by Jeff Vrolyks
Chapter One
1997
The funeral service was at a church that Timothy had never been to. And even now as he was taking his seat he hadn’t the slightest notion of its name or precisely what religion it was. Christian is what he had been told he was, so this was probably a Christian establishment. It was only recently that he learned that some people believed in other things, and that was a curious thing to consider. Is God okay with that?
An orderly at the foster home, Jim, had died a few days ago, and he must have had a lot of friends and family because this large room was getting pretty packed. Getting pretty cozy, as Maggie—another orderly—would have said.
Timothy picked a seat kind of in the back, where there were plenty of open seats (for now). There was soft weeping coming from all over. As he made his way down the row he spotted a girl in a pretty white dress with wide belled skirts, shiny white Mary Jane shoes. Her feet didn’t reach the floor. He wondered why she didn’t have to wear black like everyone else. She was seated alone. Her parents were probably off greeting some of the other mourners, touching softly their backs before shaking their hands with grave expressions. Or maybe she was an orphan, too.
He judged her to be about his age, maybe a little older—no older than eight, nine tops. She had a pert little nose, red little mouth, slate blue eyes with long dark lashes, hair so light that it might have been strands of spider silk. Not blonde but white! She looked like a doll, one of those kinds whose eyes close when you lay them down. Looking at her he felt something never before felt, and that was… well he didn’t know what it was, but he wanted to talk to her.
“Hi,” Timothy said and took a seat two spots down from her.
“Hello,” she crooned with a big smile and a wave for good measure. What a pretty way to say hello, he thought, to sort of sing it.
“Are you here for the funeral?” He asked her.
She covered her mouth and giggled. Timothy frowned at that, then giggled himself. Two people entered their row, took a seat far from them.
“Do you live in the foster home too?” He asked her. He was sure she didn’t, he would have recalled seeing her. “I don’t remember seeing you there.”
“No,” she drawled, tilted her head, and smiled widely at him again.
Pretty dang odd, this little number was. Bubbling with personality, he could tell already. “I’ve been there for almost a year now,” Timothy said with a sense of pride. “I liked Jim. He always had funny stories to tell about his wife, who he called his old battle axe.”
“He was a great man,” the girl said. “He made me laugh.”
“So you knew him. I’m Timothy; what’s yours?”
“Arabella,” she said and moved over to the chair beside his and poked him in the side playfully.
“Arabella, that’s a neat name. Are you an orphan too? If not, where are your parents?”
She shrugged, giggled, took his hand in hers. Her bright blue eyes peered so deeply into his that it felt like a breach in his privacy!—that surely she could read his mind with such a penetrating stare! But he liked it. She could breach his privacy any day she’d like.
His mouth unhinged unawares. His eyes drifted down to her nose and mouth, back to her eyes. What a wonderful girl, he thought. Too bad she wasn’t at Saint Josephine’s Foster home, because he’d like to play with her. He sensed she’d be good at Hide ‘N’ Seek, and even better at Tag. He wanted more than just to play with her, he wanted to be friends with her. He admitted to himself that he might even add a special word before friends, such as best. Sometimes things happen just that fast.
“See that man,” she said and pointed to an older guy several rows up. He followed her dwarven digit with an itty-bitty nail and spotted him, nodded. “He’s dying, too. Sad, huh?”
“He is? Him?” He pointed. She nodded. “Of what?”
She shrugged. “He just is. That’s what I heard, anyway.”
“Will you be here for his funeral?” He asked.
“Would you like me to be?”
“I don’t care,” he said coolly, faced forward and folded his arms under his chest. He leered at her and added, “If you’d like, sure.”
More people were entering their row, taking seats. Service would begin pretty soon.
