wounded but alive, eager to resume their loving union. Sadly, I acknowledged, he had probably never seen her again.

  Laughter from below led me to the window. Melody and her friends had arrived. It was with great longing that I observed them from the sanctuary of the attic high above the vacant lot. Within moments, the boy with the ball appeared and a spirited game of kickball ensued. I held my breath, waiting for the ball to land upon the roof. I attempted reading the letters once again, but I found that my anxiety was too great. Minutes ticked by and I began pacing in front of the window.

  At long last, I heard the loud thud of the ball on the roof overhead. With great joy, I watched as the children encouraged Mr. Cooper to come see what had happened. The chain of events that I had witnessed before was set into motion yet again. The ladder came out. A man was sent to the roof. The ball was removed. The roof damage was discovered. I breathed a sigh of relief knowing that the roof would be repaired before any catastrophe would befall Mrs. Cooper. She would survive. All was as it should be.

  And yet, there was an aching in my soul that I could not ignore. I was acutely aware of what was to transpire within the next several minutes in the lot below. I was powerless to stop it, but just the same, I knew that I held my future firmly in the palm of my hand. In that moment, I controlled my own destiny. I remembered that I had given my word, and yet, I reasoned with myself, the future in which that promise had been made would never come to be. The promise had yet to be made and so, was I bound to it at all? My heart urged my feet to leave the attic at once. To sprint down the fire escape so I could be waiting with Melody when Charlie arrived. We could begin again. And I would do better. Be better.

  Instantly, the yearning of my heart was overpowered by the conscience of my head. Doubt had arisen, creeping in to the corners of my mind. With great anguish, I admitted to myself that there was always the chance that I would hurt him again. That Branson would die and I would be unable to spare Charlie the pain of losing me as well. I had promised him that I would leave his timeline unchanged in the event that I returned to the past. I had promised that I would not interfere in his life.

  And so, true to my word, I watched from the attic as Charlie appeared, calling to Melody from across the parking lot. He remained exactly as I remembered him. I strained to see his features clearly - the arch of his eyebrows, the glimmer in his eyes, the fullness of his lips that had so gently kissed mine in a past that would never be. I watched as Melody ran to him, eagerly grasping his hand as they strolled together to the car. Unable to hold them at bay, tears washed down my cheeks as I watched Charlie pull away, down the road and out of sight.

  I slid to the floor, my legs unable to support the weight of my soul. My body was wracked by heavy sobs as the enormity of my decision came crashing down upon me. I was furious with myself for letting him drive away but knew that it needed to be done. There would be no Charlie and Brooke and therefore, always, there would be instead a void in my life. As I sat against the wall, my head resting in my hands, the ammunition box caught my attention in the corner of the room, and I was struck with an idea.

  I pulled a pen and a notebook from my backpack and quickly tore out a sheet of ruled paper. So much emotion desperately needed to come out, so with shaking hands, I began to compose a letter to Charlie. The words came slowly at first, as I had difficulty expressing all that he had meant to me. The months we spent together flipped like photographs through my mind, and as I was reminded of each sweet detail of our shared moments, it was if a dam burst within me and the emotions spilled forth onto the page.

  Dearest Charlie,

  Once upon a time, you met a girl. She was unimpressed by your status and knew nothing of your upbringing, and still, she was amazed by everything you were. You demonstrated the beauty of humility even as you won awards. You revealed your kindness, including her brother in your life without hesitation. Your sincerity was felt by all as you complimented others and chose to give everyone you met the benefit of the doubt. You forced her to believe in herself and to be brave in the face of difficulty. And you taught her the most difficult lesson of putting others before oneself.

  You will never know me, but I will always know you. My life is richer for having had you in it, if only for a short while. I will carry the gift of your love with me always.

  Love,

  B

  I took the sheet of notebook paper and folded it carefully into thirds, my vision blurred from the tears that continued to fall. I placed it in the wooden box, crisp and bright among the faded, yellowed love letters written eons before. Instead of taking the box home for safe keeping as I had done in the previous timeline, I decided to place the box in a corner of the eves, hidden from view, and far from the damaged roof. I prayed that it would be spared during the construction and would be found instead by someone in generations to come. I felt some consolation in the fact that our love would live on, just as the soldier and his wife’s had, folded for decades into neatly addressed envelopes.

