Then, everything came. I made myself write one word and it made sense, so I wrote more words and I didn’t stop. I don’t know how, but suddenly inside my brain the only things were me and Phil and the page and my imagination, and my imagination was working so hard, and I concentrated so hard on what it was telling me that I didn’t really have to concentrate anymore. I wasn’t worried about pretending because I knew everything I was writing was the exact truth. And I wrote it all excruciatingly fast, without thinking about the last word I’d put down. I just wrote the next word I had to write, and then the next word and the next sentence and the next page. I even wrote more than one page. I was writing faster and faster and for so long that the sky started to get brighter than it was before.
When I finished writing it was almost 6:00 AM and I realized the sky was transforming into daytime. I climbed down the slippery wooden ladder and then down the stairs to the ground. It was bright enough that I didn’t even need the flashlight anymore; I could see pretty much perfect. The sky was slowly turning orangey-blue instead of black and making the shapes of the treehouse and all the tree trunks into the hugest shadow puppets. I think that was the first sunrise I ever found. It felt weird.
I went to the sea turtle rock and walked down the hill a bit and leaned against the bent tree that Phil was near when I found him. I took five steps away from the river, and one sideways towards the house. I kneeled down and put Phil on the ground.
I took a last look at the cover of the notebook. I could see why Phil said he liked that pattern. It really was beautiful. It was just black and white, so it was simple, but at the same time it was extraordinarily complicated, and hard on the eyes. The black splotches jumped all over the white background. Or maybe the white patches were on top of the black background. It was both at the same time. It was like the splotches were fighting, or like they’d just stopped fighting and were becoming friends again and slow-dancing. If I stared long enough at it and covered some parts up by holding my hand out in front of my eyes, I could find pictures in there: maybe a little animal, or a face. The shape of a planet, or a whole solar system. Maybe if you zoomed way out in space, like maybe if you flipped your field glasses around and carefully looked through the big side, maybe that was what the whole universe looked like. Not just white dots on blackness, but maybe huge white patches and black patches the size of whole mysterious galaxies, reaching for each other, and it makes no sense and who knows what’s on top of what, but anyway it’s really pretty.
I started to dig a hole in the soil with my hands. But then I stopped. One, because I thought there might be a tiny chance I’d need to find him again someday, and two, because I thought maybe if someone a lot older and a lot smarter than me came along they could still notice it, and actually find out about him. But I was pretty sure both those things weren’t going to happen and that I was saying goodbye to Phil.
And also I didn’t bury him under the ground, because when I found him he was covered in leaves, not dirt. So I just took a handful of wet leaves and spread them overtop, and I kept adding leaves until I couldn’t see the black and white speckly pattern anymore, and the pile was just a mix of a whole bunch of colours, all these reds and oranges and yellows, getting more orange and red and yellow every second from the sun rising.
I stared at the pile. I knew the truth about Phil; I wasn’t stupid. Of course I wanted to save him. Obviously. And obviously I didn’t. I couldn’t. Because I was just a normal boy without real superpowers, or a real time machine, or God skills or anything. But I had to do something. And if you look up the definition for the word “save” in the dictionary, just like almost every word it means more than one thing at the same time. Besides to save someone’s life, it also means to save them by keeping them somewhere, not like in your backpack or your thermos, but somewhere inside you, like your brain or your heart. So I guess I will probably save Phil at least once a day for the rest of my life. And obviously that’s not good enough, but I had to do something anyway because I mean, I had to.
The weird part was, and I wouldn’t make this part up, I started crying. Which I guess wasn’t that weird, because it was like the third time I cried in the same week, but still, this time was different. I cried a bit after we met Rosie, and a bit more with Francis, but when I brought Phil back I really cried. I had to turn around and run out of the woods with blurry eyes so that I wouldn’t dig him out again and ruin the whole thing. I had to run as fast as I possibly could, tripping over roots and boulders. Finally my shaking hand opened the door of our house one more time and I was back home.
WE SHAKE
THE BOOK returns to where it fell and the boy is running.
See him running as fast as he can.
See the windows of the house lighting orange squares in one sequence before dimming again.
And time accelerating for the book and the sun rising and streaking the blue sky quickly like a swinging light bulb, then setting in orange and rising again after the black. A rain, and a heat wave, and another rain. Winds stirring up leaves and tossing days and lifting the book’s cover like a damp wing and holding it open. Pages whipping over and back like flags, wrinkling and weakening, they yellow and fray.
