He looked at me, eyes clear for the first time since I arrived.
“Love,” I said. “You gave him love.”
The words moved through him, meaning nothing at first, but as memories connected with emotions in his heart, it became apparent on his face. It was as if I could see all those memories too, and the love. He felt it. I knew he did. It filled up his heart and made him smile.
But then it withered away. Maybe because the love now had no place to go, or maybe because he understood then that perhaps that love had been more important than the inventions he gave his time. I knew from when my dad died that no matter how much time was spent loving them before they died, every moment you didn’t sit by them felt like a waste once they were gone. And it made you question it all—made you wonder if they knew how much they filled up your heart. And then, no, you knew it was never enough. You knew each time you went out with friends or watched TV had been a betrayal to what was more important, because they were gone now and you would not have those moments back. No matter what anyone tried to tell you—no matter that looking after yourself, getting on with life when someone you love is dying—is of great importance to your mental wellbeing; once they left, who cared what was supposed to have mattered?
Plain folded over and cried then, pinching the bridge of his nose. I got off the table and patted his shaking shoulder, offering a comfort that he clearly hadn’t been given all this time.
“George was amazing, Plain,” I said. “And I will miss him forever too, but you can’t do this to him. You can’t let your world become a dark place just because he’s gone. What would he think to see all the magic gone?”
“Magic?” He looked over at the birdcage. “There was never any magic, Red. I was a silly fool of a man. It was all in my head.”
I smiled, the full warmth of it coming out in my eyes. “That’s where magic begins, Plain. You taught me that. And from there, you spread it all over your life. Give it to others, like you gave it to me.”
He shook his head.
“It’s true.” I pulled his hands away from his face. “And yes, the sadness is there too—inside you. It will never ever go away. But you have to choose which one comes out and paints your life.”
“I can’t choose,” he said. “My heart chooses for me.”
“Your heart hurts.” I cocked my head, taking in his sadness. “But it will always hurt if you don’t look for the magic again. And that would be too sad, Plain. This world is ugly, but we already lost George. We already lost one amazing person. What will we do if we lose you too? Who will finish the Worldinator?”
“I don’t need it anymore. George is gone. I can’t reach him where he is.”
“But what about other boys like George?”
He looked up at me.
“They don’t have amazing inventor dads like George had. They have no hope, Plain. Your machine can take images from their mind—”
“But it can’t paint them.”
“Who says it has to?” I said, thinking about the zoetrope and the homemade tree lantern in my room at the mansion. “What if it could project them?”
“Pardon?”
“You always say, If you don’t like your life, paint a new one,” I said. “But what if you changed that? What if you said, If you don’t like your life, project a new one.”
He sat taller, head angling to the left as his thinking hand came up to his chin. “Project a new one…”
“George is gone now,” I said, “but you’re still here because we need you. This world needs you.”
Plain lifted his eyes from the world of invention and stared at my face, as if he’d just forgotten who I was, or maybe just remembered I was here.
“Plain,” I tried, my heart beating a bit faster in my chest as I approached the next difficult question. I wasn’t sure I wanted the answer. “Where is Alex? Is he at school?”
“Oh, Alex.” He sat back, shaking his head. “Alex doesn’t go to school anymore.”
“What?”
“He was expelled.”
“Why?”
“He tried, Red. I saw him trying, at first, but it was all just too much for him. He stopped doing his work, started being disruptive in class—”
“Didn’t anyone try to help him?”
“At first, but then all that pent-up grief became anger, I suppose, and he started getting into fights.”
“That doesn’t sound like him.”
“No, I suppose you’re right. He only ever fought with his brother.” He touched a finger to his nose. “Cost him a permanent bump here when he was twelve.” His eyes moved reflectively away from mine and he sighed heavily. “Poor George.”
“Poor George? What about poor Alex?” I stood up. “What have you been doing to help him?”
“I’ve tried talking with him, but he…” That reflective gaze took over again. “He doesn’t talk anymore.”
My heart had already left my body and bolted up the stairs to Alex’s room. I couldn’t feel it in my chest as I backed away from Plain, disgusted but also understanding. Alex needed help. And he needed it now.
“Please tell me he’s at least here? He hasn’t left, has he?”
His hand lifted to point a finger at the ceiling. “In his room, I suppose.”
I wanted to throw up. I wanted to evaporate and appear in his room so I wouldn’t waste the time running. What would I find up there? Would Alex be in as poor a state as Plain? And where was Sacha? Had they neglected her too? Was she under this pile of junk, emaciated? I didn’t even want to think about that.
Part Four: Chapter Three
Tears Don’t Fall; They Crash Around You
The stairs creaked and moaned at me in protest as I ran up them. There wasn’t as much junk in the way up here, but when I opened Alex’s door, expecting the same stale smell I found in George’s room, the fresh icy air shocked me. There was no light, aside from what came through as his curtains blew apart in the breeze. It was below freezing in here, or at least it felt like it, and a pile of snow had obviously gathered there under his window before melting into the floorboards. The room was exactly as it was last time I saw it, and I half expected not to find Alex in here, so when my eyes brushed past his bed and saw a shape, all my cells moved toward it at once, panicked. He didn’t move. He looked frozen solid, curled up in the top corner against the wall, face buried in his knees. His hair was longer, wilder, and even though he was wearing a sweater, his legs were bare and I could see how thin he was.
