Tin Men (The Clay Lion Series Book 2)

by Amalie Jahn

  She looked up from the well-worn pages and considered me. “Something with you?”

  “Yeah, something with me.”

  “No Mom, no Brooke?”

  “Just us.”

  Dimples appeared in her cheeks, and I caught a glimmer of excitement cross her face. “Will you take me kayaking on the lake?”

  “Sure! And we’ll pack a lunch so we can eat at the park picnic tables when we’re done.”

  “Really?”

  “Really.”

  “We haven’t done anything fun just the two of us since you were in high school.” She paused. “It’s been a long time, Charlie.”

  She was right. Once I went away to college and met Brooke, there’d been less time for her in my life. She accompanied us to the movies and fishing and bowling from time to time, but I hadn’t spent any quality time alone with her in quite a while.

  “Things are gonna change around here, little sister. I promise,” I said, holding out my hand to help her off the ground.

  She hesitated to take my hand. “I’m not really your little sister, remember?”

  I bent down and picked her up, throwing her over my shoulder. Her book tumbled to the ground, and she squealed and shrieked with delight.

  “As long as I can still do this, you will always be my little sister! Got it?”

  “Got it!” she squealed.

  As we paddled around the lake in the quiet stillness of the morning, our bond as siblings, and more importantly, as friends, was renewed. We talked about the cute boy who treated her to a frozen fudge bar from the pool’s concession stand, and about how her best friend’s new puppy chewed on everything and pooped on the floor. She confessed that she struggled with fractions and mixed decimals in math, but got tutored by one of her teachers and eventually figured it out. Finally, she confided in me how angry she was at our father for lying to me. And for not making us a priority in his life.

  “And for dying,” she concluded.

  “Me too, Mel,” I told her. “Me too.”

  She stopped paddling and ran her hand through the glass-like surface of the water.

  “Do you wish you could use your trip to go back and tell him that?” she asked.

  Until the moment she suggested it, I hadn’t considered my government sanctioned trip to the past. It suddenly dawned on me that it might be therapeutic to go back in time to tell my father how I really felt. I knew, however, that strict regulations prevented those who traveled into the past from making changes, and so, whatever was done in the past could never be undone.

  When time travel was first discovered, there were no laws to sanction its use. In the beginning, scientists worked laboriously to document the problems with traveling, but despite their findings and although they advised against it, the general population eventually began taking trips as well. It was at that point the real dangers became apparent, especially with regard to making changes in the past. As more and more people were traveling back to relive wonderful moments in their lives, some of those infinitesimally small changes began to affect not only the traveler’s life, but also the lives of innocent bystanders. Inadvertently, travelers were changing the futures of the people around them without even knowing they were doing it. They would return to the present only to find that people who were once a part of their lives were no longer there. Different career paths were chosen. Loves were lost. Children disappeared. It was a dark period in the history of time travel.

  At that point, governments were forced to step in, as generations of people were in danger of having their lives, and more dangerously, other people’s lives, irreparably destroyed. Politicians fought bitterly about the crisis. Split evenly on either side of the battle, there were those who believed our ability to time travel was just another evolution of our species that should be allowed to play out accordingly. Others believed the practice should be obliterated and never attempted by humankind again. An agreement was reached by the world’s leaders somewhere in the middle.

  Beginning with the third generation after the discovery, new laws were put into effect limiting each individual to one trip per lifetime. At birth, all citizens, along with their identification tagging, were coded with one trip voucher. The trip could be used at any point during a lifetime after the age of 18, but was good for just one trip. The duration of the trip could not exceed six months. Classes were required with mandatory attendance three times a week for two months before the trip. In addition, the paperwork was extensive. The decision to time travel was taken quite seriously by most people.

  “You know the rules, Mel. Even if I did go back to the time before he died, I couldn’t change the past. I didn’t tell him what a jerk I thought he was the first time around, so that’s it. It’s one and done.”

  “I don’t care about the stupid traveling rules. As soon as I’m eighteen, I’m using my trip to make him feel bad for the way he treated you. I’ll make him tell you the truth.”

  “Oh no you won’t. If you make him tell me the truth before he dies, everything from that point on will be completely different. That would be way too many years in the past, and you have no idea what type of horrible chain of events you might set off from that point forward. Who knows what could happen.” I looked at her seriously. “Promise me you’ll never do that.”

  She stared across the lake without responding.

  “Melody? Promise me.”

  She dragged her hand across the water, splashing me in the face. “I promise,” she pouted.

  I suggested it might be a good idea to visit the therapist Brooke saw after her brother died. She always spoke fondly of Dr. Richmond, and I suspected she still went to his office from time to time.

  “I’ll go if you go with me,” she relented.

  In a moment of weakness, I promised I would.

  The conversation was all but forgotten during our delicious lunch of egg salad sandwiches and fresh berries. It wasn’t long before we packed up the kayaks and headed home. After dropping Melody off, I was surprised to see it was almost three o’clock by the time I pulled into Brooke’s driveway.