“My parents died last year,” Timothy told her. He wasn’t enjoying facing forward and pretending that he wasn’t infatuated with her, so he resumed his previous posture, which was leaning into her, inches from her charming little face. He took it a step further and put his hand on her forearm. “They were missionaries, if you know what that is. Preached gospel to poor Godless people in other countries. Some countries were really far away. Really far, like directly below us if you dug a deep enough hole. They were only supposed to be gone two weeks, but there was some kind of tragedy. There are bad people out there who don’t agree with the commandment thou shalt not kill.”
She nodded solemnly.
More people had entered the row, which was now the only row left with available seats, and were side-stepping toward Timothy and Arabella.
“I’m really glad we met,” he said to her. It was the most honest thing he had ever said.
“Me too. Very glad.”
A family took the four seats to Timothy’s right. A man and woman edged their way past them now. The man smiled wanly at him, an apologetic one, the kind reserved for funerals. The woman in his company (presumably his wife) didn’t look happy to be here. She’d rather be anywhere on earth over this place, Timothy judged. She dropped a folded-over piece of paper to the floor just before him. He reached down and picked it up, tapped it rapidly into the back of her knee a couple times to get her attention; she took it without a word. Timothy said you’re welcome, looked to Arabella with a disapproving head-shake. Mannerlessness is what’s wrong with the world today, his expression said. The man took the seat just past Arabella.
Timothy’s eyes doubled when he saw the mannerless woman preparing to sit down on his new friend. She turned her back to Arabella, tucked her black dress in and just before taking the seat Timothy exclaimed, “Ma’am, the seat is taken! You’ll crush her!”
The woman looked back quizzically at Timothy, then the occupied seat in question, moved down the row to the seat just past the guy.
“The nerve of some people, huh?” Timothy whispered to her.
She smiled at him, patted his knee.
An old man was now making his way down the row. There were no more available seats, so what was this codger planning? Timothy frowned up at him as he brushed by, had half a mind to say something but didn’t.
“Afternoon, son,” the man said and turned his back to poor Arabella, precisely as the woman had done just a moment ago.
“Sir, the seat is taken,” Timothy said at wit’s end.
The man paid no attention and took Arabella’s seat. Timothy was fixed on her as the man collided into her, through her.
The man adjusted in his seat as he looked over to Timothy’s enormous eyes, his gaping mouth.
“Is there a problem?” The man asked him.
10 Years Later
Sandalwood Street was the place to be if you liked street hockey. It was Timothy’s favorite after-school hobby. It was a ten minute bike trek from his house, in a lower-middle-class neighborhood where houses were built practically on top of one another, the streets narrow and typically lined with cars at the curb. What made this locale great for street hockey was that it was at the last street of the tract, and at the corner, so that people driving home would arrive before reaching them—unless they lived at one of the houses offering front-row seating to the games, that is. There was typically an audience gathered on the sidewalk composed of neighborhood kids too young or horrible to play, and an occasional parent or two.
There were two metal trashcans laying on their sides acting as goals, spaced forty feet apart. Timothy was the first chosen every time because he was the oldest here at sixteen, and larger than the others—lank
ier than most but taller than all. The kids looked up to him because he was the best goal-scorer, and because of this admiration they never teased him about his stutter—try finding that anywhere else. He had been playing nearly every day for a month now, having learned of it from a boy at his school. He was making new friends, though the majority of them were in middle-school. There was just one other boy here from his high school, a freshman named Wally. He was pretty terrible at the game (but not at Chess and Star Trek trivia, if that helps paint a picture), and was usually picked last. But he was as good as anyone at passing the ball, and just now made a beautiful pass to Timothy, who capitalized on the lack of defenders between himself and goalie, slapped the ball with his scuffed and scarred hockey stick, and into the trashcan it went with a loud reverberating clang. His teammates cheered, gathered in to exchange high-fives.
“Car!” Someone shouted.
On cue two boys moved the trashcans out of the street; everyone took to the nearest curb as a van idled by and pulled into the driveway of a nearby house.
