The Clay Lion (25 page)

Instantly, the yearning of my heart was
overpowered by the conscience of my head.  Doubt had arisen, creeping in
to the corners of my mind.  With great anguish, I admitted to myself that
there was always the chance that I would hurt him again.  That Branson
would die and I would be unable to spare Charlie the pain of losing me as well. 
I had promised him that I would leave his timeline unchanged in the event that
I returned to the past.  I had promised that I would not interfere in his
life. 

And so, true to my word, I watched from the attic
as Charlie appeared, calling to Melody from across the parking lot.
He remained exactly as I remembered him.  I
strained to see his features clearly - the arch of his eyebrows, the glimmer in
his eyes, the fullness of his lips that had so gently kissed mine in a past
that would never be. I watched as Melody ran to him, eagerly grasping his hand
as they strolled together to the car.  Unable to hold them at bay, tears
washed down my cheeks as I watched Charlie pull away, down the road and out of
sight.

I slid to the floor, my legs unable to support the
weight of my soul.  My body was wracked by heavy sobs as the enormity of
my decision came crashing down upon me.  I was furious with myself for
letting him drive away but knew that it needed to be done.  There would be
no Charlie and Brooke and therefore, always, there would be instead a void in
my life.  As I sat against the wall, my head resting in my hands, the
ammunition box caught my attention in the corner of the room, and I was struck
with an idea.

I pulled a pen and a notebook from my backpack and
quickly tore out a sheet of ruled paper.  So much emotion desperately
needed to come out, so with shaking hands, I began to compose a letter to
Charlie.  The words came slowly at first, as I had difficulty expressing
all that he had meant to me.  The months we spent together flipped like
photographs through my mind, and as I was reminded of each sweet detail of our
shared moments, it was if a dam burst within me and the emotions spilled forth
onto the page.

Dearest Charlie,

Once upon a time, you met a girl. 
She was unimpressed by your status and knew nothing of your upbringing, and
still, she was amazed by everything you were.  You demonstrated the beauty
of humility even as you won awards.  You revealed your kindness, including
her brother in your life without hesitation.  Your sincerity was felt by
all as you complimented others and chose to give everyone you met the benefit
of the doubt.  You forced her to believe in herself and to be brave in the
face of difficulty.  And you taught her the most difficult lesson of
putting others before oneself.     

You will never know me, but I
will always know you.  My life is richer for having had you in it, if only
for a short while.  I will carry the gift of your love with me always.

Love,

B                                                                     
   

I took the sheet of notebook paper and folded it
carefully into thirds, my vision blurred from the tears that continued to
fall.  I placed it in the wooden box, crisp and bright among the faded,
yellowed love letters written eons before.  Instead of taking the box home
for safe keeping as I had done in the previous timeline, I decided to place the
box in a corner of the eves, hidden from view, and far from the damaged
roof.  I prayed that it would be spared during the construction and would
be found instead by someone in generations to come.  I felt some
consolation in the fact that our love would live on, just as the soldier and
his wife’s had, folded for decades into neatly addressed envelopes.

The attic had grown dark and the commotion of the
afternoon had long since faded.  I gathered my belongings and carefully
made my way down the fire escape for the last time.  Having done what I came
to do, all that was left was to live out the remainder of my trip with as much
grace as I could muster.

C
HAPTER
T
HIRTY
F
OUR

The weeks flew by quickly.  The holidays
came and
went,
a whirlwind of excitement and
joy.  Throughout the winter months, the steady rhythm of daily life was a
gift that I relished and honored.  The final days of my journey crept upon
me with great stealth and it was with some anguish that I prepared to end that
chapter of my life.

February 27
^th
was laid out before me
like a road map.  Each leg of the day’s journey was already set, numbered
one after the other in a straight line.  The only unknown was where it was
that we were actually headed.  I knew that the following day I would
return to the present.  There was the chance it would be the last day I
would ever spend with my brother.

I tried desperately to prepare myself for what
was to come.  For months I had convinced myself that regardless of
Branson’s fate, I was ready to face the future.  The truth was
,
I was fearful that I would never have the courage to stick
to my resolve.  It was easy to do what I had always done – sink into a
deep depression, formulate a plan, try to fix the problem.  I was only
moderately optimistic that I would be strong enough to end the vicious cycle.

I crept into the kitchen before the sun rose and
prepared Branson’s favorite breakfast, crepes with strawberry compote.  At
eight o’clock I carried a tray with the crepes, orange juice and a bowl of
yogurt up to his room.  I opened the door slowly, hoping not to wake
him.  He was sound asleep, sprawled across his bed with his covers thrown
to the floor.  His breathing was shallow and steady and I was struck by
how robust he appeared.  I sat on the edge of his bed and gently tapped
his shoulder.

“Branson,” I whispered, “I made you breakfast.”

He stirred, stretching like a cat, first his arms
and then his legs.  He yawned loudly and at long last opened his eyes.

“What’s all this?” he asked.

“I made you breakfast,” I explained.

“It’s not my birthday,” he declared.

“No,” I laughed, “it’s not.”

“Then what?” he asked.

“It’s ‘thanks for being a great brother’ day,” I
told him.

“Have you lost your mind?” he asked, managing to
maintain a straight face.

“No!” I laughed.

He surveyed the tray before him, eyes greedy with
anticipation.  “Well,” he said finally, “if you are going to make me
breakfast, I am going to eat it!  Thanks Sis!” 

He pulled himself up against the headboard and
picked up the fork, eager to begin devouring the crepes.  But then, he
paused before taking a bite.  “Wait.  What do you want?”