  She was sitting on the front porch steps, her orange tabby Freckles curled up at her feet. The sun was just beginning to slip behind the tops of the colossal pines surrounding her family’s home, and the light and shadows danced across her face. In that moment, I felt as though I’d seen her there before, waiting for me on the porch. It was the most peculiar sense of déjà vu because my memory was not of the exact same scenario, but of one that occurred on a rainy night during high school. And yet, I hadn’t met Brooke until college.

  “Hey, hot stuff,” she said as she strolled toward the car, her backpack flung over her shoulder.

  “Hi, yourself,” I replied, giving her a kiss as she slid into the passenger’s seat. “Did you get a chance to plan out our itinerary?”

  “You know I did. First stop is Patricia Brown over on Chester Avenue.”

  “We’ve both probably passed that house a thousand times over the years.”

  “I know. Ready to knock on the door?”

  “As ready as I’m gonna be,” I said.

  C HAPTER EIGHT

  My confidence waned as I pulled the car up to the curb in front of the house. It was a modest Craftsman-style, tastefully painted and lovingly maintained. There was a practical, midsized car in the driveway. I closed my eyes and imagined returning for holiday meals once Patricia Brown admitted to handing me over to Phil Johnson for reasons she can no longer comprehend. Still, I couldn’t bring myself to open the car door.

  Brooke immediately sensed my apprehension. “We can head back to your house. Hole up in your bedroom and play video games. No one will ever have to know we researched any of this.”

  “No. I can do it. I want to do it. Come on.” I opened the door and climbed out. Brooke followed me up the sidewalk.

  By the time I reached the front door, I was determined to see my plan through. I confidently rang the doorbell and stood back so I could fully
see whoever opened the door.

  Within seconds, a disheveled looking teenage boy stood before us.

  “Yeah?” he said.

  “Uh, hi. My name’s Charlie Johnson, and this is Brooke, and we are looking to speak with Patricia Brown. Is she home by any chance?”

  “Yeah. She’s here. She’s in her office working. What’s this about?”

  I looked at Brooke, hoping she would give me a signal as to whether I should discuss the details of our visit with the boy. She shrugged her shoulders, indicating I was on my own.

  “We’re actually wondering about her son, Corbin.”

  The boy looked as if I hit him in the gut with a bat.

  “What about him?”

  I looked at Brooke, and once again, she offered no direction. “I think we should probably just speak to Patricia, if she’s available,” I said to the boy.

  He looked between us, obviously trying to decide if we were legitimate. After several seconds, he stepped aside and allowed us to enter the foyer.

  The house was as quaint on the inside as it was from the street. The windows were open, and there was a refreshing cross breeze cooling the space. I heard footsteps coming from the rear of the house. A petite woman in her late 40’s entered the foyer.

  She was not the woman from the photo in my father’s desk drawer. My heart sank, and yet I felt compelled to explain myself for disturbing them.

  She smiled. “I thought I heard someone at the door. Can I help you?” she asked politely.

  “Hello, Ms. Brown,” I began. “I’m Charlie and this is my girlfriend, Brooke. I apologize for disturbing you, but it appears there’s been a mistake. I recently found out that I’m adopted, and now I’m looking for my birth mother. I thought you might be her because you had a son, Corbin, around the time I was born. But now that I’ve seen you, I don’t believe you’re my mother or that I’m Corbin. I’m so sorry we’ve wasted any of your time today.” I reached for the door to let myself out.

  “Wait,” she said.

  I turned to face her. She appeared to be holding back tears.

  “You said you and Corbin were born at the same time?”

  “Yes,” Brooke chimed in. “Corbin was born two days after Charlie. They were delivered at the same hospital.”

  Patricia took several steps across the foyer, stopping directly in front of me. Before I understood what she was about to do, she took my face in her hands and gazed curiously at me.

  “He would have been your age. A man. I can’t begin to imagine him fully grown.” She shook her head and removed her hands from my face to wipe away tears from her cheeks. After a moment, she regained her composure and looked at me again. “Do you have a few minutes?”

  Brooke responded before I understood what was happening. “Of course, Ms. Brown,” she replied.

  “Please, call me Patricia,” she said. “Come sit down in the kitchen. There’s something I want you to see.”

  Our visit to the Brown residence had taken a surprising turn, and Brooke took my hand as we followed Patricia and her son into the kitchen, where she offered us a seat at the table. After introducing us to Corbin’s younger brother Callub, who continued to regard us with a degree of skepticism, she produced a photo album from a bookshelf in the adjacent room, laying it before us on the table. She opened it to the first page.

  I could almost hear the newborn baby boy, wearing his tiny knitted cap, wailing at the top of his lungs.

  “That’s Corbin’s first photo,” Patricia said smiling. “He screamed for six straight hours after he was born. He was a fighter from day one. I imagine you were probably still at the hospital with us when these pictures were taken, Charlie.”

  “I suppose so,” I replied absently as I carefully turned the next page of the album. Several more baby pictures filled the sheets.

  “He’s adorable,” Brooke commented, smiling at Patricia.

  “He was a good baby with the sweetest disposition. He’d just lie in my arms, looking up at me as if there was so much he wanted to tell me if he only had the words.” She sighed heavily.

  I didn’t know what else to do, so I continued to flip through the book.

