Imaginary Friend (ARC)

by Stephen Chbosky

  “Ambrose, can we go play catch?”

  “It’s snowing outside.”

  “I don’t mind.”

  Ambrose turned the pages. Over and over. Trying to see as much as he could. His eyes were not healing. He would be blind soon. His eye doctor warned him that it could happen as soon as Christmas. But as long as he could squint, he would look at this baby book. And remember everything he could about his little brother. Not the crazy stuff at the end. Not the headaches. The fevers. The talking to himself. The bed wetting. The nightmares that got so bad that by the end, he didn’t know if he was asleep or awake.

  No.

  He would remember the David from these photographs. The kid who loved that old Steelers hat and had to play catch in the snow because he loved the baseball glove that his big brother gave him. The kid who begged to go everywhere with Ambrose and loved every minute he got to spend with his big brother. The kid who sat down next to Ambrose at the barbershop and smiled when the barber pretended to shave him and said,

  “David…you have a great head of hair.”

  Ambrose got to the end of the baby book. The last picture was David at the age of eight. Then, there were dozens of pages that were going to be blank forever. Fifty years ago, they were clear white from Sears. Now, they were yellow and cracked like the skin on his hands. Ambrose went to his bed and lay down on the pillow. He took out his teeth and put them in the glass by his bed. He dropped in the tablet of Efferdent to wash away his sins. The hissing of the water was soothing to him like the rain on the roof during a thunderstorm. The thunder would clap and David would open his bedroom door.

  “Ambrose, can I sleep in your bed?”

  “It’s just thunder.”

  “I had a nightmare.”

  “Another one? Okay. Climb in.”

  “Thanks!”

  Ambrose remembered the smile on David’s face. Those missing front teeth. He looked so relieved to be climbing into bed with his big brother. He used that old baseball glove as a pillow.

  “Ambrose…let’s go to the woods tomorrow.”

  “Go to bed, David.”

  “I want to show you something.”

  “I’m seventeen. I’m not going to the woods like a little kid.”

  “Please. It’s something special.”

  “Fine. What is it?”

  “I can’t tell you, or they’ll hear me. You have to see it for yourself. Please!”

  “Fine. I’ll go with you. Now go to sleep.”

  But he never did. No matter how much David begged him. Because he didn’t want to encourage more of his crazy shit. He had no idea what David did out there. He had no idea what happened in those woods. But someone did. Someone put a tape recording of a baby crying on his porch and took his little brother away.

  And someone buried his little brother alive.

  A primal rage took the old man. A young, inexhaustible anger came back to him like an old song on the radio. He saw the faces of the newspapermen who accused him of murdering his own brother. The classmates who avoided him. The enemy’s armies that shot at him. His mother on her deathbed saying David was coming home. His father on his deathbed saying nothing because the cancer ravaged his brain worse than his own denial. He saw the doctor who said his wife was dead. The judge who told him he could no longer take care of himself. The gum-snapping bureaucrat who finally took his license. The government that couldn’t solve the refugee problem in the Middle East. And the God who let all of this happen for a reason all His own.

  They all took on one face.

  The person who buried his brother alive.

  Ambrose took a deep breath of it. Then, he exhaled and stared at the ceiling through the clouds in his eyes. He was done crying. He was done feeling sorry for himself. He was done being a feeble old man who was just waiting to be blind before waiting to die. He was being kept alive for a reason. And he wasn’t going to waste it. He was going to figure out what happened to his brother if it was the last thing he ever did.

  Which he was almost certain it would be.

  Chapter 38

  Who murdered David Olson?

  That’s what the sheriff thought as he drove through the Fort Pitt Tunnel until the blizzard almost took his tires off the bridge. He had never seen snow like this in his life. Two days with no signs of stopping. It was like the earth was angry at them or God Himself really needed some Head & Shoulders for all that dandruff. There were droughts in Africa, a crisis in the Middle East, and Western Pennsylvania was throwing its hat in the ring to become the next North Pole.

