Like last week, during the Fourth of July celebrations. Toby hadn’t wanted to go to the town barbecue, instead staying up in his room, window open, listening to the distant sounds of the band, and, later, the fireworks, tears rolling down his cheeks. It used to be one of his and Frankie’s favorite holidays, and as he lay up in his room, his parents downstairs watching the TV, he could almost smell the hotdogs and hamburgers sizzling, taste the blueberry lemonade and fudge pops.
It was during the playing of “My Country, ‘Tis of Thee” that the doorbell rang and shortly thereafter, Gloria came into his room, holding a bunch of red, white and blue balloons. Wearing the same color streamers in her hair, she looked a picture of American pride. Smiling, she held out the balloons, and Toby, wiping his cheeks dry, had smiled back and seeing her smile almost made up for the fact that this was the first year he and his parents hadn’t celebrated Independence Day, the first Fourth of July without Frankie.
His parents had been great throughout the ordeal, too, giving him space when required, consoling him when needed; although Toby was starting to worry about his dad. He was looking too thin, and tired, like he wasn’t sleeping well; it seemed almost losing his son had really hit him hard. And to make matters worse, it was possible that whoever had attacked Toby and Frankie was still out there, possibly still in Belford. This was one of the many things that kept Toby awake at night, and, he guessed, so too his dad. In Toby’s case, not being able to remember the attack itself plagued him as much as the possibility of the murderer still being out there. He had to wonder—if those elusive flashes of memory started becoming actual cohesive recollections, would the attacker suddenly be revealed? Did he actually ever see his attacker? Or would that bit of information forever remain a black hole in his memory?
Toby lay in the darkness, thinking, and eventually he drifted off to sleep.
CHAPTER NINE
Toby was upstairs in his bedroom, glaring at the scars and sickly yellow bruises that covered his body.
Christ I look like a monster, he thought and wiped tears from his eyes.
The doorbell rang. He turned away from the mirror, slipped on his T-shirt and took his time going down the stairs. The doorbell chimed again.
“Yeah, hold your horses,” Toby muttered. When he reached the front door he tugged it open.
Paul Rodriguez was standing on the porch, a forced smile on his face. “Hey Toby,” he said. “Um, how’s it going?”
Toby shrugged. “All right, I guess.”
Paul nodded and looked down, kicking his sneakers against the boards.
Toby was used to these awkward visits by now. Every kid who had come to see him since he had gotten back from the hospital had acted nervously, unsure of what to say. Everyone that is, except Gloria.
“What’s up?” Toby said.
“Just wondering if you wanna come and play some baseball? Nothing big, just a few of the guys getting together for a hit. It would be good if you could come and play.”
Poor kid was trying at least, which was more than Toby could say for a lot of the kids in Belford.
Yeah, like Warrick.
Toby had neither seen nor spoken with Warrick since the night of the attack.
“Thanks, but I don’t think so,” Toby said. “Maybe another time.”
“Come on Toby, it’ll be fun,” Paul said, looking back up.
“I said no. I’m still sore, I couldn’t play even if I wanted to.”
“Then come and watch.”
“No,” he snapped.
“Okay, whatever,” Paul said and then he turned and trod down the porch steps.
Toby slammed the door.
Baseball. Why’d it have to be baseball?
Toby headed into the family room, where he sat staring at the TV, even though there was nothing on he wanted to watch. But then he could stare at the television screen all day and not care that life was carrying on without him.
Aside from Gloria visiting every few days, he was by himself from morning till just after five when his mom came home from work.
His mom suggested she take more time off from work and stay home, but Toby had reminded her that the doctor had given him the all clear, so he was fine to be at home, resting, alone. He didn’t need a babysitter (though that didn’t stop his mom from ringing two, sometimes three times a day).
Toby didn’t mind being at home, but he had to admit, the endless days of watching mindless day-time television was starting to wear thin.