  Each page was filled with picture after picture of Corbin Brown growing up before my eyes. Corbin at a birthday party, riding a pony, splashing in a kiddie pool. Corbin holding his baby brother in his tiny arms. She laughed as she told us the stories which accompanied each of the pictures.

  “Look at this one!” she exclaimed, pointing to Corbin wearing a pair of roller skates. “I don’t know how he was able to do it, but I remember him flying up and down the sidewalk on those things, the summer he was four. He never ceased to surprise me with the things he could do. He was quite a little boy.”

  As I turned yet another page, my breath caught in my throat. The spunky child was gone. A sullen one replaced him.

  “That one was taken a week before the doctor told us he was sick, just before his fifth birthday. He was tired. All the time. Didn’t have the energy of a typical preschooler, you know? He moved into the hospital the day after his diagnosis. He never got to come back home.”

  I flipped through the remaining pages of the album. Corbin with pale, sunken eyes. A tiny, bald head. Hooked to machines and surrounded by matchbox cars. I couldn’t look at the book any longer.

  “He’d have been your age. You two would have been in class together, I suppose. Maybe you would have been friends, if he had ever been able to go to kindergarten. It’s funny, even with you sitting right here, I have trouble picturing him any older than five. But there you go,” she said, picking the album up off the table and cradling it in her arms. “I’m sorry you’re not Corbin, and I’m sorry I’m not the mother you’re looking for, but it was nice to meet you just the same, Charlie. I hope your story has a happy ending.”

  I had no idea what to say to Patricia Brown, whose missing son was taken from the world long before his time.

  “I’m so sorry for having upset you,” I said, rising from the chair, unable to look at her face.

  “Is that what you think? That you’ve upset me? Oh, Charlie, not in the least! It’s a pleasure to have met you. Don’t think you coming here is what made me sad. I lost a child. Never a day goes by that part of me isn’t sad. But it’s a great joy to see another child who’s grown and making their way in the world. It’s comforting to know that life is going on for other children.” She was silent as she walked us to the door. “Let me know when you find your mom, huh? I’d like to know how your story ends.”

  “I’ll do that,” I said. “It’s nice to have met you and Callub. And Corbin, too.”

  We said our goodbyes, and with that, Brooke and I were back in the car, headed east across town. We didn’t speak to one another after leaving the Brown residence, and just before we crossed into the next county, I pulled the car off onto the shoulder. My hands were shaking uncontrollably, and I couldn’t steady my breathing.

  “I don’t know if I can do this,” I said, not taking my eyes from the road.

  “That was pretty intense,” she replied.

  “Who would’ve thought we were going to walk into that? There’s no telling what we’ll find if we keep searching.”

  She didn’t speak, which was unlike her. I knew she was thinking, considering her words carefully so as not to upset me further.

  “What should we do?” I asked finally.

  “That depends on how badly you want to meet her.”

  I wanted to know where I came from. I wanted to know what happened to my mother. Most of all, something Mrs. Brown said struck a chord inside me.

  “Do you think it’s true what she said, about being sad a little bit every day since Corbin died?”

  She looked at me earnestly. “Yes. I miss Branson every day.”

  “You do?”

  “Yeah. I do. Every single day.”

  “Do you think my mother’s out there somewhere missing me?”

  She reached out to touch my cheek,
gently brushing her fingertips across my stubble. “I don’t know,” she whispered.

  I rested my forehead on the steering wheel and stared at my feet. I didn’t want to think about her abandoning me. I didn’t want to think about upsetting other families.

  “This isn’t going to get easier, is it?”

  “I don’t think so. Corbin Brown’s story might just be the tip of the iceberg,” she replied.

  “Maybe that’s why it feels like I’m on the Titanic,” I said, pulling the car back onto the highway.

  C HAPTER NINE

  Our next stop was Sandra Jackson’s house, about a 40-minute drive from town. We drove together in silence for most of the trip while I struggled to come to terms with Corbin Brown’s tragic death. Then suddenly, I remembered to ask Brooke about Dr. Richmond.

  “I spent the morning with Melody.”

  “Did you have fun?” she asked.

  “Yeah. It was good. I need to carve out more time in my life for just the two of us, especially now that our father’s gone. She’s gonna need some sort of adult male in her life. Isn’t that what they say on TV?”

  “Charlie, don’t kid yourself, you’ve always been more like a father than a brother to her.”

  “You think so?”

  “Yes! Remember when she was being picked on by the Carroll twins, and you swooped in to defend her? They’ve never bothered her again.”

  I cocked my head in her direction.

  “What?” she asked.

  “I was in high school when that happened. I didn’t even know you then. I don’t remember telling you about that at all.”

  A look of trepidation crossed her face. “Oh. That’s funny. I guess Melody must have told me about it.” She paused. “Now that I think of it, I’m sure that’s it. She said she was really glad you stuck up for her, and that it was something your father would have never done.”

  “She said that? It doesn’t sound like her.”

  “It was something like that. Maybe not word for word.” She looked away. “Anyway, it doesn’t matter. I was just trying to say it’s a wonderful thing that you’re spending more time with her because she’s gonna need you more than ever, that’s all.”