The Clay Lion (4 page)

Eventually, I was given my certificate of
completion needed to travel and in the days leading up to my scheduled voyage,
I made my final preparations.  I was
given a psychological
evaluation to be sure I could mentally withstand
the trip and I was forced to view “the exhibitions,” a
series of government sanctioned propaganda aimed at weeding out the weak. 
It showed clip after clip of families destroyed, friends forgotten, futures
irreparably damaged by travelers who were unwilling or unable to obey the laws.
 The videos were designed to convince a percentage of the population that
the risk was far too great and that it would simply be safer for everyone to
just continue along on their linear timelines.  The success rate for the
exhibitions was just over forty percent.  I was not a part of that
percentage.

The night before my scheduled departure, my
mother, my father, and I sat down to dinner.  The three of us had not
eaten a single meal together as a family since Branson’s death.  My mother
made her homemade lasagna, which had always been my favorite, and my father
presented me with a gift. 

“Brooke, there’s something I want you to have
with you when you leave tomorrow,” he said.

He handed me a box.  I lifted the lid. 
Inside was a small clay lion.  I had not seen the lion in ten years. 
It was strange to be seeing it again.

When I was eight and Branson was five, my father
took us to see a local production of The Wizard of Oz.  Branson loved the
lion.  We would pretend to be the characters from the story.  I would
always be Dorothy and he would always be the Cowardly Lion.  The rest of
the group was always performed by our imaginations.  Around the same time,
I was working on an art project in school that involved shaping modeling
clay.  I made Branson a lion.  I only got a “B” on the project, but
managed to win the undying devotion of my little brother.  It seemed a
bizarre gift on the eve of my departure.  Nonetheless, I knew I would
smuggle it along with me in the morning.

“Thanks Dad,” I said, not knowing how else to
respond to his gesture.

I slept very little that night.  What sleep
I did achieve was fitful and full of panicked dreams.  When, mercifully,
the alarm clock sounded the next morning, I was disappointed by my lack of
enthusiasm.  I had imagined I would feel like it was the first day of the
rest of my life.  The moment I had been waiting for, dreaming of, and
planning about, was finally going to be realized, for better or worse. 
But instead of excitement, I felt only an overwhelming sense of dread. 

Waiting for the signal that I was clear to enter
the travel chamber, I looked at my parents behind the Plexiglas paneled
wall.  My mother was waving frantically to me, my father was giving me the
thumbs up, and suddenly, all I could think was that I was never going to see
them again.  When the green light illuminated, I hesitated at the door of
the steel chamber.  I turned back to face them.
My
parents.
 
Branson’s parents.
 
Suddenly I could not go on.  My eyes locked with my mother’s eyes.  I
saw in her face what I had been avoiding for months.  My decision to
travel did not just affect me.  If I messed things up, my parents could
lose their other child too.  My parents could lose us both.  And yet,
here they were.  Smiling, waving, and encouraging me on.  It was more
than I could handle.

“Is there a problem Miss Wallace?” said a voice
from behind the control panel.

I blinked once. 
Twice.
 
My mother was saying something.  I could not hear her voice but I could
read her lips.  “I believe in you,” she said.

“I’m fine,” I responded, with more conviction
than I felt.  “I’m ready.”

Without looking back, I stepped into the
chamber.  The door was sealed behind me.  Instructions where piped in
through a speaker system.  I did as I was told.  A timer on the wall
counted down the seconds.  There was a warm brightness that was nearly
blinding, and I was back.

I chose an ordinary Thursday evening in October, less
than five months before Branson’s symptoms began, as my returning
destination.  I was standing in the middle of my room.  The clock on
the nightstand read 7:12 PM, exactly as I had requested. 
Amazing.

