by Andre Fenton
“He’s gone, and I want him back,” I wept.
“Shh…it’s okay, hon.”
I cried and I cried hard. The worst part of it all was knowing my birthday was coming up, and I wasn’t going to receive that phone call.
Chapter 5
Mom knew I wasn’t in any shape to head back to Nan’s house for the reception. There would be lots of company who would ask me the same questions, tell me the same stories, and would want to know why I only wanted to be called Anna now. I was in no mood for exhausting questions while dealing with grief. So instead, Mom asked Tia if I could chill with her for a bit. So there we were, back in the basement. Eventually night took over the sky, but it was still cloudy. I was lying on the couch covered in a blanket with Taz lying on top of me. We hadn’t said anything since we got there, and I could tell Tia was feeling a bit awkward about it.
“Hey, Anna? If you need some space, that’s all good. Do you want me to leave for a bit? I could go for a drive or—”
“I don’t think I want to be alone right now.”
“I see. I see. Just not in a talking mood?”
“Not really.”
“Oh.”
Tia took a breath, got up, walked over to her ancient CD player, and put on something soothing. I could tell her life was somewhat of a playlist. She always had music for different moods and it was what I needed right then. I closed my eyes and I thought about Grampy.
“I just want to give him a hug,” I let out.
“Hey, hey.” Tia sat next to me. “I know.”
She got close and I rested my head in her lap and held on to Taz.
“It’s just weird that he’s gone. The last time I spoke to him was on my birthday. Almost a year ago. I’ve been meaning to call, but, but—”
“Life gets busy, Anna, it’s okay,” Tia cut in. “It’s easy to take in all the guilt of the world, but is that what he would want?”
“No,” I replied. She was right. He’d want to have a big cookout, a celebration of his life. “He’d want a parade in his honour.” I laughed through my tears.
Tia smiled and nodded. “Yup, that sounds like the Mr. Brooks I knew.”
We laid there for a while as music filled the air and Christmas lights lit up the room. I wanted to be in that moment forever. It was a comfort zone for me. Tia hummed with one arm around me as she checked emails on her phone.
“D’you think it’s weird that I kinda wanna meet my dad?” The thought had been swirling in my head since Mom told me we were coming back to Yarmouth, and it just kind of slipped out. I could never ask that kind of question around Mom, but I felt safe with Tia. A part of me wondered if he’d show up to Grampy’s funeral, but I wasn’t sure if Grampy even knew him. I sure didn’t—Mom never wanted to speak about him, so a lot of it was left up to my imagination.
“No,” Tia told me instantly. “I don’t think that’s weird at all.”
I knew that my father probably wasn’t a perfect man by any stretch of the imagination, but the what-ifs filled me. I always wondered what it’d be like to have a dad. Growing up and seeing Tia doing father–daughter stuff with Jonathan made me wish I had that, especially once we were in Halifax. With Mom being out most of the time, it would have been nice to have someone to be silly with, have someone to give me guidance, or someone to tell me that the world could be anything I wanted to make it. But the only man to tell me those things had been a world away in Yarmouth, and I only spoke to him once a year.
“I think that’s a normal feeling. And whatever you do I got your back. But—” Tia paused.
“But what?”
“I guess what I’m trying to say is, maybe don’t keep your expectations too high, y’know? I mean, has he ever tried to contact you while you were in Halifax?”
“No.”
He never did. Every Father’s Day in school I spent time making cards for Grampy. When we made the switch to Halifax I would mail them to him. So I know Tia was right. I shouldn’t hold someone who never put in the effort to introduce himself to a high standard.
My mind drifted back to the attic. I knew I couldn’t tell anyone what I had seen; they’d think I was out of my mind. I moved off the couch and saw the shoebox from the other night was still sitting on Tia’s table. I opened it up and pulled out my drawing. I saw all three of us again, and looked at Clay. Maybe I had just been seeing things that weren’t really there. In the drawing, Clay was holding onto the journal.
Something clicked in my brain.
“I think I’m going to get some sleep,” I told Tia.
“Wanna crash here?”
I shook my head. “I think I should stay close to home tonight.”
“That makes sense. Need a lift?”
“Nah. Thanks, though,” I said as I made my way to the door.
She followed me and gave me a big hug. “I’m always here for you, Anna.”
I was overwhelmed with guilt. I hadn’t always been there for her like she was here for me now. I wished I had kept in better touch with Tia after we left, but I couldn’t change the past. All I could do was attempt to be better in the present. She understood that when not many people did. Tia was a real one. I had to keep her close.
When I approached home, I saw the last few cars leaving. I kept my head down because I didn’t want to talk to Mom or Nan. I managed to skip past them by going in the back door and heading straight upstairs to the attic.
Everything was the same as the night before, full of dust and memories. I didn’t exactly know how to summon an imaginary friend—it’s not like there were any professionals on the subject. So I just spoke.
“Hey. I know what I seen last night. If you’re around, I’d like that journal back, please.”
There was no reply.
“You’re not going to make this easy for me, are you?” I took a few steps. “Listen, dude. Can we cut the bullshit? I’m sorry I left. Can we talk? It’s been a while.”