“What do you mean ‘What do I want?’” I asked,
feigning despair.  “I don’t want anything but for you to enjoy your
breakfast.”

“I don’t buy it,” he said, still holding his first
bite of crepe in midair.

I began picking up the tray.  “Suit
yourself.  I’ll just take this back downstairs.  Maybe Dad will want
it.”

“NO!” he exclaimed, reaching for the tray. 
“I’ll eat it!  It’s just weird, Sis. 
You showing
up first thing in the morning with my favorite breakfast.  I just can’t
figure out your angle.  What’s your motivation?”

“Listen,” I said, putting the tray back on his
lap and finding a place to sit beside him on the bed, “I just wanted to do
something nice for you.  You were so helpful after my accident.  You
never complained about having to ride the bus.  You picked up my slack
around the house.  You never got annoyed about having to do things for
me…”

“I got a little annoyed,” he interjected.

“Okay, maybe you did, a little, but you could
have been a lot worse, so I just wanted to say thanks, okay?  Now eat your
stupid breakfast before I make you wear it.”

Branson finally put the bite he had been holding
aloft for several minutes in his mouth. 
“
Mmmm
.
  Is good,” he mumbled.

As he ate his breakfast, we talked about geometry
homework that he was stuck on, how Jill Overstreet reacted to the stuffed
animal he hid in her locker for Valentine’s Day, and whether or not we were
going to try to get tickets to his favorite band that was coming to town in the
spring. 

We also decided that in honor of “thanks for
being a great brother day,” we would spend the afternoon ice skating at the
park rather than bowling as we had in the prior timelines.  We invited
several friends to come along and even our parents decided to join us.

The air was cold, but without any wind to speak
of, the day was actually quite pleasant.  The outdoor ice rink at
Jefferson Park was surrounded by trees on all sides, buffering skaters from the
elements.  It was a large rink that was popular among the locals. 
Branson and I spent many winter afternoons in our childhood learning to skate
together both at lessons and on our own.  Branson had begged my mother to
let him play hockey, but year after year, she ignored his pleas, repeatedly
assuring him that he would most surely end up with a traumatic head injury.

As I was lacing up my skates, I heard a girl’s
voice calling to Branson from across the ice.  Jill Overstreet was
arriving with a group of her friends and I watched my brother’s face light up
as he acknowledged her with a wave and a smile.

“Who’s the girl?” my dad asked as he adjusted his
scarf securely around his neck.

“Her name is Jill,” I responded, not sure how
much I wanted to share with my parents about Branson’s crush.

“Do she and Branson have something going on?” he
pried further.

“I don’t know, Dad.  I’ve seen them talking
at school together.  I think they have a few of the same classes. 
You’ll have to ask him, though,” I declared, unwilling to divulge Branson’s
secrets.

After seeing Branson’s drawings of Jill in the
previous timeline, I made an effort to observe them together at school. 
It seemed that the feeling was mutual between them and I had encouraged Branson
to sneak a stuffed bear into her locker for Valentine’s Day the week
before.  Apparently, she had been charmed by the notion, as I had seen
them together frequently ever since.  I also heard Branson chatting with
her on the phone several times over the past week. 

It was suddenly obvious to me why Branson had
suggested that we go skating instead of bowling as he had in the other
timelines.  He was aware that Jill would be skating.  Perhaps they
had even planned to meet up.  The thought of Branson being in love warmed
my heart but also dredged up the longing I felt when I thought of the loss of
love in my own life.  As I stood on the edge of the rink, adjusting my
earmuffs, I knew that Charlie, only a few miles away, was celebrating his
grandmother’s birthday.  I was painfully aware that I was not a part of
the celebration.

I pushed away the dull ache that thoughts of
Charlie brought to my stomach and stepped out on to the ice.  The
slickness beneath my blades encouraged me forward, and I closed my eyes and
made my way gracefully to the center of the rink.  I was joined by Sarah,
who clasped my hand as she glided by, whisking me out into the throng of fellow
skaters making their way around the rink.  Skating, unlike most things,
came quite naturally to me.  There was something about the speed and the
freedom of the ice that had always appealed to me. 

We dodged and weaved around the others on the
ice, laughing and trying to outdo one another.  We passed Branson, who was
clearly attempting to show off his skating ability to Jill.  There were
small children, clinging anxiously to their parents’ legs.  I caught sight
of my parents, lazily skimming across the glassy surface, hand in hand, my
mother laughing openly at something my father was saying. 

Eventually, Sarah and I moved to the center of
the rink and spent quite a while practicing our spins and jumps.  After
some time, I noticed that my family was no longer on the ice.  I scanned
the perimeter of the rink and discovered them seated together at a picnic table
with Jill.  My brother was crouched down with his head between his knees.

Instantly, I knew what was wrong.  I pushed
myself as quickly as I could across the ice, nearly taking out several children
along the way.  Sarah called after me, but I continued toward Branson
without responding.  As I approached the table, I could hear Branson’s
strained breathing.  He wheezed loudly with each intake of air.  My
mother was behind him, rubbing his back in an attempt to get him to calm
down.  I squeezed past Jill who was standing by his side and crouched in
front of him.

“What happened?” I asked my parents.

Jill responded quietly, as if Branson’s condition
was somehow her fault.  “He was fine, and then all of a sudden he said he
was getting tired and that he needed to sit down.  I made him keep going
and then he started coughing.  He made it over here, but now it’s like he
can’t catch his breath.  I didn’t know he had asthma.  I’m sorry.”