The Other One

by Amanda Jay

  Then, sometimes, the wind changed and Felix was left with his darker thoughts. The worst one, when he was younger, was losing his mother. He knew, quite possibly, that this was every child’s worst nightmare but just like any child, his focus lay mostly on himself. How could he ever explain to anyone how important she was to him? How pivotal she was not just to his wellbeing but to his existence as a whole? She was his beginning and end and all the happiness in between.

  Felix would wallow in his self-pity. Like a wave it would swell up inside of him, engulfing him, crashing down a round him with a fierceness he had yet to have felt outside his own head. It would wash over him, both cathartic and pounding, and he would swim in it, revelling in the magnitude of the darkness. And then he would wake himself from it-- ears ringing, fists clenched, heart thrashing. The wave would crawl back into the ocean innocently.

  The actual loss of his mother happened quite differently. It was real life Felix that had dealt with it, after all. He had kept calm, made arrangements, consoled others as though it was their loss. He didn’t even cry until he woke up the next day and realised that he would never truly see her again. His worst dark daydream, the one that been horrific to him ever since he was a little boy, had finally come true. And it didn’t feel at all how he expected it to feel. The waves of grief never crashed. They just receded far back into the ocean, leaving a hollow type of numbness in its place.

  Many years later, Felix would wonder about these daydreams. He would feel guilty, as if a part of him was responsible for what happened. He had imagined it, after all, hadn’t he? Had he tempted some ugly turn of fate with his mind? It, was, after all, always been his job to make sure everything was okay.

  But to these, Felix had no answers. And so he wrote instead. To keep the darkness on his sheets of paper and out of his own head.

  OF GETTING LEFT BEHIND

  Everyone talks about the people that leave us.

  "She was such a lovely person," they would say.

  "She would have been so proud of you."

  Everyone talks about the people that leave us, yes. But no one ever says the truth.

  No one ever says "She was selfish for leaving you alone," or "She cried all the time," or "She was terrible when she lost her temper."

  No. When people die they take all their faults along with them. They leave behind blurred and perfected memories of themselves and leave us to reconcile our thoughts and feelings. You see, everyone speaks well of the people that leave us. But no one says a word about those of us who are left behind.

  EZRA

  No villain is born bad, we all reason. And indeed, Ezra Orson too, was not born a villain, although most would agree that he was a particularly odd child who often preferred his own company to that of others. And as we all know, in rural farming villages, there can be no greater sin than that.

  Ezra was born to a long line of proud potato farmers. His father was a farmer, as was his father before him. For the first eight years of Ezra's life, his destiny seemed set in stone. He too would work the land-- although in those times the word 'work' hardly seemed to suffice. 'Wrestle' with the land seem wholly more fitting-- until he was old enough to take over the farm himself.

  Not once in his first eight years did Ezra question it. It did not matter that he was doing complex math when his classmates were still struggling to add single digits, or that his class teacher, Mrs. Harrison had come by the farm twice now to discuss the possibility of moving him to an advanced class.

  It did not matter, because Ezra knew his place. He would, just like his father, grandfather, and even though it was never mentioned, Ezra rightly suspected, his great-grandfather before him, Ezra would be a farmer. And he was happy to be a farmer. Ezra Orson was a simple boy who simply loved pleasing his equally simple-minded father.

  Ezra Senior was an uncomplicated man who lived for two things and two things only-- his land, as we have already established, and his family.

  His wife, Bertha, was his rock, and not just because she was built like a boulder, but because she knew exactly how to make him happy. Simple minded Senior hated all things unsettling, or frazzling, or frivolous. Being an uncomplicated man of simple taste, uncertainty was his clear enemy. Ezra Senior dedicated himself to routine and Bertha dedicated herself to making sure that his routine remained intact.

  She made sure that his breakfast was on time, that his bath water was heated just so, and that the children never disturbed him between three and half past when he took his afternoon lie in. She even quietly listened to that pushy Mrs. Harrison when she showed up, for the second time, the nerve of that woman, before telling her politely that no, they were not interested in moving Ezra to an advanced class, with an advanced cost, anytime soon.