Still nothing.
“This is so stupid.” I put my face into my palms.
Maybe it had just been wishful thinking after all. Everything else was still in the same place, the photo albums, the blankets, and the trunk.
But the journal was still gone.
I went outside to get some fresh air. The cool ocean air felt nice, and it was so quiet out here. Then I noticed that the side door to the garage was open. I made my way inside.
Inside was Grampy’s big old red truck. I guessed Mom had parked it there so guests had more room to for their cars. God, I loved that truck, even if it was rusty and even if it was old. I climbed up the passenger side and blew a thin layer of dust away from the dashboard. I lay back in the seat to look around the garage. It was beat down, not well kept, and it made me sad. Clay and I would play hide-and-seek in the garage when we were young. I remember getting in trouble one time when Nan found me in here alone, because she thought I was making a mess. Maybe we were, but she never found Clay. He was always the better hider—me, I was always the seeker.
I got out the truck and looked around a bit more. I could see Grampy’s toolbox on the floor. Behind it was a box of books. I searched it and found a bunch of old muscle car magazines, which made me giggle. Grampy was never much of a car guy, and I always made fun of him for having these magazines. There were also some textbooks in there that he used to teach his English class at Yarmouth High. I kept moving the books until I came across it again: the journal.
“There you are.” I smiled.
I felt the cover—so soft. I opened it for the second time in ten years and saw the drawings of me, Grampy, Nan, Mom. I continued flipping through the journal until I came across Clay again. I found a drawing of him and I standing outside of our tree house holding hands. I looked at the journal’s damaged spine again, and this time I noticed pages were missing from the back. It was definitely already worn
out by the time Grampy had given it to me, but I’m sure time hadn’t helped the thing either.
I hopped up in the bed of Grampy’s truck and scanned more pages. There was a drawing of the lake iced over in the winter, and I was skating across it, holding hands with Clay. It made me smile. I guess some of Mom’s talent did rub off on me. I didn’t end up the worst illustrator in the world, that’s for sure.
“Where did he go?” I wondered out loud.
I found a drawing of Nan braiding my hair on the front steps while Mom painted on a canvas. I chuckled. I loved having my hair in braids. There was a drawing of Grampy and I sitting in his truck. We had gone on so many adventures, all of them better than the last. Maybe that drawing represented the last one we went on. I closed the journal and tried not think about it.
But I couldn’t stop thinking about the funeral. When I had touched Grampy’s urn, that’s when everything became real. That’s when I knew I couldn’t escape the moment, and it was full of pain.
Above my head a light bulb flickered. I ignored it at first, but then it flickered again.
“Who’s there?” I called out. “Clay, is that you?” There was nothing.
Before anything could happen to the journal I stood up on the bed of the trunk and grabbed it, but again I could feel resistance. I pulled and pulled and eventually I got it but fell on the floor of the truck.
“Ouch!” I closed my eyes.
Before I got the chance to stand up, I heard rattling from the other end of the garage. I got to my feet and held the journal, ready to use it as a weapon. I kept twisting and turning, looking behind me and in front of me. I held the journal with a tight grip, until it felt like someone else had a grip on it.
“Hey! Let go!” I tried to keep it in my hands, but the pull was stronger than I was. The journal was yanked from my hands and I fell forward, yelling.
Then everything froze. It felt like someone was holding me in mid-air. I looked around wildly.
Nothing.
“What the hell is going on?!” I yelled.
I heard a voice, and all it said was, “The journal is staying with me.”
I looked up to see a face alongside a body making itself visible, standing on the bed of the truck with me. It looked like—
“Clay?”
The grey boy I had imagined as a child wasn’t a boy anymore. He was bigger, taller, and he looked around my age.
Clay stood me up softly. Even though I had been looking for him, I still couldn’t verbalize what I was feeling in that moment. It’s not every day you come face to face with a grown-up version of your childhood imaginary friend. I looked at his dark eyes, grey skin, and his curly black hair in braids that could use some tightening. I didn’t know what to say or how to respond. His face said black man, but his skin told a ghost story.
“Holy, crap. Clay.” I tried reaching out to him but he moved back, still holding the journal.
“Wait, don’t go.” I took a step forward.
He jumped off the truck, and continued to walk towards the door. I couldn’t let him leave, not again.
“Hey, Clay! Come back.” I stepped off the truck.
He didn’t say a word, but he looked back at me, his eyes full of anger.
“What’s wrong? Clay, it’s me. It’s me, Anna.” I paused. “Sorry, it’s me, Annaka.”
He stopped. He let out a loud sigh, looked back, and said, “I know it’s you. You never came back.”
That hit my heart. I had promised him that Mom and I wouldn’t be in Halifax for long. But then ten years passed; somewhere in that time, I thought he would have left.
“I’m sorry.” I didn’t know what else to say.
He only shook his head and went for the door; he let in a spring breeze and looked towards the lake.
“Where are you going?” I ran after him.
He didn’t reply. He was focused on being anywhere but there, I could tell. A decade may have gone by, but I still knew him.