See the house barely trembling as life roars through it: the boy, the man, others big and small, questions and games, shouts and laughs and long days sped through. The white door fluttering closed and open.
See the tiniest creatures building a city and a world out of the book’s pages, starting at the edges, then creeping in past the margins and overtaking the centre. Each page is as any other, and they do not sense an author, let alone two—the ink is only the raw texture of the land they’ve been given, and they feast. They flourish. See the treehouse with its borrowed parts, hear its boards creaking underfoot, feel the moss climbing the walls. The hot sun rises and sets and rises and the summer sprawls out to become its next season, and the book is all but gone.
But it is not gone. We are reading and we are memorizing. We record the rippling sounds of the pages, the shape of each word they contain. We store these deep within us; we will not forget. The seasons shrink and blend and as the paper dissolves we absorb it; it becomes us. We have lent ourselves to its white fabric and now it returns. We draw it into our roots. We cannot forget.
Now time rushes faster and stretches out farther in all directions and is one. And inside this moment we hold everything, all vast and quiet and bright, and somewhere among it all, one tiny dot of this now is the boy, and it is his pages, and when we remember this part we shake. In this moment our limbs reach upward and we grow.
Actually Phil didn’t really die at all because he actually
Meanwhile Phil was down on the beach walking to the water and Arthur caught up with him and Phil was naked. Arthur said WHAT ARE YOU DOING PHIL YOU SHOULD PUT YOUR CLOTHES BACK ON OR YOU MIGHT CATCH PNEUMONIA.
Phil said I’VE GOT SO MANY PROBLEMS I DON’T EVEN KNOW WHERE TO START. Arthur said ARE YOU GOING TO DROWN YOURSELF? and Phil said YES.
Phil told me Arthur that he was really really sad and angry. I KNOW Arthur said BECAUSE YOUR LOVE OF YOUR LIFE ABANDONED YOU AND ALSO YOU HAVE NOTHING TO GIVE TO THE WORLD.
BUT IT’S NOT EVEN THAT REALLY said Phil.
I KNOW Arthur said IT’S MORE BECAUSE YOU ARE ALWAYS SAD NO MATTER WHAT. IT’S BECAUSE YOU FELT SO ALONE EVERY SECOND OF EVERY DAY.
HOW DO YOU KNOW THIS STUFF? Phil said.
I FOUND YOUR NOTEBOOK IN THE WOODS BY MY HOUSE AND I’VE BEEN READING IT EVERY SINGLE DAY said Arthur.
Phil said NO ONE WAS SUPPOSED TO FIND THAT EVER.
WELL THEY DID Arthur said. Arthur started to cry like a silly baby and said PLEASE DON’T DO IT PHIL, IT’S A BAD IDEA.
BUT I HAVE TO Phil said. YOU CAN’T CONVINCE ME. WHAT IS YOUR NAME? Phil said.
ARTHUR said Arthur.
ARTHUR I’M SORRY MY BOOK
MADE YOU CRY EVERY DAY OF YOUR LIFE said Phil. BUT I HAVE TO DO IT BECAUSE THE UNIVERSE DOESN’T WANT ME TO BE IN IT ANYMORE. IT ISN’T WHERE I BELONG said Phil. IT’S NOT A BIG DEAL. Arthur was crying this whole time but bravely made himself stop.
PHIL I DON’T THINK THE UNIVERSE WANTS YOU TO DIE EVEN THOUGH IT IS AMAZINGLY HUGE AND SCARY AND IT IS SWALLOWING UP EVERYTHING IT EVER GAVE YOU IN THE FIRST PLACE said Arthur. IT IS A BIG DEAL said Arthur.
ARE THOSE YOUR CLOTHES THAT ARE SITTING ON THE ROCK THERE said Arthur?
YES said Phil. Arthur brought Phil’s shirt and pants over to Phil and gave them to Phil. Phil put them on after a while and sat down on a log washed up on the shore and Arthur sat beside him.
WHY IS EVERYTHING BEING SO MEAN TO ME THEN? said Phil. WHY IS MY BRAIN PUNCHING ME IN THE FACE AND WHY DOESN’T ANYTHING EVER MAKE SENSE?
I DON’T KNOW said Arthur. THERE ARE SOME QUES-TIONS WE CAN ASK FOR OUR WHOLE LIFETIMES IF WE WANT.
LIKE WHAT KIND OF QUESTIONS? asked Phil.
LIKE IF A TREE FALLS IN A FOREST BUT NOBODY IS AROUND TO HEAR IT DOES IT STILL MAKE A NOISE? said Arthur.
Phil didn’t say anything.