I hated myself for spending so long right outside his window today on the swing, when I should have been in here with him. If only I’d known.
“Alex?” I said cautiously. If he was dead, I didn’t want to touch him. I wouldn’t survive it.
He moved his head a little and then laughed once coldly. “Why do you keep taunting me?”
“What do you mean?” I moved toward him.
“You’re not here,” he said in a weak, husky voice. “It’s just my mind playing tricks on me again.”
I exhaled a dizzying breath and rubbed my brow. I didn’t need to ask what his life had been like lately. It was obvious. He was weak right now—and probably hypothermic. I walked slowly to his bedside and picked up a blanket, laying it over his knees. I wasn’t sure how long he’d been here in the cold, or how long it’d been since he’d eaten. I thought maybe I should call an ambulance, but without seeing his face I couldn’t decide if it was needed.
Alex didn’t smell, like his dad did, or at least I didn’t think he did until I climbed up on the bed and sat with my back against the wall in front of his feet. His armpits were a bit stinky, but not so bad that I needed to cover my mouth.
Alex looked at the dip in the bed between us then and wriggled his toes, frowning as he moved his eyes up to my face. He swallowed hard, fighting back obvious tears.
“I’m not a hallucination,” I offered, holding my hands out and grinning. “But if you haven’t been eating or sleeping, then I’m not sur
prised you’ve been seeing things.”
“How are you here?”
I tried not to make it obvious, but his breath really smelled. I wanted to be nice and just answer his question, but I laughed instead.
“I’m really glad you’re alive,” I said. “Can I hug you?”
He nodded, unwinding his arms from the tight curl around his knees, the blanket slipping off him. I got up on mine and wrapped my arms around him, using the strength of his squeeze and a rub of my hand down his back to assess him. He didn’t need a hospital. He just needed a good meal and a pair of sweats over his bed shorts.
“Aren’t you cold?” I said.
“I don’t notice it so much anymore.”
It felt so good to hear his deep voice. I drew back and sat down, pretty much on his feet, my elbow over his knee like he was an armchair. “So why aren’t you at school?”
“I just…” He leaned back against the wall, angling his face to the ceiling. “I couldn’t be there anymore.”
“Why?”
His bony shoulders came up. “Because it makes me wanna cry.”
“Hm,” I said to myself, not sure what was wrong with that. “Crying is good for you. I’m sure no one would mind.”
“George would,” he said.
“George?” Okay, I didn’t expect that. “What do you mean?”
“He made me promise,” he said, his chest shaking once before he controlled it. “He made me promise not to cry.”
“So you… you haven’t cried. At all?”
He shook his head, and it all suddenly made sense. When my dad died, he made me promise to be strong so, naturally, I thought that meant I shouldn’t cry. When I told my mom, she took me straight to our elder Agnes, who also happens to be a psychologist, and she told me there is nothing more important than crying. Tears, she told me, are like little watery cases that take all the hurt and the pain and carry it away from your heart. If you don’t let them do their job, the pain will stay around for a long time, and might even turn into anger.
“Alex, he didn’t mean it like that,” I insisted, looking at the tight, pent-up boy in front of me. “You need to cry. Like, now, before you spontaneously combust.”
“Why? What good does it do to cry; how will it change anything?”
“It doesn’t change the outside world, silly. It changes the inside world.” I laughed softly, getting up on my knees to be closer to him. “It releases all that pressure so you can find the strength you need to get up, to eat or sleep, or take a damn shower.” I pinched my nose to make my point. “George wouldn’t want you to be like this.”
“Like what?”
“Look at yourself, Alex. You’re consumed. No,” I softened my tone when I felt my voice getting higher and faster, “worse than that, you’re dead. You died with George, and it’s not fair! Because he doesn’t get to go on. He didn’t get to make that choice for himself, Alex. But you do.”
He folded his arms and shook his head.
“Look, when I was locked away at that mansion—”
“Locked away?” His arms unfolded and for a moment he came back to me—the old Alex from inside the shell.
“It doesn’t matter right now. Just listen,” I said quickly, trying to get my point out before I forgot what it was. “I’d have given anything to have the freedom you have. You still have a life ahead of you, and losing George hasn’t changed that.”
“It has.”
“How?”
“I stopped studying. My grades dropped—”
“So you can talk to your teachers. Ask them to help you. They’re there to help you if you want it and, believe it or not, no matter how bad you think things are right now, they get it. Your dad gets it. There’s not a person in this world that wouldn’t help you right now if you asked for it.”
He shook his head, still seeing himself as a lost cause.
“You know, you’re still a normal, healthy teenager right now, but if you wait a few years until you’re malnourished and your brain cells have depleted, or maybe you turned to a life of drugs, they won’t care as much. Use your youth as a platform to stand on and say, I’m young. I screwed up. Help me.”