I remembered that particular night.  It had
rained all day, and so Branson’s soccer practice after school had been canceled
because the fields were flooded.  I knew he was in his room, right on the
other side of the wall, writing an English paper on Edgar Allen Poe.  I
remembered because he tried to convince my parents to take us to Baltimore for
Halloween to visit the home where Poe had lived.  I remembered because
since he died, I had committed every memory I had of his final year to paper.

Branson was there.  So very close.  I
fell to my knees.  Just as I had not anticipated the dread I felt before
the trip, I had not anticipated my reaction to having my brother alive and well
just feet away.  I wanted so desperately to burst through his door and hug
him until my arms were sore, but I knew that was the last thing I could
do.  I had to keep my emotions in check.  The original Brooke had no
idea that Branson was on a collision course with death.  Attacking Branson
with unbridled affection would be the last thing that I would have done during
my original timeline.  I had to compose myself and quickly.

I thought about the lion in my pocket that my
father had given me the night before.  Its significance was suddenly clear
to me.  My father had known how I would be feeling in that moment. 
Somehow, he had known that it would be almost too much to bear.  I pulled
it out.  It was small and clearly the work of a child.  I had
fashioned the mane out of orange clay that I squeezed through a spaghetti
maker.  The tail had long since broken off, but the smile on the face of
the beast was still perfectly intact.  I closed my eyes and silently
thanked God for my father’s wisdom.  The lion, the cowardly lion, turned
out to be the bravest of them all.  The courage he sought from the wizard
was inside him all along.  Maybe I had courage too.

And then, he was there, standing in my
room. 
Strong.
 
Healthy.
 
Alive.

“Hey, Sis.
  I’m heading downstairs to get a snack.  Do you want
something?” he asked.

I was frozen.  Quickly I remembered my time
travel classes.  The rote memorization was not lost on me.  Act
natural.  What would I have done the first time?  What did I do the
first time?  I got ice cream.  When in doubt, always get the ice
cream.

“Sure,” I replied as normally as I could, “How
about some ice cream?  Is there mint chocolate chip?”

“Don’t know.  I’ll check.  Do you want
something else if we don’t?”

I remembered the conversation.  There was
mint chocolate chip.  He would choose rocky road for himself. 
“Surprise me,” I said with a smile.

I knew I had about five minutes before he would
return so I used those moments to breathe and calm my nerves as best I could.
Sure enough, five minutes later he returned with two bowls of ice cream in his
hands. 

He handed me my bowl of mint chocolate chip and
collapsed on my bed.  I was feeling more confident about my situation and
remembered we had discussed the upcoming homecoming dance during the initial
timeline.

“I saw Mandy in the cafeteria today.  Did
you ask her to homecoming yet?”

“No,” he said confused, “you know I’m not going.”

I stared at him blankly.  He did go to the
dance.  He went with Mandy.  He wore a black suit, no tie.  She
wore pink sequins.  I had only been here ten minutes and I was blowing it
already.  My confidence quickly waned.

“Oh yeah,” I fumbled.  I paused, “Why aren’t
you going again?”

He rolled his eyes at me.  “I’m going
camping with Jake and the
guys,
remember?  His
dad’s business trip was switched so we had to change the date to the same
weekend as the dance.  I told you last week.  We had a whole
discussion about whether or not you thought Mandy would be disappointed. 
You were the one who told me to go camping.  You are going mental as
usual, Sis.”

He threw a pillow at my head.  I threw it
back.  It landed in his ice cream.  He smiled.  I smiled back.

I was officially off course.  None of what
was happening occurred in the original timeline.  It was new territory and
I would have to learn very quickly to be more careful about casual
conversation.  Things obviously changed in the past more often than I was
aware.  In the new timeline, there would be no dance.  There would
only be a camping trip.  The first time, he did both.

I was still suppressing the urge to sit and stare
at him, unable to believe my brother was in the same space with me, alive and
perfect.  I knew I could not continue sitting in silence, but I also could
not risk starting another conversation given my track record thus far.  I
hoped that Branson would say something. 
Anything.
 
