The Clay Lion (11 page)

I concentrated on a scab on my hand.  I
picked around the edges, gently pulling to see if it was ready to come
off.  I waited for Dr. Richmond.

“Are you happy, Brooke?”

I looked up from my scab.  He was
scrutinizing me, waiting and watching.  I scanned my mind for the
right
answer.  I was here to get my depression diagnosis, and depressed people
were clearly not happy.  But was I happy?  It occurred to me that
happy was a relative term.  My definition of happy could be completely
different from Dr. Richmond’s definition.  Wasn’t it all subjective? 
I chose my words carefully.

“I am happy that I’ve been given an opportunity
to set things right.  I am not happy that I have to do it.”

Dr. Richmond’s faced cracked into a smirk and his
eyes had a glint of humor in them.  “You are a bright girl,” he said, “and
resourceful.  I’m beginning to understand why Bill sent you to me.” 
He paused.  “I want you to be honest with me for the remainder of our
sessions.  Know that I will be writing a masterful report detailing your
depressed state and it will include my authorization for treatment to include
another trip to your past.  But you do not have to choose your words so
cautiously.  Nothing you say to me from here on will affect the outcome of
that report, but it may affect your well-being in the end, when all is said and
done.  Do you understand what I am saying?”

“Yes,” I replied, still partially unconvinced.

“Good.  Then I assume you took some time to
think about what we discussed last time?”

“About when I stop…” I confirmed.

“Yes.”

“I did.”

“And?
 
What did you decide?”

“I decided I’ll know when I’m ready.”

Dr. Richmond’s smile could not be contained and
he laughed aloud. 
“My apologies, Miss Wallace.
 
You just remind me a lot of myself.”

“Well,” I ventured, “you turned out okay.”

He laughed again, “Touché!  I guess I did!”

Throughout the next four sessions with Dr.
Richmond, I discovered that his brother had died as well, in a car accident at
fourteen.  Dr. Richmond had been behind the wheel.  He had been
sixteen years old.  Like me, he had been convinced that he could go back
and fix the past, however, unlike my parents, his were far less compassionate.
By the time he was eighteen and of legal age to use his trip, he had turned to
drugs and alcohol to ease the pain of his situation and the government had
denied his trip on those grounds.  Luckily, one of the employees along the
application process had been aware of his distress and had enrolled him in a
support group for grieving siblings.  In the end, Timmy Richmond became
Dr. Timothy Richmond, after earning his medical degree in psychiatry.  And
through it all, he had never used his trip.

True to his word, I was given a manila folder
documenting our time together at the end of our six sessions, detailing my
ongoing treatment for depression to include more time with my deceased sibling.

The night before my scheduled appointment at the
USDTS, I stayed up all night looking through old photos of Branson and me
growing up.  There were pictures of the two of us in Disney World, beaming
on either side of Mickey Mouse, skiing with our dad on Cook Mountain, roasting
marshmallows around a campfire, playing soccer, fishing with our grandparents,
school concerts… the memories seemed endless.  By morning, the tears I had
shed throughout the night and the exhaustion left me looking like someone
suffering from severe depression.  I was quite pleased with myself.

Mother accompanied me to my appointment with my
caseworker.  As luck would have it, my previous caseworker was on
maternity leave and I was placed with a substitute, Henry
Brackswell
. 
He seemed only slightly older than I was, perhaps in his mid-twenties, and he
was far more pleasant than Gina had been.  I had no idea how the
government was able to keep track of data from trips that had been taken,
especially in the event that a timeline had been altered as mine had been, but
my original file was lying on his desk when we arrived.  Although not a
single soul other than I had memories of what initially transpired before my
trip, the government was somehow able to keep track of multiple
realities.  It made my brain hurt to think about it. 

Mr.
Brackswell
took my
new file, which included the documentation from Dr. Richmond, from my hand as I
sat down.  He looked at me with a mixture of pity and genuine concern.

“It says here that your doctor would like you to
return to the final months of your brother’s life in order to complete your
therapy.  Is this correct?”

“Yes,” I answered solemnly.

“I see.  Well, this is highly unusual, but
there are documented cases of the government allowing use of a second trip for
such an occasion, so I will pass your case along to finalization.  Because
you have already successfully completed the preparation program, you will not
be required to attend again, but you will have to fill out the final paperwork
a second time.”  He looked up from his computer screen and met my
gaze.  “Do you have any questions?” he asked.

“How soon can I leave?”

T
RIP
T
WO

C
HAPTER
S
IXTEEN

Much like the first time, the actual travel
between timelines was quite simple.  The only item to join me on my voyage
was the clay lion, smuggled in the depths of my pocket.

I chose to return after the “cream transfer” but
before the “ball on the roof incident,” as I would come to call them.  It
was the first Wednesday of December and the house was quiet.  I had just
gotten home from school and Branson was apparently occupied at the store. 
Mother and Father were still at work.  I had the house to myself.

I had spent just eight weeks living in the
present, in a world where Branson no longer existed.  It felt strangely
comforting to be back in the past where life felt normal and as it should
be. 
At least for the moment.
  I found
myself wandering around the empty house, finally making my way quite
unexpectedly into Branson’s room.

I had rarely been in his room without him being
there over the years.  It was not because I was unwelcome, and although
there had never been any secrets between us, it just always felt as though it
was an invasion of his privacy.  I had helped my mother clean his closet
one year while he was at Boy Scout camp for a week.  I had retrieved
things from his room repeatedly when he had broken his foot in seventh grade
and was cloistered in the family room for three weeks.  I had never been
particularly curious about what his room was like without him, so I had avoided
going in there. But today, knowing what I knew about our futures, I ventured
inside.  In many ways, he was already a ghost to me.