  Ezra himself was quite the conundrum to his father, even though Senior never used words like conundrum. Fancy words like that belonged in fancy schools in the fancy city and not for simple folk like the Orsons.

  Which was why Ezra Junior was such a conundrum in the first place. He was always reading those darned books of his, trying to show Senior interesting facts about potatoes. Didn't that boy know that you couldn't get a feel of the land through books? You had to feel it under your fingernails, toil at it until your palms bled, not read about it in the blindingly bright pages of some book you were just going to get muddy anyway. But still, for all his oddities, he loved his oldest boy, in the simple way that all fathers loved their sons.

  Though as much as he loved his son, no one could deny that Ezra Senior simply adored his daughter, Rose. From the moment she was born into this world and wrapped her chubby, pink fist around his gritty, dirt-stained finger, Senior's heart belonged to her. He couldn't explain it, really, not that he ever felt that he had to.

  And so he simply doted on her-- this delicate flower with the bouncing, dark pigtails, and the angelic smile. Rose never cried or complained. She was always so peaceful, so happy to see him. As far as Senior was concerned, Rose was perfect.

  Being four years older than her, Ezra always had a vivid memory of this pink, cherubic princess, as he liked to think of her. His father doted on her and so he did too-- always looking out for the purple wild flowers she seemed to like and sneaking any treat he found into his pockets because he knew she loved sweets.

  She would always reward him too, for all his little acts of generosity. An angelic smile on her face, she would half walk, half waddle over to him and wrap her little arms around his knees.

  "Thank you, Eswah," she would chirp clumsily. "They are love-er-ly." That was a new word she had learned, lovely, and it was Ezra who had taught it to her, mostly because that was how he thought of her-- simply lovely.

  But this is no simple story and everything was about to change.

  The day that changed everything dawned bright and clear, just a few smudges of white cotton on an otherwise uninterruptedly brilliant blue sky. And just like all days that change everything, it started out as any normal day, with no one expecting it to turn around and slap them in the face.

  It was a Saturday, so Ezra was home from school, helping his mother in the kitchen.

  "Scrub that pan out properly now," she instructed, bossy but comforting at the same time. "You know your Pa hates it when he finds any of 'em burnt bits in his eggs."

  Ezra was obediently re-scrubbing the pan when Rose tumbled into the kitchen.

  "Morning Mama. Morning Eswah," she sang, clambering into her chair which she was finally just tall enough to hoist herself into without any help. She smiled widely as she messily shovelled spoonfuls of the porridge Bertha set down into her mouth.

  "Why are you so happy, silly?" Ezra asked, finally joining her at the table with his own bowl of porridge.

  "Just because," she replied simply, her smile only wider now for being acknowledged.

  "Eat up now, you two," Bertha chimed in, only half listening. She was already going over her endless list of things that had to get done during the day. It was a good thing that Junior
was home today, he could help out some. Bertha sighed internally, unheard as she always was. A sigh that was not a complaint but the smallest release before she braved the day ahead. Lately it seemed like her endless list kept growing, and she was certain they would have to hire help soon. But they couldn't afford help, really, so Bertha kept on ploughing through, trying her best not to focus on the ache in her back, her legs, her arms, her head. Her left shoulder was giving her particular trouble this morning and it took a whole new wave of self-discipline to ignore it.

  "Mama, can I go down to the creek this morning?" Ezra asked. Bertha tried to ignore the hopefulness in his voice. "I wanted to show Rose how to put down a line so that we could fish in the summer," he continued but Bertha had to interrupt him.

  "Not today, Ezra," again, she made an effort to keep her tone mild. "There are tonnes of potatoes in the barn that need sorting and your father has gone into town today, so you need to get started on that, first thing after breakfast."

