The Secret Journal of Brett Colton

by Kay Lynn Mangum

  I stifled a gasp. I’d never seen so much pain etched onto a person’s face before, and for a brief moment, I could see Alex—Sam—even Kelly—and I felt ashamed of myself for ever thinking lightly and uncaringly of such pain. Or for thinking that my pain could’ve been more. But knowing it was Jason’s face before me now, and knowing it was his pain that was fresh and real broke my heart. “Jason!” I said again, reaching out tentatively with trembling fingers to touch his hair.

  Jason stared at me for a moment while time—everything—seemed to stand still—even the wind—and all sound around us fell silent while I stared back at him. Then with a cry, he dived into my chest and clutched me while he cried, and I held him just as tightly. Jason tried to speak between his sobs. “She wasn’t wearing her helmet—I should’ve made her—I should’ve been watching her—no one else was home but me—it’s my fault—”

  I stroked his hair with my hand and shushed him softly, telling him over and over that none of it was his fault and to stop saying such things—that he shouldn’t even think something like that. I’d never held someone so close before in my entire life. Jason was holding me so tightly I could hardly breathe, but I didn’t move. I wouldn’t have moved if my life depended on it. And as horrible and strange as this moment was, my eyes were drawn over Jason’s head to the ambulance. With my hand moving softly through Jason’s hair as I held him, I watched while the EMTs helped Jason’s mother into the ambulance, and then I saw Jason’s father do something that would amaze me for the rest of my life.

  Jason’s father turned and looked across the street at the boy sitting on the curb with his head in his hands. The police officer was still talking to him, and after a brief moment, Jason’s father walked slowly across the street until he was standing in front of the boy. The boy looked up, and I held my breath, tensely waiting for—I didn’t know, but something that would likely be terrible. I could see tears streaming down the boy’s face. I couldn’t see Jason’s father’s face, but a moment later, the boy was on his feet, and I watched in amazement as Jason’s father gathered the boy in his arms and held him while the boy and Jason’s father cried. I could hear the boy sobbing, “I’m so sorry!” over and over.

  Watching Jason’s father put his arms around the boy while the two cried together was the most incredible thing I’d ever seen in my life, and at that moment, I began to understand why Jason was such an amazing person. Having a father like that—and the family he had—it would be hard not to turn out to be the kind of person Jason was. I could feel tears sliding down my own cheeks, and I cried. I’d never cried like that before. I cried for Jason—his parents—Emily—the boy across the street—everyone but myself. I’d never cried for anyone but myself before, but at that moment, I was the last person on my mind.

  CHAPTER FORTY-ONE

  I couldn’t sleep that night. Or the next few nights. Jason was basically living up at the children’s hospital with his parents. On Sunday evening, I was finally able to reach him by phone at home and tentatively ask about Emily.

  “She’s got a concussion. Grade three.”

  “Is that bad?”

  “It isn’t good.”

  “Is she awake?”

  “No—” Jason’s voice broke, so I didn’t ask any more questions.

  I was able to catch him at home in the evenings again by phone over the next few days, but his message each day regarding Emily didn’t change. The only thing that did seem to be changing was Jason. The sadness in his voice deepened every day, and I could feel that he was pulling in and away. The whole thing scared me. Other than calling him late in the evening each night to see how he was and if Emily had awakened yet, I hadn’t seen or really spoken with him since the accident. When I asked if he wanted me to come over, he always claimed he was too tired. After three days had gone by with only a minute’s worth of empty, blank telephone conversation each night, I jumped into the cruddy car to drive over to Jason’s, determined to wait at his home until he arrived. Jason, of course, wasn’t home, nor were his parents. His twin brothers’ wives, Tracy and Melinda, were there, though, and smiled and invited me in.

  Before I could do more than offer sympathy and ask for any news of Emily—of which, sadly, there was none—the house was invaded by an army of women who bustled in with wonderful smelling dishes covered in tin foil, bowls of salad, and even a couple of pies. Tracy introduced me to the women as “Jason’s girlfriend,” which caused all of the women to smile broadly at me with eye-sparkling interest and an avalanche of excited comments, like “Jason’s such a nice boy!” “So kind and helpful!” and “I wish my own boys were more like him!”

