The Clay Lion (26 page)

“He doesn’t have asthma,” I barked at Jill, and
then to Branson I said, “Close your eyes and concentrate on filling your
lungs. 
Slowly.
  It’s going to be okay.”

Somehow, I remembered the instructions Dr.
Rudlough
spoke to Branson at his initial consultation in
the original timeline.  Within a few minutes, Branson’s breathing had
returned to normal and the coughing had subsided.  In the wake of the
episode, he was left weakened and embarrassed.  Jill left quickly with her
friends and my parents headed to the parking lot.  They decided it would
be best for Branson if they pulled the car around closer to the rink so he
would not have to make the walk.  As we unlaced our skates together, he
turned to face me, looking directly into my eyes.

“Thanks,” he said.

“For what?”

“For talking me down.
  I don’t know what that was, but it was
scary.  I hope it doesn’t happen again.”

I was careful in choosing the words I wanted to
say to him in that moment.  I knew that I would be going back to the
present timeline in the morning and that my hours with him were numbered. 
I also knew that, yet again, Branson would not be there to greet me when I
arrived.  However, I had learned during my journeys that
my
reactions had the ability to set the tone for how he would deal with his
illness for the duration of his battle.  For him to feel brave, I would
need to be the one to show courage.  I pulled my collar up over my neck,
shielding it from the cold air.

“When I had my accident, it was scary.  But
when I was laying there in the coma, listening to you talking to me, the
scariest part wasn’t that I thought I might be dead.  The scariest part
was that
you
thought I might be dead.” I paused, taking his hand in
mine.  “Life is crazy Branson.  Today, everything might be
fine.  Tomorrow, everything might be a disaster.  But whatever
happens, we have to have faith that we are on the right path. 
That we are living the life that was made for us.
  And
we have to have courage, even if life doesn’t play out how we want it to. 
Promise me you will be brave Branson.  Whatever happens, I believe in
you.  You can handle it.”

Branson thought for a moment as he took his hand
from mine to finish lacing his shoes.  Finally he spoke, “What do you know
that you’re not telling me?”

“Nothing.
 
Nothing.
  You just… you never
know.”

“Tell me,” he demanded as we headed across the
parking lot toward the car.

“I don’t know Branson!” I exclaimed, averting my
eyes from his glare.  “It’s just, maybe I’ve been through what I’ve been
through so that I can help you get through whatever it is that you will need to
get through.”

“So you think this thing, this cough, or whatever
it is will be something I am going to need to ‘get through?’”

“I don’t know Branson,” I said.

“But you want me to promise that I’ll be brave?”

“Yes.”

He stopped as we reached the car, the engine
running with my parents inside.  “Okay,” he said.  “I’ll be brave.”

Knowing that I had only a few hours left in my
life to spend with Branson, it was all I could do to keep from openly sobbing
throughout the remainder of the evening.  I found though, despite the
sadness, that I was still ready to move on to experience the rest of my
life.  Branson’s death no longer felt quite so much like the ending of a
play, when the curtain drops and the lights fall away.  It had become more
like an intermission of sorts, in that, I was able to recognize now that there
was more to come.

So with heavy heart, on the final night of my
trip, I said goodnight to Branson, and also, in my own way, goodbye for the
very last time.  I retreated to my bedroom where I allowed the tears to
flow freely as I listened to him coughing from the room next door.  It was
hours before sleep finally came, but as the first ray of morning light shone
through my window, I was instantly awake, excited to be returning home.

C
HAPTER
T
HIRTY
F
IVE

The present day that I returned to was very
different from the one I had left behind at the beginning of my third
trip.  With a burst of light, I was torn from the past one final time and
was restored to the present.  My bedroom was the same as I had left it,
and yet, I noticed several differences immediately upon my arrival.

There was a large stack of text books on my
desk.  I read each title and flipped casually through them.  There
were two biology texts, an American history text, and a few novels, all British. 
Also on my desk were several envelopes.  They were all previously opened
and I slipped the letters out of the envelopes one at a time.  Each letter
offered me acceptance to an individual college for the coming fall
semester.  State’s letter included a class schedule, my new roommate’s
name and contact information, and a scholarship notification. 
           

I scanned my room, looking for other indications
of how my life had played out in the fifteen months that had passed since I had
been in the present.  There was a photograph on my nightstand of me and
Branson sitting together.  He was in the hospital, wearing an ill-fitting
gown and I was beside him on the bed.  His face was gaunt and pale, but
his eyes were bright.  Despite the circumstances, we were smiling into the
camera.  My heart ached.

My tablet was also on my nightstand and I powered
it on.  As it came to life, another photo of Branson was being used as the
background.  Based on what we were wearing, I could only assume that the photo
was taken before prom of my senior year.  I was kneeling beside Branson,
wearing a long chiffon gown, my hair pinned elegantly on the top of my
head.  Branson, sitting stoically in his wheelchair, was wearing a tuxedo
and bow tie.  It was large on his frail frame, but he was delightfully
handsome just the same.  Jill Overstreet stood flanking Branson’s other
side, a vision of loveliness in an emerald sequined gown.  In no other
timeline had Branson gone to prom.  I could only imagine that his fondness
for Jill inspired him to make the effort.  I was in awe of my brother.

As I scrolled through my tablet, there were
several other photos of us together, along with new applications and journal
entries.  I stopped immediately as I encountered my calendar.  I
scanned the list of activities on my agenda from the past year.  There
were outings with Sarah, coinciding with college breaks.  There were lunch
dates with my mother.  Every Tuesday, I had been to see Dr. Richmond for
what I could only assume were therapy sessions.  Three days a week the
label PAS was typed.

