by Eric Walters
Even if my father didn’t come home tonight, I could survive. I’d done it before and I could do it again…and again…and again. Earlier in the evening I’d thought about calling Harmony, but now it was too late. Besides, she’d have given me a hard time about the situation and demanded to know what I was going to do.
I knew he wouldn’t be coming home, so why was I standing in the window, watching and waiting? I knew I should go to bed and try to get to sleep. There was really nothing else I could do. I’d wake up in the morning and another day would be gone, one more ticked off the count. I’d lasted this long, so what was another 1,548 days? My whole body shuddered. Fifteen hundred and forty-eight more days and nights. Could I survive? Maybe Harmony wasn’t the only who deserved better. There was just one way to find out.
I walked across the room and stopped in front of the phone. I reached to pick it up but drew back my hand like it was too hot to handle.
I forced myself to pick it up and punched in the numbers. I knew the number by heart. It started to ring. Maybe I should just hang up before they answer.
“Hello?”
I paused for a few seconds. There was no going back once I spoke. “Hello, Uncle Jack. It’s Robbie.”
“Robbie! Are you all right?”
“I’m sorry for bothering you, especially this late.”
“Robbie, whatever it is, I’m glad you called. Can you hold on a second? I want your aunt to come on the line as well.”
I heard him yell out, “Cora, take the other phone! It’s Robbie!”
I heard her voice in the background. “Robbie! Why would he be calling at this time—is he all right?”
Within a few seconds the second line clicked. “Robbie, is something wrong?” my aunt asked.
“Yes…yes…I need help.”
“Is it your father?” my uncle asked.
“He’s not here—he hasn’t come home.”
“Has he been in an accident? Has something happened?”
I shook my head, then realized they couldn’t see me. “No, he does this.”
“Does what?”
I took a deep breath. I’d come too far to turn back. “He takes off, sometimes for days at a time.”
“And leaves you alone?” Aunt Cora asked.
“Yes.”
“That’s…that’s…well…he can’t do that to you,” she said.
“We’re coming to get you,” Uncle Jack said.
“We’ll be there in a few minutes,” Aunt Cora said. “You’re staying here with us tonight.”
“I can’t leave Candy.”
“Your dog is as welcome here as you are—you know that.”
I didn’t. I didn’t know anything. I had only hoped.
“But it could be days. He was once gone almost a week,” I said.
My uncle swore. I’d never heard him swear before.
“You’re welcome here as long as you need,” my aunt said.
“You’re welcome here forever,” my uncle said. “Forever.”
I started to cry. I couldn’t help myself.
“It’s going to be all right,” my aunt said. “You know how much we love you.”
Maybe I should have known, but I hadn’t. Not until now.
“Get your things together. We’ll see you soon.”
“Thank you.”
I put the phone down.
I looked at Candy, who was staring up at me. She looked worried.
“It’s going to be okay, girl,” I said. And maybe for the first time ever, I actually believed it.
POST NOTE
This is the end of the novel, but it isn’t the end of the story. I want you to know what happened.
Except for one short period when she went back to live with her mother, Harmony managed to hang in at the Watsons’ until she completed high school. She went on to college, where she majored in drama. Robbie always kids her that she’s been a drama major since the first day he met her. She dropped out in the middle of her second year of college when she was offered a part in a movie—her big break. She became pretty successful, and you probably know her. She doesn’t go by the name Harmony though. She took a stage name—hint: it’s the name of a state.
She never married, but she adopted two children. She is a great mother. She secretly donates large sums of money to donkey sanctuaries across North America because she wasn’t so much a broken crayon as she was a stubborn donkey. Despite her schedule, travels and fame, she and Robbie stay in contact. He’s still the only person she trusts completely.
Robbie stayed with his aunt and uncle for 1,548 days—although, after the first few hundred days, he stopped marking off the days in his notebook. He didn’t need to count them anymore. After he finished high school, he went to university and graduated. He found the woman of his dreams, and they got married. They had wonderful children. He built the family he never had and cherishes them every day. They remain the center of his world. He still spends his life working harder every day than anybody else. He still checks each locked door a second time, and sometimes in the middle of the night he reaches for his wife’s hand, then goes back to sleep, happy and content, because, really, broken crayons still color. And those colors can be so beautiful.
NOTE FOR EDUCATORS
I grew up in poverty. It’s not an affliction or a disease that needs to be cured. But it is a culture as distinct as other cultures. It comes with traditions, myths and rituals. Being poor means growing up at a severe disadvantage. Life is tougher, harder, more difficult and, at times, seemingly impossible. You discover that life isn’t fair and that the deck is stacked against you. You grow up believing you’re not as good as other people, not as good as you need to be. And even if you can somehow fool other people, you never really and truly convince yourself.
Some people get out. Somehow. I got out. You learn that you have to work harder than everybody else. If you’re lucky, you find people along the way—usually, in the beginning, it’s a teacher or two or three—who see you and what you are capable of doing.
The hard part for teachers isn’t discovering the potential inside these young people but rather in convincing them that they really do have that potential. Potential for success, for great things, to become so much more. To be loved and valued. You have to convince them and show them that, despite their realities, success is possible. And when they try to prove you wrong by saying or doing something to sabotage their journey, you need to say it louder. Tell them you believe in them, that they deserve to succeed. And then tell them again. And again and again and again. And then again. And again. If the whole world keeps telling them they can’t win, you’re going to have to tell them more often and yell louder that they can succeed.
Why should those positive words from teachers mean more than what these young people see around them? Because words are powerful. Words can change the world—at least, the world of that student. You can be the person who changes lives—it’s probably why you became a teacher to begin with. I know you won’t let them down.
—EW
Eric Walters is the award-winning author of more than 100 novels and picture books. He is a tireless presenter, speaking to over 100,000 students per year in schools across the country. A Member of the Order of Canada, Eric lives in Guelph, Ontario.