I concentrated very hard on eating my ice cream in small delicious bites.

“What about you?  Did Paul say anything
about going?” Branson asked with a mouth full of rocky road and a smirk.

Paul.  Ugh.  Paul.  I had not
thought about Paul in months.

Paul McGregor had been border line stalking me
since the ninth grade.  He sat next to me in my freshman typing class, and
we had shared a computer screen.  He would spend the entire class trying
to start conversations with me about how many words per minute he could type or
what type of core processor was in his tablet.  He was a smart and
genuinely nice person, but there was nothing between us.  For me, there
was no spark.  No chemistry.  We were always friends, but nothing
more.  He had asked me to every dance, every year, and every time I had
made excuses about why I could not go with him.  I had finally agreed to
go with him to the homecoming dance my senior year and he assumed afterwards
that we were dating.  When Branson got sick, he had been sweet and patient
and understanding, but despite his best efforts to make me love him, I just
didn’t.  After Branson died, he eventually stopped calling and stopping by
after I refused any contact with him.  It was nothing personal.  I
refused contact with everyone.

I tried to remember at that point in the timeline
if he had asked me yet, and worse, if I had already said yes.  Perhaps it
was something else I could make right while I was there.  I did not think
he had approached me.  Perhaps I could spare his feelings after all.

“No,” I ventured. 
“Nothing
yet.
  If he asks…”

“When he asks,” Branson interrupted.

“If he asks, I’m going to tell him no… again.”

“You always break his heart,” Branson
teased.  “Why don’t you just throw him a bone and go to just one.  He
asks every time.  Even I’m starting to feel sorry for him!”

I remembered that Branson had convinced me to go
with him the first time.  I would not make the same mistake again. 

“I don’t like him and you know it.  I just
don’t want to give him the wrong idea.  You know, get his hopes up.” 
I took another bite of ice cream.  I could not believe how natural it
felt, me and Branson and the easy back and forth of our relationship.  My
heart panged with loss.

Branson dropped his spoon into his bowl. 
“I’m headed down to say goodnight to Mom and Dad, and then I’m going to
bed. 
Big game tomorrow.
  Providence’s
defense is awesome. 
It’s
gonna
be tough getting past them.  See
ya
in the
morning, Sis,” he called over his shoulder as he left my room.

“See
ya
,” I said.

I almost did not want to let him out of my sight,
but I consoled myself with the fact that I had at least a little bit of
time.  I prayed that I had arrived before the exposure that would cause
the disease.  In the morning I would put my plan into motion.

After the initial shock of having my brother back
in my life, I found that it was quite easy to assimilate myself back into the
daily routine of life with my family.  It was not unlike déjà vu in reverse,
in that most of the time I felt as if I had already done what I was doing
before, but occasionally I was jarred to discover there was something new that
I did not recall.

I decided to give myself a few days to adjust to
my surroundings and remember what it was like to be a part of a normal,
functioning family before executing my mission.  On the first day back to
school, it was almost as if I had never missed a beat.  I drove Branson
and
myself
to school, parked in my old parking spot,
and attended lectures I had heard before.  It was actually quite enjoyable
to sit back and relax, knowing that I had already learned what was being
taught.  I spent my class time half listening and half planning how I was
going to save Branson’s life.

Paul eventually did ask me to the homecoming
dance, and unlike the first time, I told him that I would be unable to attend
due to a family obligation.  I felt a momentary bit of sadness realizing
that I would not be going to my own senior homecoming, but I had the experience
in my original senior year and I had to remind myself that my trip was not
about socializing.  It was about getting my brother back.

True to his word, Branson also skipped the
dance.  He went camping with friends from the soccer team at the state
park about an hour away from home.  He returned to us, full of poison ivy
and ticks and stories about who caught the biggest fish and which ones did not
know kindling from tinder.  Mandy, however, had not spoken to him since he
told her that he was choosing camping over the dance.  I heard that David
Huggins had asked her, so I supposed she was going to be okay.  I wondered
how their lives would be
different,
having gone to the
dance together instead of with the dates they chose in the original
timeline.  I would probably never know.