The blinds were still drawn from the night before
and my eyes took time to adjust to the darkness.  Bed linens lay strewn
across his mattress and there were several piles of clothes, both clean and
dirty, on the floor.  I was immediately overcome by Branson's familiar
smell.  From the time he was small, whenever he would play hard and get
sweaty as a boy, Mother would tease that he smelled like a little, wet
dog.  It was that musty sweetness that seemed so powerful to me after
being away from it for so long. 

I moved around the bed and sat at his desk. 
There were five books, all half read, along with his sketchpad.  I opened
the cover and was taken aback by the eyes of the beautiful girl staring back at
me.  It was Jill Overstreet, a girl Branson befriended in Sunday school
when he was only three years old.  She had attended his birthday parties
in grade school and rode bikes with him to middle school dances.  Her face
was on the second and third pages as well.  I flipped through the rest of
the pad.  There were doodles of soccer balls and cartoon men.  There
were magnificent landscape drawings of the mountains behind our house. 
There was a fruit bowl that I assumed was an assignment for school but was
beautifully drawn nonetheless.  There were several more portraits of
Jill.  Finally, on the second to last page, I saw my own face. 

It was just my profile.  I had a far off
look in my eyes.  Perhaps he had drawn it, unbeknownst to me, as we were
watching a movie together or doing homework.  His attention to detail was
spectacular.  He had drawn each freckle and strand of hair, down to the
cowlick at my hairline, with such loving precision.  My brother, my
wonderful brother, with so many gifts to share, has chosen to spend his time
drawing my portrait.  The drawing blurred and I used my sleeve to wipe my
eyes as the tears cascaded down my cheeks.  To think that his life was
about to be snuffed from the world was just too much to bear.  Carefully,
I tore the page from its spirals, making sure to leave no trace of its
existence.  Perhaps he would forget he had drawn it and it would go
unnoticed.  I was willing to risk it.  I had to have the portrait, a
physical memento of his love for me.

I was awakened from my trance by the sound of
tires on the gravel drive outside and I knew that my mother was arriving home
from work.  I returned the sketchbook and desk chair and closed Branson’s
bedroom door behind me as I left.  The clay lion I had brought back with
me was still in my pocket and I placed both the figurine and the portrait in
the bottom drawer of my desk.  I was initially distraught to find that the
letters from the hardware store attic were no longer there, but quickly
realized it was because I had not yet procured them in the current timeline.

Clouds were building in the evening sky. 
They would develop to become a substantial snowfall, the remains of which the children
would play in beside the hardware store the following week.  I had several
days to pluck up the courage to do what I knew needed to be done.  It was
time to become the lion.

C
HAPTER
S
EVENTEEN

It was not until the night before I was scheduled
to stop the ball that I remembered Charlie Johnson.  Once I had returned
to the present timeline, I had not thought of him again.  It was as if he
only existed for me in the past, although clearly he was living in both the
past and the present.  I realized that along with a second chance at
stopping the ball, I also had a second chance to meet Charlie.  The
anxiety of what I was facing kept me from sleeping well and I dreamt fitfully
of snow boots and kickball.

Branson, throwing himself onto my bed with great
fervor, woke me the next morning.

“You’re so late!” he yelled.  “Your alarm
has been going off for half an hour!  Wake up sleepyhead!”

I pried my eyelids open and looked at the
clock.  Indeed, I had overslept and I needed to move quickly if I was
going to get us both to school on time.

“Why didn’t you get me up sooner?” I scolded.

“How did I know you weren’t up?  Thought you
might be up here primping.  I’ve already eaten, but you have to
hurry!  I have a math test first period!” he called over his shoulder as
he raced back down the stairs.

I dragged myself out of bed.  Methodically,
I showered and dressed, arriving at the breakfast table in record time to find
that Branson had prepared a bagel and orange juice on my behalf for the road.

 “You can eat but it will have to be in the
car.  We
gotta
roll!” he ordered, throwing my
car keys at me as he shrugged on his coat.  I was sliding on my boots when
I remembered what a pain they had been the last time.  I laced up my
sneakers instead.

We sped through the front office of school just
as the first bell was ringing. 

“Chad’s mom is picking me up, so you don’t need
to wait for me after school,” Branson called as he ran into his first period
class.

“I know,” I said. 

He looked at me strangely and disappeared into
his trigonometry class.

I strolled down the hallway to government. 
It was officially the third time I would attend the day’s lecture on the Fifth
Amendment and I figured missing the first few minutes would not hurt.  I
managed through the day, exhausted though I was, making every attempt to keep
the timeline as it was the time before.  The afternoon dragged by slowly
as if the sands of time were delighting in my desperation.

As the final bell rang, I made my way to my
locker and caught a glimpse of Branson down the hall.  He was with Jill
Overstreet, slouched against the wall, acting overly casual.  I had to
admit, he was adorable.  Jill would be a fool not to be interested in him
as more than a friend.  He was speaking to her and she was giggling and
pretending to be indifferent, but the spark was there.  My brother was in
love. 
Or at least smitten.
  I did not know
how I had missed it the first times, but there it was.  And then it dawned
on me that Jill was going to lose him too in the event that I should
fail.  My heart broke for her and I was reminded of my goal for the
afternoon.  Stop the ball.