Edify Write

Last week, I gave you a sneak peek of my short story, and it’s finally ready for you to read! It has two parts, and I will post Part 2 next Wednesday. Be sure to subscribe so that you don’t miss it. Without further ado, I hope you enjoy this original short story, “The Boy Who Found Time.”

No one could say how long he had been there. To him, half the day had gone by; to the anxious people who left him there, it had been an hour; according to the clock, it had been two and a half hours, and according to the situation, it had been too long. 

Taking quick shallow breaths, Timothy scanned the entire room for the seventh time.  

An old grandfather clock stood to the left of the stained sofa. A curio cabinet sat beneath the clock’s face, and Timothy thought about climbing inside it. It looked snug, inviting, and peaceful. However, it belonged to his grandmother, so he didn’t touch it.   

A small window across from the sofa let light into the room, revealing the dust on the furniture. A vase of wilting red roses sat on the window sill. 

A cluster of roses was carved on the clock’s crown. Those roses were large and healthy, protected by the hard oak in which they were engraved.  

Timothy was sitting on the stained sofa. His legs hung limply off it, not long enough to touch the carpet floor. He gripped something in his hand and kept fidgeting back and forth, aching to leave the musty room and go into the fresh air outside. The sun from the window grew warmer as time passed, and Timothy’s hands were getting clammy. 

Bending his head, he looked at the object in his hand. It was a shiny conch shell barely small enough to fit in his palm. An elaborate dark brown pattern surrounded it as if someone had taken a paintbrush and etched the designs himself.  

Timothy put the seashell to his ear and listened to the rush of waves. He closed his eyes and wondered how a small shell could preserve the entire ocean. Although powerful, the echo inside it was soothing, and Timothy started to wish he was near the sea rather than suffocating in his grandmother’s tiny living room.  

 Gentle footsteps broke through the sound of the ocean waves, and Timothy lowered his hand from his ear and jerked his head up to see his mother standing at the room’s entrance. Sliding off the sofa, he ran into her arms, where he knew he was always safe.  

“Alright, baby,” his mother murmured as she held him close.  

“Can we go home now?” Timothy asked, looking into his mother’s brown eyes. He thought they seemed redder than usual.  

His mother didn’t answer. Instead, she looked over her shoulder where Timothy’s grandmother stood. They exchanged meaningful glances that Timothy could not interpret. 

“Mommy?”  

“Yes, sweetheart,” his mother turned to look at him again. “Let’s go home. We can make you some lunch.”  

Smiling, Timothy took hold of his mother’s soft hand and pulled her out of the room, ignoring his grandmother’s demeaning look.  

Timothy’s mother stopped when they reached the front door and hugged Timothy’s grandmother. She whispered something in her ear, but Timothy couldn’t hear what she said. Then, Timothy’s mother stepped back.  

“Give Grandma a hug, Timmy,” she told him, giving him a gentle push forward.  

Timothy obeyed reluctantly and wrapped his arms around his grandmother’s plump waist. He didn’t like the feeling of her rough skin; it was as wrinkly as the wilting rose petals in the sitting room.  

“Be good for your mother, Timothy,” his grandmother ordered. “She already has enough to worry about.”  

Timothy gave a feeble reply and let go of his grandmother. He let out a thankful breath when he stepped away from the old lady.  

With that, Timothy’s mother opened the door, and she and Timothy walked out of the house to their car.  

“I’m hungry,” Timothy complained holding his stomach as he climbed in the car. His eyes were getting watery, and he felt like something was in his legs trying to escape.  

“We’ll be home in a few minutes,” his mother’s voice answered. She sounded distant, as if her soul was off in another land.  

When they got home, Timothy ate lunch and went outside to play. He ran around the yard and pretended like he was a flying superhero. The thing that had been trying to escape his legs had left, and he felt happier now that his stomach was full. When his mother called him back inside, hot tears filled his eyes.  

“Do I have to?” he whined, red-faced from running in the sun.  

“Yes, right now,” his mother insisted.  

After several more minutes of protesting, Timothy found that his mother wouldn’t give in, so he followed her back into the house.  

“Come sit down in the living room for a minute. I want to talk to you,” his mother instructed.  

