SEVEN

It was a Wednesday  afternoon. School  had ended, and Tim and Steph were at the old manor again. Steph brought over a battery  operated lamp,  and she  and Tim  were on the mat, hanging out.

“What made you interested in painting?” he asked her.

“My father showed me my mother’s masterpieces. She was an artist, just like me. Then it made me yearn to learn. So I knew something about what my mother loved to do. To acquire a piece of her, you know?”

“You were grasping an idea of a part of what she really was.”

She knew it wasn’t a question, but she answered all the same. “Yeah.”

“You know.  I seem to be  hanging  out with you  a lot, and  I know most  of  your intimate secrets, I can read whatever it is you’re thinking…”

“Your point?”

“I know all of that, but I don’t know the basics.”

“The basics?”

“I  don’t know your birthday, your favorite color, your hobbies, your plans for the future. All that stuff.”

“Well,”  she said, pretending  to think  deeply. “November  eighteen,  dusty  rose, painting, reading. What else can I tell you,  detective? Yes,  no, I don’t  know, I  didn’t do it, the blue one. Hmmm…”

“You didn’t tell me what your plans for the future are.”

She  sighed. “I  want to fix  up this place  someday.  Fix me a  home that  suits me well, and doesn’t make me feel out of place. I’ll build a balcony all around the house, and make  a front porch.  I’ll reserve a room that’s for my own use, where I can put my easels and materials.  I’ll hang my  paintings all  around the house.  I’ll buy  all the furniture and paint all the walls.”

She stopped talking, and both of them were quiet. Tim started thinking. She want-ed to stay and make a home, he wanted to leave and travel the world. She was holding  on to  whatever she  had lost, he was trying to forget and leave the past. They were different, too  different,  just like him  and his brother.  This thought pushed him on with the idea of leaving, because one day, he would lose her too, and he would end up getting hurt again.

“I have to go.” He said.

He stood  up, and she  followed suit.  He waited for her by the door, but was quiet all through the walk home. She didn’t know what was on his mind, or if it was because of something she had said.

When  they  arrived  at  her  door, he  lingered a bit,  hesitating. She  waited a  bit, standing behind the screen door.

“It’s not your fault.” He said curtly, then swiftly turned around and  walked away.

 

Steph  watched as  Tim walked  away. He  ran his hand  through his hair.  Did she hurt  him?  She didn’t  know if it was  because of her,  but she  knew that  something  was troubling  him. She  didn’t know if she should go after him, ask him what was wrong. But the time she  had made up her mind to ask what was wrong, he was already a block away. She wanted to run after him, her father had arrived. He was wearing a sweat suit, the back and the area  around the neck doused  with sweat. He stopped on the porch, and then bent down, hands on his knees. He was breathing heavily, and his hair was wet.

“How far?” she asked him.

“What?” her father said between gasps.

“How far were you able to jog?”

“Five blocks,” Gasp. “And back.”

“Good start.” She said.

“Dinner ready?” he asked.

“Not yet.”

“Wanna order in?”

“Okay.”

Half  an hour  later,  the pizza  arrived, and Steph  and her father  spent the  whole night watching videos of her mother before she died.

 

Tim opened the  front door of his  house and started to take off his jacket. He saw his  parents  standing by  the staircase. He  hadn’t seen them since the party  incident, not even  for  meals,  because he  tried as much as  possible to avoid  them, and, in  doing  so, spent most of his time locked up in his room. They seemed to be discussing something.

“Timmy.”  His mother said, rushing to him and wrapping her arms around him. “I was so worried about you.”

“What do you care?” he said acidly, pushing her away.

“Now young man,” his father said gravely, “I don’t your tone. I want you to go up to your room and stay there till dinner.”

Tim shrugged back into his jacket and roughly opened the front door.

“Where are you going?” his father shouted.

“Home!” he shouted back.

“This!” Mr.  Adams  said, pointing  his finger to  the ground.  “This is your  home now!”

“No, it’s  not.” He said  in a low voice,  his back  towards  them. “Home  is where Anthony is. This, was never my home.”

Tim  heard a soft  whimper behind him, and when he turned, he saw his mother in his father’s  arms, crying  silently as  her husband  patted her  gently on  the  back.  Tim’s heart tightened, but he did not regret his words.

 

Eleanor  Adams couldn’t  contain her pain  any longer.  She felt her  tears flowing and  immediately her  husband’s arms  were around  her. She  wiped away  her  tears  and looked at her son standing by the gate. Their eyes met and she saw her son’s apology. His words hurt,  really bad,  but what he  said was true.  Ghosts  still  hung in  the  air,  ghosts whom  they  tried  to  leave  behind,  but,  in  the end, they  had  brought  with  them.  She nodded to  him, letting  him go.  Tim briskly  walked away  and his  parents watched with sadness  as he disappeared  around the  corner. She  wanted to talk to Tim about Anthony, about the good times. She didn’t want to  forget her  other son,  just because he  was gone physically.