  I watched, dumbfounded, while the army followed Tracy into the dining room, waiting until all were out of earshot before whispering to Melinda, “Who were they?”

  Melinda laughed. “Women from Mom and Dad’s ward. Relief Society sisters. They’re taking turns bringing meals in to help Mom out.”

  I watched Melinda hurry into the kitchen to help Tracy and the other women set up the food. Bringing over food—it was a great idea. I felt the guilts hit then, wishing I’d thought to do something so thoughtful instead of showing up empty-handed. I walked slowly towards the kitchen and peeked my head in to watch the women and the sisters-in-law set the food out on the table and eavesdropped on their conversation about the accident.

  “Jason is taking it pretty hard. He saw the accident happen and called 911.”

  “Oh, my.”

  “Sister West told me that he held Emily’s hand until the ambulance arrived.”

  My heart stopped as I fought back tears. As horrific and tender as that scene was to picture, what tugged on my heart the most was the third woman’s comment.

  “It’s always delighted me to see the wonderful relationship Jason has with Emily. I don’t know of another teenage boy who takes time out for a little sister the way Jason has.”

  I had to blink back tears and swallow a large lump that had formed in my throat as another boy’s face easily formed in my mind.

  ~

  September 30

  Dear Kitty,

  You’re almost two years old. Two years. You’ve grown up way too fast. The whole world is still new to you, and because of you, everything became new to me, too. I’d thought my world would turn dull and gray once I became sick, but you brought life, hope, color, and laughter back into it, and I’ll always be grateful to you for that.

  I am going to miss you so much. Too much. I don’t know how I’m going to handle not having you around me all the time. I’ve held you and cried so much at night that I can’t believe I can still cry at all. Now that I can’t pick you up at all, you’ve been climbing up onto my bed to snuggle in my arms for hours at a time. Holding you as tight as I can now, it’s impossible for me to face the fact that I’m going to have to miss out on everything else to come in your life.

  I love you so much, Kitty. Tonight, my wish on the first star we’re seeing is that you’ll have a happy life filled with more laughter and love than you can imagine. If there’s anything I can do to make it happen, you can be sure I will.

  Happy Second Birthday next month. I hope all your birthdays are happy.

  With all of my love,

  Your brother Brett

  P.S. I dreamed the dream again last night, only this time, when I called you, you stopped crying and looked at me. I reached out my hand, and while you stared hard at me, I pressed my hand against my lips and blew you a kiss. Your face lit up, and you quickly lifted your hand to catch it—and then you pressed it to your heart. It was amazing. Wonderful. There aren’t any words to describe the whole experience. I woke up crying, it was so real.

  No matter where I am when you read this, please remember that I’ll never, never forget you. And that I’ll always love you . . .

  CHAPTER FORTY-TWO

  I’d spent many late nights reading the entries in Brett’s journal. Now that I’d read the last few words and turned the final page, I couldn’t begin to
describe how I felt. Was I happy to have the journal? Or sad? Glad to have finished it? Maybe relieved? Or wishing there was more? I didn’t know—I didn’t know. It was all still incredibly overwhelming. The stunned amazement I’d felt the night of my sixteenth birthday had never disappeared. After all, Brett had done an amazing thing for me. I knew the journal had affected me in more than just a few ways. I wasn’t the same Kathy I was before the night of my sixteenth birthday.

  At first, I didn’t—and couldn’t—read more than a few entries a day. My mind usually needed time to digest it all, and then to connect it with what I’d read yesterday, and the day before, and the day before that, until I’d worked my way back to the beginning. And then, I’d ponder all I’d learned and sift through the answers and the remaining questions.

  I gripped the book tightly with both hands and read the final lines again with dry eyes. I finally shut the book and stared at the front cover for a moment before carefully replacing the journal in my top dresser drawer. After a moment, I drew out Brett’s letter to me from the drawer and removed the small silver key inside. I hadn’t touched Brett’s strongbox since my sixteenth birthday. I stared at the key in my palm before retracing the steps I’d made that night downstairs to the storage closet.

