The Clay Lion by Amalie Jahn Page A

on
maternity leave and I was placed with a substitute, Henry Brackswell . 
He seemed only slightly older than I was, perhaps in his mid-twenties, and he
was far more pleasant than Gina had been.  I had no idea how the
government was able to keep track of data from trips that had been taken,
especially in the event that a timeline had been altered as mine had been, but
my original file was lying on his desk when we arrived.  Although not a
single soul other than I had memories of what initially transpired before my
trip, the government was somehow able to keep track of multiple
realities.  It made my brain hurt to think about it. 
    Mr. Brackswell took my
new file, which included the documentation from Dr. Richmond, from my hand as I
sat down.  He looked at me with a mixture of pity and genuine concern.
    “It says here that your doctor would like you to
return to the final months of your brother’s life in order to complete your
therapy.  Is this correct?”
    “Yes,” I answered solemnly.
    “I see.  Well, this is highly unusual, but
there are documented cases of the government allowing use of a second trip for
such an occasion, so I will pass your case along to finalization.  Because
you have already successfully completed the preparation program, you will not
be required to attend again, but you will have to fill out the final paperwork
a second time.”  He looked up from his computer screen and met my
gaze.  “Do you have any questions?” he asked.
    “How soon can I leave?”
     
     
     
     
     
     
     

 
    T RIP T WO
     
     
     
     
    C HAPTER S IXTEEN
     
     
     
     
    Much like the first time, the actual travel
between timelines was quite simple.  The only item to join me on my voyage
was the clay lion, smuggled in the depths of my pocket.
    I chose to return after the “cream transfer” but
before the “ball on the roof incident,” as I would come to call them.  It
was the first Wednesday of December and the house was quiet.  I had just
gotten home from school and Branson was apparently occupied at the store. 
Mother and Father were still at work.  I had the house to myself.
    I had spent just eight weeks living in the
present, in a world where Branson no longer existed.  It felt strangely
comforting to be back in the past where life felt normal and as it should
be.  At least for the moment.   I found
myself wandering around the empty house, finally making my way quite
unexpectedly into Branson’s room.
    I had rarely been in his room without him being
there over the years.  It was not because I was unwelcome, and although
there had never been any secrets between us, it just always felt as though it
was an invasion of his privacy.  I had helped my mother clean his closet
one year while he was at Boy Scout camp for a week.  I had retrieved
things from his room repeatedly when he had broken his foot in seventh grade
and was cloistered in the family room for three weeks.  I had never been
particularly curious about what his room was like without him, so I had avoided
going in there. But today, knowing what I knew about our futures, I ventured
inside.  In many ways, he was already a ghost to me.
    The blinds were still drawn from the night before
and my eyes took time to adjust to the darkness.  Bed linens lay strewn
across his mattress and there were several piles of clothes, both clean and
dirty, on the floor.  I was immediately overcome by Branson's familiar
smell.  From the time he was small, whenever he would play hard and get
sweaty as a boy, Mother would tease that he smelled like a little, wet
dog.  It was that musty sweetness that seemed so powerful to me after
being away from it for so long. 
    I moved around the bed and sat at his desk. 
There were five books, all half read, along with his sketchpad.  I opened
the cover and was taken aback by the eyes of the beautiful girl staring back at
me.  It was Jill Overstreet, a girl Branson befriended in Sunday school
when he was only