Life continued rather uneventfully for several
weeks.  I grew accustomed to the normalcy of life and yet, I maintained
constant vigilance for any sign of Branson’s impending disease.

In the middle of my second month back, I found
myself sitting with my mother and my best friend Sarah on the bleachers of the
soccer field watching Branson’s team getting trounced by their longtime rivals
from across town.  I knew that half of Branson’s teammates were going to
get hurt and that they would lose the game five to seven.  In an attempt
to follow the traveling rules, I chose not to intervene in any way, even
knowing Doug Simms was going to end up breaking three toes, which would keep
him out for the rest of the season.

As we cheered on our downtrodden team, Sarah and
I chatted about our college preparations.

“I don’t know what to do about early admission to
Brown,” Sarah said.  “In order to do it, I’d have to back out of
everywhere else and I don’t know if I’m willing to take that chance.  I
wish I had a crystal ball so I would know which school to choose!”

I smiled at Sarah, knowing that she would choose
early admission to Brown, be accepted, and get a full ride scholarship as
well.  I was Sarah’s crystal ball, but I refused to interfere directly. 
“Will you be disappointed with anything but your first choice?” I asked.

“Yes,” she admitted.

“Then there’s your answer,” I said,
smiling. 

I had forgotten just how much I had missed Sarah
being a part of my life.  We met in sixth grade history class and
initially hated one another.  Her last name was Vanguard and my was
Wallace, so we sat next to one another in every class, thanks to our teachers’
lack of imagination beyond alphabetical order for seating assignments. 
Eventually, after being paired together for every assignment in every class, it
became clear that we would either become friends or kill each other.  We
had been best friends ever since. 

During Branson’s illness, Sarah sat with me in
the hospital, brought home assignments from school that I missed, and tried
repeatedly to get my mind off my ailing brother by organizing shopping trips
and slumber parties.  After the funeral, Sarah sat at Branson’s gravesite
with me for the rest of the day and well into the night.  But just like
everyone else in my life, I refused to see her as I shut myself off from the
world the summer Branson died.  She left for college in August, and after
several phone calls and messages, she eventually gave up trying to contact
me.  I did not blame her in the slightest.  How could I fault her for
going on with her life even when I could not go on with mine?  I was happy
that she had moved on.  However, I was also happy that we were back
together again in the past, if only for a little while. 

At halftime, as the team was sitting on the bench
getting what I could only imagine was a tongue lashing from the coach, I
watched as Branson took off his cleat, his sock, and his shin guard and began
scratching furiously at his leg.  I turned to stone.  I had not seen
him attend to his leg in the first timeline.  Either I was too engrossed
in my conversation with Sarah or I just had not paid much attention to what
should have been a meaningless action.  It certainly had meaning to me
now.  The rash had appeared.

My mother and I waited for Branson after the game
outside the locker rooms.  When he finally emerged, he looked
devastated.  The loss had taken the wind from his sails and he was limping
badly.  I could see his shin was raw and bleeding. 

“Branson!” my mother exclaimed.  “What
happened to your leg?”

“I don’t know.  It was fine earlier today,
but then during the game it started burning, like it was on fire or
something.  I took off my shin guard, thinking maybe I’d been bitten by a
bug, and this is what I found,” he said, pointing to his shin.

“We will head to Dr. White in the morning,” my
mother declared.

“What if he says I can’t play on it? 
Championships are coming up,” Branson whined.

“Can you play on it like it is?” Mother
countered.

“No.”  Branson groaned and kicked at the
ground. 
“Fine.
  I’ll go to the doctor’s,
but I am going to play regardless of what he says.”

“We’ll see,” said Mother, leading us to the car.

My time to intervene had arrived.