Timothy followed her into their brightly lit living room without saying anything. He sat on the couch next to her and looked at his lap.  

“Timothy,” his mother touched his knee. 

“Am I in trouble?” Timothy asked, looking up at her. 

His mother gave a reassuring smile and shook her head. “No, baby. There’s just something I need to tell you,” she told him.  

Then she paused for a long time, and Timothy began to wonder if she forgot what she was going to say. He noticed her body trembling slightly, and something was filling her eyes. His eyes then wandered around the room. 

The windows were open, and the wind from outside was rustling the floral curtains, making the curtain brackets rattle. The sound reminded Timothy of his toy drum set, and he thought about playing with it after his mother talked with him.  

“Sweetheart,” his mother finally spoke, “you know I’ve been very sick. I explained to you that I have cancer, and that’s why I need to go to the doctor a lot.”  

Timothy nodded, remembering when his mother first explained to him what cancer was. He knew it was a sickness that made her tired most of the time so that she couldn’t play with him. It was why she couldn’t pick him up and why she didn’t sing as loudly anymore.  

A strong wind from outside made the curtain brackets shake even more.  

“Have the doctors stopped it yet?” Timothy asked, kicking his legs back and forth in sequence with the rattling curtains.  

His mother trembled again and shook her head. “The doctors have been trying for many years to help me get better, but there’s nothing they can do anymore to fight it.”  

She took hold of Timothy’s hands and stared into his eyes. Timothy stared back at her and began wiggling his fingers in her hands, wondering why she looked so sad.  Something slid from his mother’s eye, and Timothy realized it was a tear.  

“Timothy, this means that I won’t be here for long. You see, the sickness has spread to other parts of my body. It’s not just in my lungs anymore, and my body–” his mother’s voice faltered, “my body has been fighting this cancer for so long. It’s worn out, and it can’t fight anymore. Honey, this means I don’t have much longer to live.” 

Timothy’s restless fingers stopped moving. The wind outside seemed to stop too, and the only sound in the room was his mother’s shallow breathing. Timothy looked blankly at her and then noticed that more tears were sliding down her pale face. Timothy didn’t want to see his mother this way, so he bent down and buried his face in her lap.  

His mother kissed his head and weaved her fingers through his brown hair. “I promise that when I’m gone, you’ll be safe. I’ll make sure everything is ready, and Grandma will take care of you,” she whispered. Her voice was even more raspy than usual.  

“Where will you go?” Timothy questioned, his voice muffled against his mother’s clothes.  

There was another long pause, but it was filled with weeping instead of silence. Then, Timothy felt his mother’s chest rise and fall, and she spoke again.  

“I’ll be in Heaven,” she said simply. There was a quiet in the words she said as if she found comfort in them.  

Timothy didn’t quite understand what they meant, but if his mother found rest in those words, so would he. Wanting to comfort his mother even more, he lifted his head and wrapped his arms around her shoulders. She kissed his cheek and folded him in her embrace.  

When she let him go, Timothy slid off the couch and went into his bedroom without saying a word. He walked over to his toy drum set but didn’t feel like playing anymore. Instead, he knelt on the floor and stared at the blue rug. He felt empty for some reason, but at the same time, something strange sat inside him, ready to explode. 

Reaching under his bed, Timothy grabbed the conch shell and put it to his ear, finding comfort in the consistent sound of waves.  

* * * *  

“Sweetheart, climb down. It’s time for dinner,” his mother called him three days later.  

Keeping his head turned towards the tree branch, Timothy didn’t answer.  

“Right now, Timothy.” 

Timothy shook his head. He felt angry and didn’t want to talk to anyone.  

“If you don’t obey, there will be consequences,” his mother’s voice grew sterner.  

“No,” Timothy pouted.  

He could hear his mother let out an exasperated breath, and turning his head slightly, he peeked at her. She stood below the tree with one of her hands on her hip and the other rubbing her eyes in defeat. 

“Timothy, please, what’s going on?” she asked.  

Timothy turned his head towards the tree again and didn’t answer.  

“We can have some ice cream for dessert after dinner if you come down.”  