  Most of the Christmas decorations had been removed from the closet and now invaded every inch of free space in our house. Besides Brett’s box, only some old, scraggly tinsel that needed to be tossed and a twelve-inch-high Christmas tree decorated with tiny colored ball ornaments remained. I carefully picked up the box and carried it into the family room downstairs to sit on the couch in front of the television. Mom and Dad had left early in the morning to do some massive Christmas shopping and hadn’t returned home yet. I was glad. I needed to have the house to myself today. My heart pounded as I turned the key and opened the lid. I hadn’t missed the fact that there was more inside Brett’s strongbox than just his journal, but my birthday night—that night had been too unbelievable for words. Receiving a gift from a brother who’d died had been all I could handle at the time. I stared inside the box before carefully removing the two videotapes inside and Brett’s football jersey. I gently shook the jersey open to look at our name—“Colton”—proudly arched in maroon letters above Brett’s number nine.

  I took a deep breath before getting up off the couch to stick one of the videos into the VCR. After my hard push on the “play” button, the videotape began.

  There was a rough, messy “snowstorm” until a blur of color was visible, which soon focused into something familiar. My school’s auditorium. The inner sanctum of Central High.

  The camera was focused on the stage, and within moments, I was watching the “welcome back to school” assembly with the audience from over a decade ago. Strangely enough, besides the hair, clothing styles, and the type of music being played, the actual “welcome back” assembly hadn’t really changed over the years. I could almost hear Brett’s words from one of his last journal entries echoing in my head as I watched the footage before me. It had the usual skits that weren’t very funny, a slide show to some pop music of school scenes and events, then a dance by the drill team, and then a big pep rally by the cheerleaders. Once the cheerleaders left the stage, a guy in a letterman’s jacket—Mike, the student body president of that year—moved to stand behind a microphone hooked to a podium on the stage and began speaking about somebody who’d been a great student, a great friend, and a great addition to the school. My heart pounded faster as I listened to his words.

  “ . . . we’ve really missed having him around, but his spirit is here, and he’s been a great inspiration to all of us. This year, all the students have joined together to present this award to the one student who’s not only been an amazing athlete, student, and friend during his two years here, but he’s shown true courage and hope while fighting something much worse than any opposing team, and that’s been his every day battle with leukemia. Brett—this is for you.”

  Another guy joined Mike on the stage carrying a large plaque. A slide projector in the back of the auditorium threw a huge, smiling picture of Brett in his football uniform onto a screen to the right of the speaker. Huge cheers, screams, and claps came from the audience, who was now on its feet, while Mike held up a big, shiny plaque with Brett’s name on it. I squinted as the camera zoomed in and focused on it—the plaque in the trophy case above Brett’s picture, voting him the most courageous student in the school and the one with the most school spirit.

  As soon as the audience quieted down, Mike spoke more about Brett—about how amazing he was as a football player—before saying, “Therefore, in honor of Brett’s accomplishments in the game of football at Central High, we’re retiring his number.” More cheering and clapping erupted over that announcement. Mike then asked Alex if he would come forward to accept the award for Brett. In a few moments, a much younger, yet familiar figure of my brother Alex climbed the stairs leading to the stage to accept the award for Brett. He only said a few words and kept wiping his eyes before he shook Mike’s hand. While Alex was still up at the podium with Mike, Kelly joined them and spoke a few words.

  “ . . . almost two years ago, when we all learned Brett had leukemia and wouldn’t be able to finish out the year, I don’t think anyone on the Varsity team had it in them to keep playing. So we lost state. And then last year, Brett showed us what a true champion is by coming back stronger than ever to lead our team to state finals and a victory none of us will ever forget. When word got out that his fight with leukemia hadn’t ended and that he would again have to play the worst opponent he’s ever faced, we as a team unanimously agreed to dedicate the season to the one person who had always united us together with more school spirit than anyone else. That’s you, Brett. We’re going to state this year, and we’re going to win it for you . . .” More screams and cheers erupted in the auditorium that lasted an incredibly long time.