  If Ezra felt any disappointment, he was careful not to show it to his mother. This was going to be his farm someday, after all, and as young as he was, he never resented the enormity of this responsibility.

  "Of course, Mama," was his only reply and he took his bowl over to the basin.

  But Rose didn't let up as easily. Perhaps it was because she was so pleasant all the time that people rarely said no to her. Perhaps it was because this day was always destined to be the day that changed everything. She had enough sense not to argue with her mother, who, even to her four-year-old self seemed increasingly tired these days. But she did follow Ezra into the barn and watched him with her dancing eyes as he surveyed the mountains of potatoes that had to be checked and sorted and divided and loaded into sacks and delivered. Unlike Bertha, Ezra's sigh was outward and audible.

  Rose took this as a sign.

  "Eswah," the smile still hadn't left her face from morning. "I can help you with the potatoes, you know. And then maybe we could go to the creek for just a little while."

  Ezra couldn't help it as his face broke into a grin. How did anyone say no to her? But he supposed no one ever had.

  Still, he tried to be stern. "Not just yet, Rosie. As a man, I must take responsibility for this farm. It is to be mine someday, you know." He was repeating the words his father had told him, when he had once asked if he could go swimming with the children from the neighbouring farm house instead of completing his chores. There was no one around to tell him that his somber words sounded comical coming out of an eight-year-old's mouth. There was only Rose who nodded equally as seriously and sat down on her little bench to help her brother start sorting.

  It wasn't physically challenging work, but sorting potatoes did challenge your wits, if you were to do it for long enough. The Orson farm paid great care to ensure their potatoes had gone through the best quality assurance checks, and the only way to do this on the Orson farm was for someone to check each potato, individually, for anomalies. After a while, every potato looked the same, felt the same, and Ezra had to shake himself awake from the trance he was slipping into. Still, he kept going, as the sun rose higher in the sky and the barn got increasingly hotter.

  He finally took a break as a trickle of sweat found its way into his eye.

  "Ouch," he complained to no one in particular as he pulled up his shirt to wipe his face and found that it too, was drenched.

  "You okay, Eswah?" Rose asked.

  Ezra sighed again. Louder this time.

  "Of course I am."

  "Sure you don't want to go down to the creek for just a few minutes?" she tried again, a little more hesitantly this time.

  Perhaps it was the heat. Perhaps it was because Ezra was an eight year old boy who, whatever he told himself, didn't want to spend his Saturday sorting potatoes, farm or no farm. Or perhaps it was because this day was meant to be the day that changed everything, that Ezra found himself shrug and stand up.

  "Okay, Rosie, let's go. But just for a little while okay. Just to show you how to hook a worm and throw out a line. Then we come right back, alright? Ma and Pa can never know."

  Rose couldn't contain her glee. "Oh Eswah! You're the bestest," she cried, clapping her hands and jumping up and down. The look on her face was enough for Ezra to push away any pangs of guilt.

  "Come on then, we need to be quiet." He took her hand and, checking that the matchbox with his fishing hook that he put into his pocket that morning was still there, led her out of the barn, through the small clearing where the chicken coop was, and down the narrow dirt road that led to his favourite fishing spot. The spring rains had been generous this year, a welcome gift of nature after the exceptionally harsh winter months, and the creek was swollen and heavy, a stubborn current swirling through as it gushed by. Ezra looked forward to when it would calm down in the summer and he would spend many a happy afternoon hoping for a catch. Last summer had been particularly good fishing season for Ezra, giving him his biggest catfish yet. Even his father congratulated him on it. That was when Ezra promised Rose that he would show her how to fish as well so that she too could please Pa.

  "It's so love-er-ly here," she exclaimed, and Ezra had to agree. This particular spot, Ezra's spot, as he liked to believe, was chosen after careful scouting and consideration. The trees that lined the river bank provided just enough shade without stifling out the sunlight and a large, flat rock that jutted out into the water served as a jetty from which Ezra would cast his lines, read, or lie in the sun.