“Hold up.” I grabbed his hand. He turned to look at me with a frown.
“Clay, I—”
“You came back for the funeral, right?” he cut in. “You’re heading back to Halifax shortly, right?” He crossed his arms and waited.
I thought for a minute. It was true that I had ultimately wanted to leave. But that was before I knew Clay was still here.
“No,” I said firmly. “No, we’re staying.” I looked into his eyes. “Clay, I didn’t know you waited.” I tried to touch his shoulder but he moved back.
“You said you’d be back sooner than later…it’s way later.”
“I’m sorry, Clay. I tried.”
He gave me a long look. I could see the sadness in the way he carried himself; his shoulders dropped, his face held a long, sad frown. I noticed he was still wearing my grandfather’s clothes, and they were a bit big for him. I guess he must have grown out of my clothes a long time ago. He turned to the lake.
“Wait!” I yelled. “Clay, this isn’t ideal for either of us. I’m sorry, okay? I know what I said. I know I told you that I would be back, and I wanted to come back. I really, really did.”
“Save it.”
“Wait!” I yelled again. “You have something of mine. That’s my grandfather’s journal.”
“You can’t have it,” he replied in a grim tone.
“No, you don’t get to take it.” I walked towards him. “It’s mine.” I tried to grab it but he was faster than I remembered. Next thing I knew, he was behind me. I moved again but he was swift.
“Clay, seriously. I’m not kidding.” I turned around to face him.
“Neither am I.”
“All right, all right. Whatever,” I said in mock surrender, hoping he would let his guard down. “It’s yours, if you want it. Take it. Whatever.”
He did let his guard down—he was still gullible, even after all those years—and that’s when I jumped at him, causing him to drop the journal. I grabbed it and tried to run. I didn’t make it too far though, he tripped me, and I stumbled forward out of the garage, tossing the journal in the air.
“Shit,” he muttered.
It was the first time I heard him curse, and it caught me off guard. I caught my balance and saw the journal hit some rocks by the tree house. I looked back at Clay; he held onto his arm as if he was hurt.
“What was that about?” I called out.
He didn’t reply, he only glanced at the journal and I knew he was going to dart for it. So I ran first; I could feel him behind me, but I jumped for it and got a hold of it. I rolled so I could jump to my feet, and I dashed towards the tree house. I climbed the ladder, Clay close behind me.
“Hold up!” I whirled around when I got to the top. “You have some explaining to do.”
“I don’t owe you an explanation!”
“Maybe that’s true, but the journal is mine.” I held it tight. “Why are you holding your arm like that, are you hurt?”
“Because whatever happens to that journal happens to me, all right?” He showed me a mark on his arm. “That’s why I took it last night.” He showed me his other arm where a dark bruise bloomed on his grey skin.
Oh, man, I thought to myself. When I dropped the journal it must have hurt him. “Did it hurt when I dropped it last night?”
“It didn’t tickle.” He crossed his arms.
“I’m sorry.”
“Just give it back.” He put his hand out.
“I can’t. Grampy gave it to me. I want to hold on to it.”
“You’re not going to make this easy, are you?”
“I never do.” I backed away from him.
He gave me a hard stare; I knew he was still angry. But I was hoping I could make him budge. He was breathing heavy, I remember that was a thing he did when he was frustrated. I sat down on the floor of the tree h
ouse while he stared at the journal. I knew if he caught his breath then he would be able to talk.
“Just breathe, Clay,” I spoke while extending a hand.
“I am breathing!” He said, his breaths getting heavier and heavier.
“No, like me.” I took a deep breath, and he watched. “Like this, c’mon.”
He didn’t look impressed, but he did as I said, and I could tell he was beginning to calm down as his shoulders relaxed.
“You good to talk? Like adults?”
“Whatever,” he said. “Fine.”
“Okay. Let’s go back into the garage where no one can see you.” I gestured at the ladder. “C’mon.”
Back in the garage, Clay paced with his arms crossed and a frown on his face.
“Okay, what d’you wanna talk about?” he asked.
“You were here? The whole time?” I sat back down on the back of the truck.
“I was waiting…for you.” He stopped pacing and pointed at me.
I looked down at my feet, a twisting feeling of regret in my stomach. So Clay spent ten years in this place alone while I was away living a new life in the city. God, that’s horrible.
“Clay.” I put my hands on my head. “I didn’t know. I just assumed—”
“You assumed wrong.” He took a breath.
“Why did you stay?”
“For a while it was hope, but I lost that a long time ago,” he said as he shot me a look. “A lot of it was safety. I couldn’t last out there, in the real world. This is the only place I’ve ever known. And if that journal ever gets wrecked, I’m toast.” He sighed.
I never knew that when I was younger. I had always thought Clay was just…Clay. I didn’t know that if the journal got damaged, he’d be hurt too. But it made sense now. Partly.
“Did…did my grandparents ever see you?” I was honestly curious. Some folks can live for a long time not knowing they have mice, but how did my grandparents not know a large grey figure the size of a young man was staying in their home?
“They’ve never seen me,” he assured me. “I wasn’t exactly always here. It’s kind of difficult to explain.”