Puzzled by what I was involved in each week, I
took another glance around my room.  A set of scrubs was tossed on the
floor and I picked them up for a closer examination.  On the lapel was an
ID badge with my photo listing me as a volunteer at Perryville Animal
Shelter.
  I smiled at how my planning had paid
off.  Everything had come together and life appeared to be going well.

I ventured out of my room into the unknown world
of which I would have to become a part.  The smell of coffee and waffles
wafted up the stairs and I silently prayed that I would find both my mother and
my father the kitchen.  Before I made my way down to find out, I turned
toward Branson’s room.

I opened the door.  Bright sunlight streamed
through the window, bathing me in its warmth.  The room was clean and
bright, having been kept free from dust and dirt in the months since his
passing.  I could not help but smile at seeing the bed crisply made, as I
could never recall it having been that way when Branson resided in the
room.  Soccer trophies and track medals lined the walls and his many books
were piled neatly on his shelves.  I brushed the spines with my fingertips
as I walked by them.  All of his favorites were there – historical
fiction, travel journals, and geographic encyclopedias.  On the bottom
shelf was a small wicker basket full of trinkets.  I carefully spilled the
contents onto his bed.

The treasures before me told the story of our
lives together.  There were ticket stubs from movies and concerts we
attended.  There was a yo-yo that had been a prized birthday present the
year he turned seven and a harmonica he won at Boy Scout camp in the fifth
grade.  I flipped through photographs of our family frozen in time,
smiling brightly from various locations during our childhood.  We stood
before the Capitol building, were buried to our necks in sand at the beach, and
had our hands high over our heads on a roller coaster.  The final photo
was the most recent and was stamped with a date.  It was from the spring
of the year that he died.  It moved me to know that he had kept his
promise and we had ridden the coasters together on opening day after all. 
Each was a moment in time that would never be forgotten. 

Finally, among the fishing lures, key rings, and
post cards, I spotted the clay lion.  I picked it up carefully, as if it
were sacred.  It seemed incredible to me that he had kept it over the
years, in the special place with all of his most valuable possessions.  I
wondered how Branson would feel about me taking it and decided that he would
want me to have it.  After returning the rest of the artifacts to the
basket on the shelf, I placed the lion in my pocket.

As I turned to leave the room, I noticed the
spiral top of Branson’s sketch book peeking out from underneath his bed. 
I slid it from beneath the box spring and sat down to look through the
pages.  Each of the drawings I had seen before were still there, including
the portrait of myself at the end. 

As I flipped through the book a second time, I
found that the many sketches of Jill made me uncomfortable.  I had been
haunted by the belief that, because I had encouraged Branson to develop his
relationship with her in the weeks before his illness began, I had caused her
undue pain when she was forced to witness his passing.  It was an action
that could not be undone and I was plagued with the burden of my
decision. 

I closed the sketchbook and carried it into my
room, having decided there was a better place for the drawings than under
Branson’s bed.  I gave the lion a place of honor on my desk beside the
college acceptance letters.  I smiled to myself, knowing it would
accompany me on my journey to State when the time came in a few weeks.

I was jostled from my thoughts by the sound of my
mother’s voice calling to me from the kitchen.  I hurried down the stairs
and was relieved to find both my mother and father seated together at the
table.

“Good morning, Glory,” said my father brightly.

“Hi Daddy,” I replied.  “The waffles smell
good Mom.”

“And I’ve got homemade syrup from Cooper’s,” she
said.  “The farmer that sells it had a little stand set up outside the
store as I drove past yesterday afternoon.  I know how you love real maple
syrup!”

“Cooper’s Hardware?
  It’s still open then?” I inquired.

“Yes. 
Of course.
 
Why wouldn’t it be?” my father responded.

“No reason,” I mumbled.  Then I added,
laughing at myself, “I must have dreamt that something happened I guess.”

I had decided that I would not be sharing the
knowledge of my trips with my parents.  I saw no reason to concern them
with all that had transpired over the course of my travels.  Surely no
good would come of it and I felt that we had all been through quite
enough.  I would spare them the truth.

As I dove into the plate of waffles, they were
even more delicious eaten with the knowledge that the hardware store was still
standing and more importantly, that the Coopers were alive and well.  It
dawned on me, as I enjoyed my breakfast, that there would be much more to discover
about what events had transpired during the fifteen months I had missed. As
soon as I finished eating, I hurried off to fill in the missing pieces of my
life.

C
HAPTER
T
HIRTY
S
IX

PAS was clearly labeled on my calendar for the date
of my return, so after breakfast, I dressed in the scrubs that were in a pile
on my floor and drove to the Perryville Animal Shelter in the next town
over.  I was both pleased and saddened to discover that somehow, over the
course of the missing months, I had acquired a new pre-owned car, the very same
make and model as Charlie’s.  My heart ached with longing as I started the
engine, remembering our time together.  It was bittersweet that I had
chosen a car so similar to his.  I wondered what my motivation had been.

Upon my arrival at the shelter, I was greeted by
a lone employee.  Her nametag read Brenda.  She seemed pleased that I
was there and launched into a monologue about what needed to be done with the
animals during my shift.  When she was finished, I asked several questions
about how things were to be done, to which she responded, “You act like you
haven’t done this a hundred times before!”