  The next few film clips showed Brett in his football uniform, scrambling around the school’s football field with the rest of the team. Ear-deafening cheers reverberated in the stadium while Brett did his magic and made touchdown after touchdown happen—sometimes weaving amazingly fast through tangles of players before sprinting for the goal line. This was followed by big moments from the school plays he’d been in, including the infamous Once upon a Mattress. Next came a look down the familiar halls of Central High, minus the wall-to-wall carpeting the school now sported, with Brett joking and clowning in the halls and classrooms, followed by footage of students wishing Brett well and hoping to see him at school again soon.

  But all I could see in my mind was an auditorium full of students on their feet cheering for Brett. I wiped my eyes with my pajama sleeve before pressing the “stop” button and switching to the other videotape.

  Green grass and blue sky. Our backyard. The boy on the screen was running around so much that it took me a minute to figure out that

  the nicely muscled, dark-haired boy with the wide grin was my brother Brett. Brett laughed, and chills ran up my spine because I knew that laugh—that infectious, wonderful, happy laugh. Then all I could see was Kelly’s blond head and familiar, handsome face sticking his tongue out at the camera once Brett had wrenched it from him. Alex or someone else must’ve come outside, because now I could see both Brett and Kelly with their arms around each other’s shoulders. It was hard for me to believe that one of them was even a little bit sick.

  Another rough scene change happened again moments later. It took me another minute before I realized the tiny girl with hardly any hair and big, blue eyes Brett carried around everywhere was me. There was tape of him feeding me, dancing with me, and reading and singing with me. There was even footage of Brett tossing an M&M bag back and forth from him to Kelly while I tottered between the two, begging for candy.

  In the next section of the tape, I was older, with more hair and a more confident toddler’s walk. I caught my breath at the sight of Brett. He was so thin—so horribly thin—with large b
lack circles around his eyes and skin that was pale. Too pale. And yet, his smile was still there. That same beautiful, wide grin he never lost.

  In the footage before me now, Brett and I were playing together on the back lawn. He was holding me and pointing at the camera, but I wouldn’t take my eyes off of his face. He finally gave up and tickled me until we both laughed. And then he kissed me and hugged me.

  At some point, I had picked up Brett’s football jersey, and with my legs pulled up against me with my chin on my knees, Brett’s jersey was tight in my arms while tears quietly slipped down my cheeks. I stopped the tape, and with Brett’s jersey close to my heart, I finally let go and cried and cried until there were no more tears left to cry.

  ~

  It was a long time later, still clutching Brett’s jersey, before I reached for Brett’s strongbox again. When I looked inside, I was stunned at

  what I could now see had been hidden under the football jersey. A shoebox—a baby-feet-sized shoebox—was tucked into the corner. I had to clap a hand over my mouth at what was carefully nestled inside.

  Pictures. Many, many pictures. A baby in a bassinet. A tiny baby with baby powder all over her body, laughing up at the camera. A baby girl sitting in clouds of pink toilet paper blowing raspberries. A little toddler in a red snowsuit, building a snowman with Alex and Sam. Me, covered in chocolate icing, held by a dark-haired boy equally covered in icing. And me, sitting on Brett’s lap—and in another picture, sitting on Kelly’s lap—

  My hands trembled as my eyes hungrily devoured each moment from my early childhood while tears threatened to break free again. At the bottom of the stack was a larger picture of a tiny girl in a pink sundress sitting on the lap of a grinning, dark-haired teenaged boy resting against a tree. The picture Kelly had taken. I stared at that picture for a long time before wiping at my face and eyes again.

  And then I thought of the journal. And Kelly. A second later, I’d raced upstairs to bring the journal back downstairs to thumb through the end again and was sad to discover I hadn’t missed anything. There weren’t any more entries about Kelly. Brett hadn’t written anything about seeing Kelly again before he died, and the fact made me cry again. And as I rewatched the video with pieces of Kelly and Brett clowning around together in our house and with me, I knew what I had to do. If not for me, then for Brett. Definitely.