  What the hell was going on?

  The sheriff pulled in front of the precinct and parked. He looked up at the old grey building where he spent his eager twenties and less than eager thirties. The grey building where he put a lot of bad people behind bars and where a lot of innocent people lay lifeless on a cold metal table in the coroner’s office.

  Innocent people like David Olson.

  The sheriff got the call an hour before. His buddy Carl had run the DNA off the books as a favor. The hair from the baby book matched the DNA of the body found in the woods. The skeleton belonged to David Olson. The sheriff hoped that the final proof might give some comfort to Ambrose. He had seen grown men cry before, but there was something about Ambrose that got him behind the throat. Something about seeing this old war veteran cry through the gauze of his eyes that would never heal.

  “Did he suffer? Were any of his bones broken?” Ambrose asked.

  “No, sir.”

  “Was he hurt…in other ways?”

  “Other than the manner of death, there was no sign of foul play, Mr. Olson.”

  “How was my little brother murdered?”

  The sheriff was silent at first.

  “I’m a soldier, Sheriff. The only thing I can’t handle is bullshit. Tell me the truth.”

  “He was buried alive, sir.”

  Even without seeing his eyes, the sheriff would never forget the look on Ambrose’s face. It began as confusion spreading across his forehead, then blossomed into a white-hot rage. The sheriff had been the bearer of bad news to many families over the years. These were always the hardest words to speak. He would come back to this old grey building after seeing a single mother in the Hill District. Or a nice wealthy couple in Squirrel Hill. And the reaction was always the same. That mixture of disbelief, grief, guilt, and despair.

  Except for the girl with the painted nails. Her mother was dead.

  The sheriff met Carl in the coffee shop in the lobby of the grey building to collect the lock of David’s hair, get the official paperwork, and arrange for the body to be sent to the funeral parlor. They got their favorite booth. The one underneath the picture of the owner shaking hands with Steelers legend Terry Bradshaw. The first time they sat under that picture, Carl spent lunch telling him about this hot Catholic girl he met at Metropol down on the Strip. And they laughed about girls the way that young men always do (and older men never do). The autograph was faded now along with the color, and the hot girl he met at Metropol was now the overweight Catholic woman who had given Carl three kids and made his life a happy, living hell. The sheriff smiled as he listened to Carl complain about spending another Christmas with his mother-in-law in Homestead.

  “The woman can make a mean mushroom soup, though. You wanna join us?” Carl asked.

  “No, thanks. Too much to do.”

  “Come on. You worked all the way through Thanksgiving. Don’t be alone on Christmas again.”

  The sheriff lied and said he had been invited to one of his deputy’s houses. He thanked his old friend, then got back to his car, already covered with another inch of snow.

  Where was it all coming from?

  As he started the car and let the defrosters clear the windshield, his mind settled back. He looked at the evidence bag, the lock of hair, and the official report before putting it to rest in the passenger seat.

  Then, he started driving.

  He knew where he was goi
ng. He did this every time he came downtown. He was going to drive past the hospital where he took the girl with the painted nails. Even with the blizzard and the bad roads. He would drive past it because he promised God that he would. His logical brain knew that it didn’t make any difference whether he parked in front of Mercy Hospital or looked at that Charlie Brown tree in the front or not. But in a rare moment of grief, he had made a deal with God that if he did that, the girl with painted nails would be in Heaven. So, he was going to do this forever. If he couldn’t save her life, at least he could save her soul. He owed her that much.

  He parked in front of Mercy Hospital. He stared at that tree for the better part of an hour. The tailpipe making clouds in the cold air. The windshield wiper and defroster turning fat snowflakes into streaks of water. He reached over and grabbed David Olson’s report on the seat next to the lock of the boy’s hair.

  Who left the baby carriage on the porch?