After looking at her to make sure she meant it, Timothy obeyed. When his feet touched the solid ground, his mother took hold of both his hands.  

“Sweetheart, what’s the matter?” she asked, searching his eyes.  

“Grandma’s house is scary,” Timothy said, getting ready to cry.  

“Oh, baby, why do you feel like that?”  

“Grandma’s mean, and there’s no toys there. It’s dark.” 

“But that’s why we’re going over there after dinner. We’re going to bring some toys and make it a happy place, okay?” his mother tried to reassure him.  

Timothy thought about this for a moment and wanting to please his mother, nodded his head.  

His mother smiled, took hold of Timothy’s hand, and led him inside for supper. 

When they finished eating, Timothy’s mother went into his bedroom to get some of his favorite toys.  

“We can put them in this box,” she told him, picking up his stuffed lion and putting it in a cardboard box.  

Following her lead, Timothy picked up his toy cars and threw them in the box. Then he bent down, reached under his bed, and grabbed his seashell.  

“You can carry that in your pocket,” his mother told him when she saw him pick it up. 

Timothy nodded, but before he put it in his pocket, he put it to his mother’s ear, wanting her to enjoy the ocean waves.   

“When can we go back there? I want to look for some more shells with you,” Timothy inquired. 

For some reason, his mother’s eyes began getting red and watery. “I don’t know, baby. The ocean is really far away,” she told him.  

“But we went there before.” 

“I know, but honey, I’m sicker now.”  

The arm holding the conch shell went limp, and Timothy looked at the floor in disappointment. When he looked up, he noticed his mother was wiping her eyes.   

“Why do people’s eyes leak?” he asked.  

His mother took a deep breath and thought for a minute. “Do you remember that time I let you pour milk into your glass?” she wiped another tear that had escaped from her eye. “You poured too much, and it overflowed. The glass was too small to hold all the liquid, but the milk still had to go somewhere.” 

Timothy nodded, remembering the incident.  

“Well, sometimes people overflow. Sometimes there’s just too much emotion for us to handle, so tears are a way of letting that emotion spill out and lessen.” 

“Does it make you feel better?” 

Timothy’s mother nodded. “Sometimes.” 

They finished putting the toys inside the box and went to the car. Fifteen minutes later, Timothy stood beside his mother in his grandmother’s spare bedroom.  

It was even drearier than his grandmother’s living room. A twin bed with white sheets lay in the corner of the room, and a small window sat across from it. Brown curtains kept light from sneaking in through the window.  

“It’s a little empty now, but once the rest of your toys are moved in, it will feel just like home,” Timothy’s mother said and gave his hand a comforting squeeze.  

Timothy looked up at her. “Why do I have to live here and not in our house?”  

His mother bent down so that Timothy could look into her eyes without looking up. “Honey, do you remember what I explained to you?” she said, and once again her eyes were filling with tears. “I’m going to die soon, and that means I won’t be here on this Earth anymore. When I’m gone, you’ll need someone to take care of you, so you’ll live with Grandma.” 

Timothy turned his head and stared at his grandmother, who stood in the doorway of the bedroom scowling at him.  

“For how long?” he asked.  

“Until you’re old enough to live on your own.” 

“But when will you come back?”  

Timothy’s mother didn’t answer. She lowered her head and looked at the ground. A cry escaped her mouth, and it made Timothy feel like crying, too. His eyes remained dry, however, and he stared at his mother’s bald head. He had never seen her this helpless, and he wanted everything to stop. 

“Don’t you understand? When your mother dies, she isn’t coming back. When she’s gone, she’ll be gone forever. You’ll never see her again after that.”  

His grandmother’s cold voice rang like a siren. Timothy jolted his head at her and froze. He wanted to run, but he couldn’t move his legs. He wanted to seep through the floor, but it remained hard. He wanted to scream, but even that was too much to ask, so he wept. 

Timothy fell into his mother’s arms and hugged her. He held her tight and shut his eyes, listening to her wail. She was his safe place, and her entire body shook.  

“Baby,” he heard his mother’s voice say. 

If she said something more, Timothy didn’t hear it. The words his grandmother had said to him pushed everything out of his mind. He couldn’t retain any more broken sentences. Everything meant nothing now.