BUT ALSO OTHER ONES THAT ARE WAY HARDER said Arthur.
Phil picked up a really flat rock and skipped it across the water like 7 times. NICE SKIP said Arthur. THANKS said Phil. Then Phil put his head into his hands for a long long time.
I ALREADY ATE THE STUFF THAT MAKES ME DROWN said Phil. IT’S TOO LATE.
Arthur quickly reached into his backpack and took out the bottle of floatation pills he made and gave 3 to Phil. TAKE THEM WITH THIS Arthur said and gave Phil his thermos with milk in it. Phil looked at the pills for a bit and said WHAT DO THESE DO? and Arthur said I MADE THEM OUT OF THE STYROFOAM DUST FROM BUILDING THE IGLOO I WILL SOON COMPLETE INSIDE MY ROOM. THEY GO INTO YOUR BLOOD AND TURN HALF YOUR WHITE BLOOD CELLS INTO STYROFOAM CELLS SO THAT IF YOU GO IN DEEP WATER YOU WILL FLOAT INSTEAD OF SINKING. DOES IT HURT? said Phil and Arthur said ONLY FOR A MINUTE AND THEN NOT ANYMORE and Arthur took one of the pills himself to show Phil and then Phil put the pills in his mouth and drank the milk. YOU HAVE A MUSTASH said Arthur and Phil shaved it.
Then Arthur and Phil waded out into the river until it overflowed Arthur’s boots and then they layed down on the water and they floated and didn’t sink. Arthur layed on his back and so did Phil and they floated on top of the water which was very smoothe and warm and under the blue sky.
I’VE NEVER SWAM HERE BEFORE said Arthur. ME EITHER said Phil and they kept floating on their backs way out into the river looking up at the sky and using their feet like flippers and moving slow. They kept floating there and thinking until they decided to go back to the shore. They sat back down on the log and the sun tried to dry their clothes but Phil still had his head in his hands again.
PHIL I KNOW YOU THINK THAT DYING HAS TO BE BETTER THAN LIVING AND NO ONE IS AROUND TO CARE ABOUT YOU ANYWAY said Arthur BUT MAYBE IF YOU REALLY THINK ABOUT IT A LOT MAYBE WHAT YOU WANT IS TO STAY ALIVE FOR A LITTLE WHILE. I DON’T KNOW WHAT YOU WANT PHIL I DON’T KNOW. BUT I DON’T WANT YOU TO DIE. NOBODY WANTS YOU TO DIE. GOD OR THE UNIVERSE OR SOMETHING ELSE MADE YOU FOR SOME REASON AND I DON’T KNOW WHY AND YOU DON’T KNOW WHY EITHER BUT THAT’S THE WAY IT IS PHIL AND YOU BELONG ALIVE.
After such a long time of having his head in his hands Phil said MAYBE YOU’RE RIGHT and he started to cry excruciateingly hard which made Arthur cry a little more and put his arm on Phil’s shoulder and say IT’S OK PHIL.
IT’S OK PHIL said Arthur IT’S OK IT’S OK IT’S OK.
I THOUGHT IF I WAS DEAD THEN I WOULDN’T HAVE TO NOT UNDERSTAND ANYMORE said Phil. I KNOW said Arthur. I KNOW. BUT PHIL YOU’RE NOT THE ONLY ONE WHO DOESN’T UNDERSTAND.
Then Phil kept crying for a long time.
Eventually Phil stopped crying and sat on the log for a while without talking and Arthur stayed sitting on the same log too.
Soon Phil and Arthur both stood up and walked up the beach and into the woods after Phil put his shoes back on. After an extraordinarily long time of walking quietly Phil and Arthur finally both started to smile again.
Phil had a nice smile that made Arthur smile too and he said BY THE WAY WHAT REALLY HAPPENED TO YOUR REAL PARENTS?
Arthur pulled a green leaf off of a tree and twirled it around in his fingers while not saying anything at all for a minute to be mysterious. Arthur and Phil kept walking in the woods.
I DON’T KNOW said Arthur.
HE NEVER TOLD YOU? said Phil.
NO said Arthur. BECAUSE HE DOESN’T KNOW EITHER BECAUSE THEY WANTED TO KEEP IT A SECRET AND I WILL PROBABLY NEVER KNOW.
MAYBE THEY WEREN’T EXPECTING YOU said Phil.
MAYBE said Arthur. I WASN’T EXPECTING YOU EITHER PHIL.
I KNOW. BUT STILL WE ARE BOTH HERE said Phil.