  The question stuck in the sheriff’s mind like a fly in a jar. Somebody planned all this. Someone went through a lot of trouble to wipe down a baby carriage and leave it out there with no prints. This wasn’t the work of some kids playing a prank. This was the work of a person (or persons) who took David to do horrible things to him.

  Ambrose said there was no one he suspected. No neighbors. No teachers. No parents of friends because David didn’t have any friends. He was just a weird, lonely kid who spent his time reading in the library. Back then, the polite people in the neighborhood called him “off” or “special” or “touched” if their roots were Southern. Today, David might have been diagnosed anywhere from “on the spectrum” to “schizophrenic” depending upon the doctor. Whatever his diagnosis would have been, it didn’t provide the one thing the sheriff needed to solve the case.

  A motive.

  David Olson wasn’t found in a ditch. He wasn’t at the bottom of a creek. They found David Olson’s body twisted under a tree root. Buried alive. So, if David Olson was murdered, then who fucking buried him?

  Because it wasn’t the trees.

  Chapter 39

  Christopher stared at the trees.

  He lay in bed, watching the moon wink through the bare branches. He was too afraid to sleep. Too afraid to dream. He didn’t want the imaginary people poking around in his nightmares to see if he knew about them.

  So he stayed awake by reading.

  He went to the duck paper bookshelf three times that night. The words worked through him, quieting his mind, and distracting him from the itch. And the fear.

  And that fever.

  It started slowly. Just a little sweat on the back of his neck. Then it got so hot that he had to take off his pajama bottoms and lie above the blanket, reading with his bare skinny legs.

  By the time morning came, he had almost finished The Lord of the Rings.

  Christopher’s fever climbed the minute he entered school. He looked at the kids, who all felt gypped that they only got three snow days. He remembered his mother telling Jerry that “gyp” was a bad word. “Gyp” comes from gypsy. It’s not nice to say “gyp.”

  Jerry is…

  Jerry is…looking for my mother.

  Christopher felt the hallways go quiet. The itch pounded his ears. Flipping the flash cards faster and faster like a ten-speed bike changing gears.

  The janitor is…

  The janitor is…talking to his wife.

  I don’t speak Spanish, but I know what he says.

  “It’s a sin to get divorced. I will not give up custody of my son.”

  “Hi, Christopher,” the voice said.

  He turned around and saw Ms. Lasko, smiling pleasantly.

  Ms. Lasko was…

  Ms. Lasko was…standing in line at the clinic.

  “Are you okay, Christopher? You don’t look well,” said Ms. Lasko.

  “I’m fine, ma’am. Thank you.”

  Ms. Lasko got…

  Ms. Lasko got…rid of her baby.

  “Then come on. We’re all going to the auditorium for the state exam.”

  Ms. Lasko…

  Ms. Lasko…went straight from the clinic to the bar.

  Christopher followed her into the auditorium. He sat down in his alphabetical seat as all the teachers passed out the state exam. They were supposed to do this last week, Mrs. Henderson explained, but the snow days threw off their entire schedule. She told them they would have to complete all of their work in this last week of school before break. She told them not to feel any pressure. This exam did influence state funding, but Mrs. Henderson and the other teachers were really proud of their progress this year.

  Mrs. Henderson is…

  Mrs. Henderson is…lying.

  The school needs…

  The school needs…the money.

  When all the tests were passed around, Christopher took out his number 2 pencil and started working. The itch went away, and there was nothing but answers. Beautiful calm answers. He filled in the little circles row after row until they looked like stars in the sky. Shooting stars that were either a soul or a sun (or a son). In that moment, Christopher couldn’t hear thoughts. All the kids were too busy thinking about the test. There were no flash cards. No itch. Just the test answers, which felt like a warm bath. His mind the cool side of the pillow. Christopher finished the test and looked around the room. All of the other kids were still on page five. Christopher was the only one who had finished his test.

  Until Special Ed finished and put his pencil down.

  And Mike put his pencil down.