He had tried playing video games, but doing so only reminded him of Frankie, so he couldn’t even waste time doing that.
He had also tried reading, but that was no good either. His mom had brought home a stack of books from the library for him to read, but he just couldn’t get into any of them. He would start to read, and his mind would drift to the night of the attack, or things he and Frankie used to do, silly things, like the time they built a cubby house constructed from sheets in Toby’s bedroom when they were young. It was an elaborate network of small rooms and tunnels and they played in it all day, until his mom got to wondering where all her spare sheets were, and then they were forced to demolish the white and floral-patterned cubby house. Or the time they stood in Frankie’s backyard and threw stones. They had simply hurled the stones as hard and far as they could, in all directions, and then listened. When they heard glass shatter on Frankie’s fourth rock-throw, they high-tailed it into the house, scared that whoever’s window they had smashed would somehow know it was them and would come over and tell Suzie, and then they would be in all sorts of trouble. But no one had come, and they later learnt that it had been Mr. Kirk’s window they had broken.
Toby would think of such memories and then the words would get all smudged from his tears and he would throw the book against the wall in frustration. His mom had taken a look at the stack of library books a few days ago and, frowning, said, “I don’t remember them being this damaged when I got them out for you.” Toby had assured her they had been.
Toby switched off the TV and threw down the remote. The constant wall of noise buzzing from the set was getting on his nerves.
Toby sat there, wondering what to do. It was only midday, still the whole afternoon ahead of him.
He couldn’t call Gloria—she was spending the day with friends.
You could always go over to Mr. Joseph’s...
Toby owed the old man his life, and yet he couldn’t muster the courage to go over and tell him thanks.
I’m a coward, Toby thought, and the phone jangling was like a jackhammer in the silence.
Toby hopped up off the couch and answered after the fifth ring.
It was his mom, wanting to see how he was doing.
As per usual, he told her he was fine, that he was just relaxing, watching TV, and no, he didn’t feel faint or sick (just sick of you calling all the time...), and yes, the cell was charged and he would use it if he started feeling faint or sick and wasn’t able to get to the regular phone (his parents had bought him a cell phone upon returning home. It was to be taken whenever he went out, and used solely for emergencies. He finally had a cell, and it was only because he had been attacked and his parents were afraid of him suddenly slipping into a coma).
After talking to his mom, Toby headed outside. The sun was hot, the sky clear. He made his way over to the treehouse. It used to be his refuge, his place to hide away from the world whenever he was feeling lost or upset. He hadn’t been up there since the day after the campout, and now, as he stood under the massive elm, he wanted nothing more than to climb up, bolt the trap door and never come down. He always felt safe up there. Things never seemed as bad, and he was always able to think more clearly hidden away in his own private sanctuary.
So, heaving a deep breath, he stepped up to the ladder, gripped one of the wooden planks, and started climbing. Immediately pain ripped through his side, his breath was sucked out of his body. He dropped to the ground, sweat teeming from his brow, tears streaming down his cheek
s.
“Damn it,” he whimpered.
Wiping tears away, he gazed up at the wooden structure, at the window overlooking the back door.
He half expected Frankie to pop his head out and laugh at him, telling him how much of a pansy he was that he could no longer climb the ladder.
But of course, he didn’t.
With a shake of his head, Toby turned and headed back inside.
A few hours later, Toby was up in his room, standing by the window.
Outside, the grass was dry and summer scorched, the trees thirsty, tired—mirroring his mood.
Go on, just do it.
He had to go over and see Mr. Joseph. There was nothing else to it. If he didn’t do it soon, his dad would probably drag him over by the ear. His parents had been around to see the old man, to thank him and to update him on Toby’s progress, so why couldn’t he?
Because I’m afraid.
Also, there was the guilt. How could he stand and face the man he’d teased for years, thought of as a freak and a weirdo, and say thanks? Thanks for saving my life, oh, and by the way, I always thought you were some strange old man whom I enjoyed teasing and playing pranks on...