Arthur stopped playing with the leaf and put it in his pocket.
SO WHAT DO WE DO ABOUT IT? said Phil.
Arthur shrugged his shoulders. OUR FAMILY HAS A BRIDGE CLUB ON SUNDAYS AND YOU CAN COME OVER SOMETIME IF YOU DON’T WANT TO BE LONELY said Arthur. SOMETIMES THERE ARE EVEN GIRLS THERE.
I DON’T KNOW HOW TO PLAY BRIDGE said Phil and Arthur said IT’S OK.
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
THE BYLINE on the front of this book is lying. It should not just say “Ben Stephenson” like that. The truth is that this pesky little book could not have existed without the encouragement, patience, hand-holding, and, if you really think about it, the birth of a huge number of entities, and so even the most condensed version of its byline should read:
Ben Stephenson and everyone I’m made out of, in chronological and alphabetical disorder: my parents, my sisters, my grandparents; Jenner-Brooke Berger (for more than is mentionable in a full other novel or trilogy); Andrew Mazerolle and Allison Higgins (for everything all the while); every one of my teachers, but especially Dan O’Neill (the first to tell me it might be possible, whether he remembers or not), Donna Morrissey, and Michael Fernandes; Carol Bruneau (for the early edit, and even more so for all the follow-up smiles); Leah Ellingwood (for telling me about Rosie); Fraser Lockerbie; Richard Light (expert librarian/editor/friend); Jennifer McGraw (another great editor); Peter Richard (for all the thoughts, theories, rants, rice puddings, and pigeons); the Greek Village Restaurant; the Good Food Emporium; Normand Carrey, Gwen Davies, and the Tatamagouche Centre (for the time alone); each of the millions of people involved in growing, harvesting, roasting, transporting, and sometimes brewing all the coffee; the manufacturers of proton pump inhibitors; Rosie Swale-Pope (a real live person); Barbara Berson (for faith, and for making me make damn hard choices); John Pearce (for taking a chance); Jesus Christ, Saint Francis de Sales, His Holiness the Dalai Lama, J.D. Salinger, and all other patrons; Charlotte (for being such a prophetic, immediate, and tiny friend); Katherine, Linda, and J.P.; Spencer Clayton and his wonderful family; Simon Richards and Steve MacLeod (for times infinitely more valuable than they may have seemed); anyone I’ve forgotten so far and still won’t manage to remember by the end of this list; Chris Labonté; Jessica Sullivan; Seymour, Buddy, Franny, Zooey, Bessie, Les, De Daumier-Smith, and Holden and Phoebe Caulfield; Brynn McNab; Matthew Stackhouse; Laurë Nolte; Hannah Guinan; Danika Vandersteen; the beautiful Banff Centre; Jacqueline Baker; Richard Francis Ivan Charlie Burlock Eva Clark-Bailey; Lily Mead Martin; and Arthur
except of course that this would be a book designer’s most vivid nightmare. And even this byline merely skims the surface. So for anyone to read the drastically severed one on the cover and actually come to believe that “Ben Stephenson” wrote this book all by himself should require a very dicey leap of faith indeed, and one I really can’t recommend under any circumstance.
(I’m eternally indebted to and deeply grateful for all those whose names are written on this book’s cover in invisible ink.)
Copyright © 2012 by Ben Stephenson
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted, in any form or by any means, without the prior written consent of the publisher or a licence from The Canadian Copyright Licensing Agency (Access Copyright). For a copyright licence, visit www.accesscopyright.ca or call toll free to 1-800-893-5777.
The characters and events in this book, with the exception of Rosie Swale-Pope and her incredible run around the world, are fictitious. Any apparent similarity to real persons is coincidental, and not intended by the author.
Douglas & McIntyre
An imprint of D&M Publishers Inc.
2323 Quebec Street, Suite 201
Vancouver BC
Canada V5T 4S7
www.douglas-mcintyre.com
Cataloguing data available from Library and Archives Canada
ISBN 978-1-926812-71-7 (pbk.)
ISBN 978-1-926812-72-4 (ebook)
Editing by Barbara Berson
Copy editing by Pam Robertson
Cover design by Jessica Sullivan
Cover illustration by Jessica Sullivan
Interior illustrations by Ben Stephenson
We gratefully acknowledge the financial support of the Canada Council for the Arts, the British Columbia Arts Council, the Province of British Columbia through the Book Publishing Tax Credit and the Government of Canada through the Canada Book Fund for our publishing activities.
A Matter of Life and Death or Something Page 21