Her mind  reeled back  to the first  night they  had slept in the new house. She was dreaming that night, vague  pictures flashing  through her mind.  When she woke  up, she was lying  on the floor in another room. That was the first time she had ever sleepwalked. Her nightgown was drenched in sweat and her cheeks were tear-streaked. She felt some-one  shaking  her.  Her son was  hunched over  her, looking at her  in fright.  She saw  the familiar face and put her hands on his neck. She stroked his cheek.

“Anthony.” she whispered. “Anthony.”

She pulled  her closer  and  embraced  him tightly.  She felt  him  tremble  and  he pushed her away. His face was contorted, his eyebrows scrunched together. What she saw was his pain, his pain that reflected hers, what they both tried to hide.

“I’m Tim, Mom.” He whispered.

Without  another word, he helped her up and left her standing and quietly went up to his room.

 

Tim saw Stephanie by the  school gates.  Her fingers were  fidgeting with the ends of her  brown hair  and she was  nervously  shifting from  one foot  to the other.  Her eyes were scanning the crowd then finally landed on him. She mouthed his name and rushed to him.

“Where were you last night?” she whispered fiercely to him.

“That’s none of your business.” He spat.

“Did you know what time the police knocked on our door last night?”

“No, I didn’t and I’m sorry they did.” He turned to walk away but she grabbed his arm.

“I was worried sick about you.”

“Well, you shouldn’t be.”

“Wait.” She said. “You mean to tell me you didn’t know about the police?”

“No. I didn’t  return home last  night. My  parents and I had a…  disagreement.”

“Then… you’re  wearing the  clothes you had  on yesterday?”  she gasped.  “And you didn’t eat dinner last night?”

He nodded.  She leaned closer and sniffed. He didn’t stink. In fact, he smelled like musk. Musk and rain. Sweet, warm, homey. Traits he lacked, things he needed.

He  gently nudged  her away.  “I don’t  smell. Anyway,  I slept in  the  manor  last night.”

The school bell rang and the students filed inside.

 

Classes  had  started, and  Steph was  tracing her  notebook with  her  fingers.  She drummed  her fingers  on her desk  and her foot  was softly tapping on the floor. Tim was looking  at her  direction,  wondering  why she was so  giddy. She  didn’t stare  back. She wasn’t  giddy; she just didn’t  want to stay  in the classroom  the whole  day. Stuck in this wretched  room where  the air was  heavy and  filled  with the  annoying  buzz of  chatter. How she longed to go home and hold a brush in her hand.

There was a knock on the door, and the teacher stopped discussing the lecture. He walked to the door and stepped outside. The class was surprisingly quiet, and low conver-sation could be heard outside. Then the teacher came  back in, and his  eyes landed on the figure sitting beside her.

“Timothy Adams? Your parents are outside.”

 

Tim stiffened and stood up. And  like his first day, he  could feel the pairs  of eyes staring at  him. He  stepped out  and saw  his parents.  His mother  rushed toward him and gave  him a tight  hug. He  didn’t  say  anything. Her  arms  felt  awkward,  alien-like, un-familiar. He felt her sobbing, her  shoulders trembling. His fathers face was harsh, and his mouth  began  to  move.  But  Tim  heard  nothing of it;  nothing of the  useless  scolding; nothing but the distant whisper of his brother’s voice.

Happy birthday, Timmy.

 

It  was  their lunch  break and  Stephanie  scanned the  crowd for  Tim. He  hadn’t come back  to class  after he went  out. She  couldn’t  find him. She went out the cafeteria and  saw him  sitting on his  bench again.  Already from  there she  could already  feel the tension.  She walked over  to him and  sat two feet  away from  him but still  on the  same bench.  She  didn’t say  anything to  him,  but  took out  her  lunch  and ate  as  quietly  as possible. She slowly  set half of her sandwich beside him. He didn’t make a move for it at first, but  she knew  he was  hungry from  not eating  dinner and breakfast. A few minutes later he took it and started eating.

 

After  school, they  headed to the  manor. Tim didn’t  say anything. Nothing about what his father had told him. Go straight home. We have  to discuss  some things.  No, his father  would never  understand.  He couldn’t  hear the  voices Tim  was hearing, couldn’t see the way  Anthony would  appear suddenly  right before his eyes. And if Tim ever told his father  about those  things, he would  be setting  another  appointment  with a  clueless shrink.  He tried  to keep the  “hallucinations”  hidden,  thinking of  excuses  whenever he would scream  out in terror.  They arrived at the manor. Steph saw the rumpled blanket in the corner. She could just imagine him sleeping on the cold and hard floor.

They stayed there for about half an hour, nothing unordinary happening. Till after the next few minutes, when the wheels started turning.