Toby felt low. Petty, childish and low.
“Toby?”
The voice was a soft echo; he thought for a moment it was a ringing in his ear.
“Toby?”
No, the voice was definitely real, and feminine.
He turned from the window and left his bedroom. “Gloria?” he called.
“Yeah, I’m in the kitchen.”
Toby walked down the stairs and when he entered the kitchen, saw Gloria standing by the back door.
“I rang the doorbell, but nobody answered. So I tried the back door, found it was unlocked—hope you don’t mind.”
“No, I don’t mind.”
Gloria was wearing a white tank top and shorts, and her hair, tied back in a ponytail, was damp. “I thought you were spending the day with friends?”
“I’ve been at Emma’s all morning, swimming, but I’d had enough, so I thought, I’ve got nothing better to do, why not see what Toby’s up to.”
“Gee, I feel so special,” Toby said.
Gloria smiled. “So, you feel up to doing something?”
“Like what?”
Gloria shrugged. “I dunno. Maybe just walk around?”
“Anyplace you had in mind?”
“Well, we could always...”
Toby gave her a look, and she stopped mid-sentence. “Okay, where do you wanna go?”
He considered a few options—none of them particularly interested him. Then, like a baseball cracking against a bat, an idea struck him. “I know,” he said.
“What?”
He hadn’t felt up to going before, but with Gloria by his side, he couldn’t think of a better time to visit his best friend.
Toby patted his pocket, making sure his cell was sitting snugly—it was—and then said, “Come on.” He started for the back door.
“Would you mind telling me where we’re going?”
“You’ll see when we get there,” Toby said.
“You can be strange sometimes,” Gloria said.
As Toby stepped outside, he turned around and smirked. “I know.”
Toby stood in front of the chain link fence, breathing deeply, sweat trickling down his face and neck.
“You okay? You want to take a minute before we go in?”
He nodded. “Yeah, just a quick breather.” Aside from feeling fatigued, his ribs ached—Toby hadn’t gotten much exercise of late, so the twenty-minute walk to Belford Cemetery had been a struggle.
With Gloria standing beside him, he looked through the fence into the sea of headstones. He’d only been inside this cemetery twice in his short life. The first was to bury Mr. Stein. The second was two years ago, when ten-year-old Jimmy Skiburn died. He was in the back seat of his older brother’s car, when Mike Skiburn—who was drinking, along with a friend in the passenger seat—lost control and ran off the road and into a tree. Mike and his friend survived, though the friend became a paraplegic; little Jimmy died instantly. The Skiburn family moved from Belford shortly thereafter.
Neither the Fairchilds nor the Wilmonts were close to the Skiburn family, but they still attended the funeral.
Toby remembered the crisp Fall day well. He and Frankie had stood next to each other, quoting lines from Night of the Living Dead. “They’re coming to get you, Frankie.” “Toby, you’re acting like a child.”
Toby wasn’t sure why they always joked around at funerals. It wasn’t out of disrespect. Maybe it was simply their way of dealing with death.
Not that death had been close to either of them—they hadn’t been close with either Mr. Stein or Jimmy Skiburn, so the few times Toby had been inside the cemetery, he had been more of an observer than a participant.
Unlike now. This time was very different, very real. Somewhere beneath the shortly cropped lawn, among the sparsely populated trees, lay his best friend.
Toby breathed in the sultry air, exhaled and turned to Gloria. “Okay, I’m ready.”
He took Gloria by the hand. She smiled. Together, they walked through the gate and into the cemetery.
They wound their way past headstones, the silence heavy. They passed the mausoleum, which Toby had always thought was an ugly thing. He couldn’t remember whose tomb it was, now.
“Do you think it’s colder in here?” Toby said as a shiver passed down his spine.
“I dunno,” Gloria said. “Maybe.”
Finally, they stopped.