  The attic had grown dark and the commotion of the afternoon had long since faded. I gathered my belongings and carefully made my way down the fire escape for the last time. Having done what I came to do, all that was left was to live out the remainder of my trip with as much grace as I could muster.

  CHAPTER THIRTY FOUR

  The weeks flew by quickly. The holidays came and went, a whirlwind of excitement and joy. Throughout the winter months, the steady rhythm of daily life was a gift that I relished and honored. The final days of my journey crept upon me with great stealth and it was with some anguish that I prepared to end that chapter of my life.

  February 27th was laid out before me like a road map. Each leg of the day’s journey was already set, numbered one after the other in a straight line. The only unknown was where it was that we were actually headed. I knew that the following day I would return to the present. There was the chance it would be the last day I would ever spend with my brother.

  I tried desperately to prepare myself for what was to come. For months I had convinced myself that regardless of Branson’s fate, I was ready to face the future. The truth was, I was fearful that I would never have the courage to stick to my resolve. It was easy to do what I had always done – sink into a deep depression, formulate a plan, try to fix the problem. I was only moderately optimistic that I would be strong enough to end the vicious cycle.

  I crept into the kitchen before the sun rose and prepared Branson’s favorite breakfast, crepes with strawberry compote. At eight o’clock I carried a tray with the crepes, orange juice and a bowl of yogurt up to his room. I opened the door slowly, hoping not to wake him. He was sound asleep, sprawled across his bed with his covers thrown to the floor. His breathing was shallow and steady and I was struck by how robust he appeared. I sat on the edge of his bed and gently tapped his shoulder.

  “Branson,” I whispered, “I made you breakfast.”

  He stirred, stretching like a cat, first his arms and then his legs. He yawned loudly and at long last opened his eyes.

  “What’s all this?” he asked.

  “I made you breakfast,” I explained.

  “It’s not my birthday,” he declared.

  “No,” I laughed, “it’s not.”

  “Then what?” he asked.

  “It’s ‘thanks for being a great brother’ day,” I told him.

  “Have you lost your mind?” he asked, managing to maintain a straight face.

  “No!” I laughed.

  He surveyed the tray before him, eyes greedy with anticipation. “Well,” he said finally, “if you are going to make me breakfast, I am going to eat it! Thanks Sis!”

  He pulled himself up against the headboard and picked up the fork, eager to begin devouring the crepes. But then, he paused before taking a bite. “Wait. What do you want?”

  “What do you mean ‘What do I want?’” I asked, feigning de
spair. “I don’t want anything but for you to enjoy your breakfast.”

  “I don’t buy it,” he said, still holding his first bite of crepe in midair.

  I began picking up the tray. “Suit yourself. I’ll just take this back downstairs. Maybe Dad will want it.”

  “NO!” he exclaimed, reaching for the tray. “I’ll eat it! It’s just weird, Sis. You showing up first thing in the morning with my favorite breakfast. I just can’t figure out your angle. What’s your motivation?”

  “Listen,” I said, putting the tray back on his lap and finding a place to sit beside him on the bed, “I just wanted to do something nice for you. You were so helpful after my accident. You never complained about having to ride the bus. You picked up my slack around the house. You never got annoyed about having to do things for me…”

  “I got a little annoyed,” he interjected.

  “Okay, maybe you did, a little, but you could have been a lot worse, so I just wanted to say thanks, okay? Now eat your stupid breakfast before I make you wear it.”

  Branson finally put the bite he had been holding aloft for several minutes in his mouth. “Mmmm. Is good,” he mumbled.

  As he ate his breakfast, we talked about geometry homework that he was stuck on, how Jill Overstreet reacted to the stuffed animal he hid in her locker for Valentine’s Day, and whether or not we were going to try to get tickets to his favorite band that was coming to town in the spring.

  We also decided that in honor of “thanks for being a great brother day,” we would spend the afternoon ice skating at the park rather than bowling as we had in the prior timelines. We invited several friends to come along and even our parents decided to join us.

  The air was cold, but without any wind to speak of, the day was actually quite pleasant. The outdoor ice rink at Jefferson Park was surrounded by trees on all sides, buffering skaters from the elements. It was a large rink that was popular among the locals. Branson and I spent many winter afternoons in our childhood learning to skate together both at lessons and on our own. Branson had begged my mother to let him play hockey, but year after year, she ignored his pleas, repeatedly assuring him that he would most surely end up with a traumatic head injury.