  And Matt put his pencil down.

  The four boys looked at each other and smiled. Proud that four of the dumbest kids in school had somehow become four of the smartest.

  “If you’re done with your test, please put your head down,” said Mrs. Henderson.

  Christopher put his head on his desk as he was told. His thoughts drifted to the tree house. To the nice man. And the training they would do. His mind floated away like the clouds up in the sky. Like the sheep he used to count when he couldn’t sleep after his dad died.

  Just rest your eyes.

  Like your daddy did in the bathtub.

  Like the voices told him.

  Just rest your eyes and you will sleep forever.

  “Christopher!” a voice shouted. “What did I tell you?”

  Christopher took his head off his desk and looked up at the front of the class. Ms. Lasko was staring at him with a stern expression, which was strange because Ms. Lasko never got mad at the kids. Not even when they spilled paint in class.

  “Christopher! I said come up to the blackboard.”

  Christopher looked around the auditorium. All of the kids were staring at him. They looked like they wanted to say things…

  You heard her, Christopher.

  Come on.

  We don’t have all day.

  …but they couldn’t because their mouths were sewn shut.

  Christopher searched for his friends, but Special Ed was asleep at his desk. The M&M’s had their heads down, too. Christopher looked back as Ms. Lasko bent her finger, beckoning him to the front of the class. There was dirt under her fingernails. A silver key hung from a little noose around her neck. Christopher’s heart started to pound. He knew what had happened.

  I fell asleep. Oh, God. I’m dreaming.

  “Christopher, if you don’t come to the board right now, everyone in this auditorium will have no choice but to eat you alive,” Ms. Lasko said in a calm voice.

  Get to the street.

  Christopher turned. All of the exits were guarded by teachers. Standing with their eyes and mouths sewn shut. There was no way out.

  “Christopher, you come right now!” Ms. Lasko hissed.

  Christopher didn’t want to walk to her. He wanted to get out of here. So, he moved away from the blackboard. But every time he moved away, he somehow moved closer. Everything was opposite day. He stopped. He breathed calmly.

  He took a step away from the blackboard.
<
br />   And his feet took one step closer.

  “No!” he cried.

  He took another two steps away.

  And he moved two steps closer.

  He stopped. And thought. “Okay. It’s opposite day. If I move closer to the blackboard, then I’ll move away.”

  So, he took two steps toward the blackboard.

  And he moved four steps toward it.

  It didn’t matter what he did.

  He kept walking to the front of the auditorium.

  “Help me! Please!” Christopher shouted.

  Christopher looked at all of the kids for help. Their mouths were sewn shut, but their eyes smiled at him. Christopher moved down the aisle. Every row he passed looked up at him and hissed.

  Don’t mess up the test.

  Don’t blow the curve.

  Christopher walked up to the blackboard where Ms. Lasko stood, her thick eye makeup the right color. But somehow wrong. Everything was wrong. She didn’t smell like her usual cigarettes. She smelled like burning skin. Ms. Lasko smiled and held up a perfect piece of white chalk. It was in the shape of a finger.

  “Take it, Christopher,” she said, rubbing her dirty fingernails over his brown hair.

  She handed him the chalk.

  “Now, write on the board, Christopher.”

  “What do you want me to write?” he asked.

  “You know what to write,” she said.

  The chalk screeched on the blackboard as Christopher began.

  I WILL NOT FALL ASLEEP IN CLASS.

  He turned to Ms. Lasko. She pulled out a pair of scissors.

  “That’s not what you’re supposed to write, Christopher.”

  “What do you want me to write?” he asked.

  “You know what to write,” she said calmly.

  Christopher turned to see Ms. Lasko walk to the front row of students. She knelt down in front of Jenny Hertzog, picked up the scissors, and quietly snipped away the thread covering her mouth. Jenny loosened her jaw. She began to salivate. Like little babies do when they are starting to grow teeth. Little baby teeth.