Alex laughed. “Use my youth, huh?”
“Yes! People love helping kids that’ve lost their way. You’re still salvageable.”
“And what, when I’m twenty I’m no longer worth saving.”
“Yes, but I guess people care in a different way when you’re an adult. I dunno, maybe it’s the nurturing instincts, but if you come downstairs with me now, talk to your dad, talk to the teachers, we can get you back on track. You don’t have to have a sad ending, Alex. And who knows, maybe they’ll tell you to repeat a year.”
“Repeat? How would that be a good thi—” His eyes widened. “Oh. We’d be in the same grade.”
“Yeah.” I laughed, finally risking a soft touch of his hand. “I’m back now, Alex. I have an amazing story to tell you and I can promise on the moon and stars that I will never have to leave again. I’m here to stay.”
The pain moved back into his eyes, but it was a different pain to the one I found when I walked in. “I came to see you.”
“I know.” You got my dog hurt as a result. “I told you not to.”
“I needed to.”
“Why?”
“I just…” He hugged his knees, clamming up again. “I needed to share my pain with you.”
I put my hand on his forearm. “I wish you’d made it into the mansion. It broke me pretty bad—the news about George—and I thought about sneaking away to see you too.”
His lip trembled, and I thought for a moment that he might finally cry, but he fought hard and won.
“Hey, you wanna know something cool?” I offered.
“Sure, why not?”
“When I got the letter—telling me about George—I painted a hundred black birds on my wall, and after I was done and I stood back, the strangest thing happened.”
“What?” he asked, like a child waiting for the climactic end of a story.
“A massive cloud of birds that hadn’t been there before suddenly flew off the roof outside my window. It was as if they’d come from the pictures on the wall, and then they flew away—over the town.”
“And you think they came for George?”
“Maybe, or maybe they were just birds. It’s up to you to choose what you believe.”
“I don’t know what I believe anymore.”
“Well, I think they were George’s birds. It feels better when I believe that.” I smiled. “Warmer.”
“Well… wait.” He sat up a little more, looking at his door. “Do you think that’s who took Mom?”
“Took her?”
“She was gone one day—her cage was empty. No windows were open, the cage door was closed, no one had been here.”
I smiled. “Maybe. I guess, again, it’s up to you to choose.”
Alex looked numb then—the kind of numb that makes you tingly after you hold an electric toothbrush in your hand for too long. He smiled a little. “I hope she’s with him right now.”
“I know she is.” I touched my own heart. “It’s like I can feel it.”
Alex’s mouth turned down. “I can’t, Red. I can’t feel anything but pain.”
“What do you mean? Like… physical pain?”
He nodded, holding out his shaky hands. “It’s like the pain is in my blood.”
“Is that…” I touched his fingertips and inspected the nails. “Is it because you haven’t been taking care of yourself?”
“No.” He drew his hands back gently and shook his head. “It’s because my heart is broken.”
“Well, the only way to release that pain is to cry. You need closure.”
“Closure, huh?” He smiled instead, pressing his lips in as his eyes wandered to a memory. “You know, it’s funny; the day before George died, I heard an old man on the radio talking about his life and how he became a writer. He said that a significant event f
or him in his childhood—one that changed everything, changed the dynamic in his family—was when his sister died. He didn’t go to her funeral and he said he just never stops thinking about her because of it—that he never got the closure, and so his life was altered by her death. It went from one clear path off on another. And even though it’s a good path now—becoming a famous writer—it’s still sad. And I knew that sadness, Red.” He curled his hand in to touch his chest. “When he said not one day goes by where he doesn’t think about her, or dream that she phones him up and asks how he is or even begs him to come get her, I just thought, that’s gonna be me. When George dies. It’s going to alter the course of my entire life.”
“In what way? Good or bad?”
“Neither. It’s just… with him, I was Alex the Fish and Alex the Ringmaster and Alex the Surfing Champion. Now I’m just Alex.” His voice trembled. “And I don’t have a brother anymore.”
“I know,” I whispered, tears leaving my eyes without permission. “And I’m so sorry for that. I’m so sorry for your pain.”
“It isn’t fair.” He sniffled and looked away, blinking hard to fight that sadness he promised George he wouldn’t feel. “They took everyone I love. They took Mom and George and you, and I can’t lose anyone else, Red. I’m so scared and I’m so tired and I just hurt. In here.” He patted his ribs. “All the time. I feel like someone inflated a balloon inside my chest and I can’t make it pop.”
I parted Alex’s knees and knelt between them, lifting his face with my cold hands. “Listen to me Alex Plain. George loved you. He was a light in all of our lives, but you aren’t honoring him, honoring his love, by fighting the grief. You have to grieve. You have to release it all to move on.”
“I don’t want to move on. If I move on, who will remember George?”
“I will,” I said, squeezing his face, fat hot tears running into my mouth. “And Plain will. And you will, even if you cry. Even if his face fades, his memory never ever will. He is in our hearts, Alex. Deep in there. So deep it’s making you hurt. And if you don’t release that hurt, right now, it’ll never go away.”
Red: The Untold Story Page 25