  "You have to be careful here, Rosie," Ezra used his most authoritative big-brother voice. "The moss that grows on the side here makes it very slippery. You mustn't jump about here. You still can't swim, remember?"

  Rose nodded dutifully but replied with her usual smile. "Why would I need to learn Eswah? You'll save me, won't you?"

  Ezra just tugged on a pigtail.

  "Now this is a hook," he pulled out the rusty sliver of metal. "Be careful that you don't prick your finger on it, okay?"

  "So what do we put on the hook?" Rose asked, reaching for the wire that glinted faintly in the spring sunshine.

  "Whatever you like, really." Ezra hadn't really figured out the science of it but he had been experimenting with different scraps he took off the breakfast table, and writing down which brought in the best catch. But he hadn't pocketed anything today.

  "Looks like today we are going to have to dig up some worms."

  "Worms!" Rose squealed, scrunching up her nose.

  Ezra laughed. "Yes, worms. Now come on, I know a good spot."

  Giggling and squealing, Rose followed her brother's lead and they soon forgot the time, digging and flinging mud at each other until she finally stood proudly, holding a wiggling worm between her thumb and index finger.

  "Yuck, it's so slimy!"

  "Don't let it go, Rosie. See, you take the hook like this and put it through this end of the worm like so." Ezra showed her how he usually baited his line and then hurried back to the rock, to show her how to cast off.

  Rosie's giggling continued as he moved his arm back as far as it would go to throw out the hook so it would reach that special point which almost always guaranteed a bite.

  "Are you watching, Rosie? I need to make it to that point over there. The bit between that funny, round rock, and that fern that bends into the water. Okay? You count me off now. One... two..."

  But the splash that followed wasn't from the line. It was too loud. And the hook was still in Ezra's hand.

  "Rosie!" Ezra's scream was shrill and panicked. It wasn't a scream to which he hoped for a reply, simply a scream of despair. He scanned the water, a swirling mass of black and foam, searching for a sign of her. It felt like forever. Forever and he was frozen. Rooted to the river bank, his brain in too much fear to figure what he should do next.

  But then he saw it. The chubby pink arm flashed out of the water for just a second and that was all he needed. Taking a running leap off the rock, he lurched himself into the current. It was strong today,
far stronger than any of the times he had taken a swim in this very water but Ezra's will to save his sister was even stronger.

  His mind focused on only one thing, he kicked towards the area he spotted her. Lungs bursting, and legs like lead, he dove in deeper, opening his eyes amongst the murky tangle of weeds, hoping for another glimpse. Please, he pleaded, even though he wasn't sure with whom. Please, I just need one more glimpse.

  He had to come up for air. He tried his best to ignore it as he swung his arms through the water but his natural instinct finally took over and he kicked up. But he only allowed himself a mere second. Taking the deepest breath he could manage, he went right back down. And again. And again.

  "Rosie!" he screamed. Underwater this time. But just as panicked. He was getting lightheaded, his body was starting to give up on him. He mustn't, he couldn't...

  But then his arm found something. He thought it was another water reed at first, but then, no, realised, it was a pigtail. It was Rosie's pigtail.

  Tugging on it hard, he kicked up and pulled her to the bank. Rose was limp, her eyes closed. Ezra's heart was pounding, echoing the sound of the current he just left behind. But he knew what to do. He had seen one of the older boys do it just last summer.

  He put his hands on her little stomach and taking a deep breath, started to pump. It will be okay now, he told himself. Any moment now, she will cough up the stream water and be okay. She had to be okay.

  Pump. Pump. Pump. Still nothing. But Ezra knew there was something else he had seen. He put his mouth on top of hers and blew. Pump. Pump. Pump. Still nothing. He put his mouth to hers. Pump. Pump. Pump.

  Ezra didn't know how long this was supposed to take. He didn't know how long he had been doing it, or how long it took for him to find her, or how long Rose had been under water. But it finally struck him that something was wrong. He had been pumping, he had been blowing into her mouth but nothing was happening.