Timothy checked his watch. It was 5:30 PM, almost time to be getting a move-on. He had to tend to the horses—shovel some poop, feed them, pet them—and would be at it well into nightfall. Before he learned he had a passion for hockey he’d get home from school early enough to get everything taken care of before ten PM; now he was working almost to midnight on the weekdays. His grandparents grouched about this new schedule at first, but they loved seeing Timothy so genuinely happy and making new friends (he had never been great at making friends), so they not only allowed it but supported this new extracurricular activity.
A nearby front door opened and a young boy bellowed, “Jason, Mom wants to talk to you!” The door thudded close.
“Dangit,” Jason said just a few feet from Timothy.
The cans were returned proper. Jason said sorry guys and trudged home. The captain of the opposing team said next goal wins: everyone agreed to it. Timothy volunteered to replace Jason as his team’s goalkeeper. He was a great scorer but an equally great goalkeeper. It would be up to his teammates to sneak a ball past Jordan, the fat kid who blocked most of their shots with his sheer size, like a golf ball placed before the nozzle of a garden hose.
The game recommenced.
There was cheering from his right, where several youths had gathered. One such youth was a girl named Krista who seemed to love to find reasons to cry, usually after scraping any number of body parts by any number of ways. Timothy glanced over and saw her, and a girl standing beside Krista. His gaze returned to the street before him. The opposing team wasted no time making a run for a shot: Timothy hunkered down and by the skin of his teeth deflected the ball rocketing at him; it rolled down the street behind him. People at the sidewalk cheered, one whistled. He glanced over at the spectators again, this time taking better notice of the girl not Krista.
His stomach tingled. A peculiar sensation stole over him, one of a vague remembrance.
The game continued, Timothy immersed himself in sport. Seconds later his teammate lost possession of the ball and a little bruiser by the name of Scotty took a shot that went between his legs and into the trashcan with a game-ending clang. There was a clamor of boos and cheers, banter and praise.
Timothy looked to the sidewalk, to the little girl in a white dress, and squinted at her.
The trashcans were taken out of the street. The crowd began dispersing. A boy approached Timothy and asked if he’d be here tomorrow even though it was Saturday—they were trying to organize a weekend game. Distractedly he replied that he wouldn’t be able to make it, that he worked on weekends. The boy walked away crestfallen. Timothy returned his gaze to the sidewalk once again where the little girl was now walking away. He went to his bike in the driveway of a nearby house and mounted it, hurried toward her.
Friends, acquaintances, and teammates waved goodbye at him, said good game and see you Monday. Timothy mindlessly replied to a few of them. He pedaled faster, crossed the street and coursed the sidewalk, slowing down when he neared the girl.
“Hey,” he said to her.
She continued walking, looked up at him. “Hello.”
“I haven’t seen you here before.”
She nodded. Her little legs moved along purposefully.
“You look familiar. Have we met?”
She didn’t reply. She looked hauntingly familiar. What was vexing about it was that she was only seven or eight, so she shouldn’t have looked like someone from his past. But gut feelings are what they are.
“Well?” Timothy said impatiently. “Have we? Have we met?”
Her reply wasn’t verbal but in her smile.
“I knew it! Where’d we meet? What’s your name?”
“You didn’t come to Rodger’s funeral,” she said.
A boy zipped by on his bike saying, “You’re going the wrong way, dude!” And chuckled. “See you Monday!
“Yeah, and if you’re l-lucky you’ll be on m-my team!” Timothy replied and looked back to the girl who was no longer there.
He stopped pedaling, looked in every direction. “Where’d you g-go?” He said.
I didn’t see you at Rodger’s funeral? He mused. Who’s Rodger?
Then it came to him. He gasped. Jim’s funeral. The little girl whose name he did remember. He had replayed that meeting with her hundreds of times that long-ago year, and recalled her pointing at an older man saying he was going to die. Though she hadn’t mentioned him by name, he would bet the farm that his name was Rodger. And this girl was none other than Arabella. And, like back then, she had vanished into thin air.