Toby stared down at the patch of earth Gloria had led him to. Unlike most of the other graves, Frankie’s hardly had any grass covering it.
So that’s where you are, Frankie?
Toby’s throat constricted. “Nice headstone,” he said. In truth, it looked just like any of the hundreds of small white markers that littered the graveyard.
Gloria looked at him, sadness in her eyes. “Yeah. It is.”
“Not quite as elaborate as Jimmy Skiburn’s,” Toby said. “But still, it’s a nice headstone.” He read the inscription: Franklin Scott Wilmont. Born November 12th, 1993—Died June 16th, 2008
Under that: You were a special person, taken far too young. We miss you. We’ll always love you. May you rest in peace. Mom and Leah
Toby looked across at Gloria. She was staring at the headstone, eyes glimmering with tears.
“Sorry,” she said.
“Don’t be sorry,” Toby said. “I’m sure Frankie would love it that you were crying over him.”
Gloria smiled, wiped her eyes.
“So, how was the funeral?” Toby asked. “Mom and Dad told me about it, but you know how parents can be. How was it really?”
“It was a nice service. It really was. A lot of people were sad that you couldn’t go.”
“Yeah, well...”
“Do you want to say something?”
Toby frowned. “What do you mean?”
“Talk to him. I dunno, might help, like closure or something.”
Toby nodded. “Okay.” He cleared his throat. “Hey buddy. How you going? Getting some good rest? Well, I’m here with Gloria, in case you’re too lazy to wake up and see. Sorry I didn’t come to your funeral. But I was still in hospital. But don’t worry, even if I was there, I wouldn’t have said anything stupid or played any stupid games like we used to. Ah, let’s see. Your mom misses you heaps, of course, but she’s doing okay. So is Leah. Oh, and you’ll never believe it, but Mr. Joseph saved my life. He found me wandering up the street, all bloody and dazed. Can you believe it? Yeah, old Mr. Joseph. They still haven’t caught whoever attacked us, but most people think it was that hobo, you remember? Yeah, apparently he was some vagrant, killed himself a few days after the attack. It makes sense, I guess. Anyway, I’m sure you’re busy trying to chat up all of those hot angels, so I’ll leave you alone. Take care, Frankie. I miss ya.”
Toby wiped the tears away. He t
urned to Gloria. “How was that?”
“He would’ve liked it,” a voice said from behind.
Toby and Gloria turned around and faced Suzie. She was standing a few feet away, a bunch of flowers in one hand, tissues in the other. Her face was pale, her eyes red and teary. She was wearing tracksuit pants and an old T-shirt that was in need of an iron. Toby had never seen Suzie in tracksuit pants before.
“Suzie,” Toby said. “I didn’t know you were there.”
“Sorry, didn’t mean to sneak up on you guys. I try to come at least twice a day if I can. It’s good to see you here.”
Suzie stepped up to Frankie’s grave, placed the flowers by the headstone. She stood silent for a minute or two, staring at the headstone, tears falling from her eyes. Finally, sniffling and wiping at the tears, she turned and said, “You guys wanna come back to my place for some drinks? I’d like the company.”
Toby’s hands grew clammy.
He looked to Gloria, hoping she’d say, “Thanks, but we really should be getting along,” but instead she smiled and nodded. “Sure, that sounds good Ms. Wilmont.”
No!
Didn’t she know he hadn’t been inside Suzie’s house since Frankie died? That the thought of venturing into that place sent waves of fear through him?
“Toby?” Suzie said.
He swallowed, wanted to answer, “No, I can’t, not now, maybe later.” But he nodded and said, mouth dry, “Okay.”
“Good,” Suzie said. “Car’s parked just outside.”
They followed Suzie out of the cemetery.
Suzie came back from the kitchen, handed Toby a can of Coke and Gloria a Sprite.
There had been no silly guessing games like there once was, just: “I know you want a Coke, Toby, but Gloria what’ll you have?”
The Awakening Page 19