During my first meeting with the Wicked Wordsmiths, we did a quick writing prompt. We drew out a slip of paper and once everyone had their prompts, we got 2 minutes to brainstorm and 10 minutes to write a scene related to the prompt. How much can you write in 10 minutes? Not much; at least I can't. Can you formulate a story in 10 minutes? Yes. You definitely can.
I pulled out my slip and read the first line: "Aw!" Such a cute idea. Then I read the second line. "Oh..."
You are a kid's imaginary friend.
He's growing up. You're fading away.
Looking Back
I sat on the balcony looking up at the stars, recalling my first memory which had started the same way. I thought it was strange that I didn't have any memories up until that point, but my own thoughts were pushed aside that night seven years ago when I heard the quiet whimper of a child in the room behind me and I slipped through the open door into the room.
Huddled in a corner of the closet was a little boy and his diminutive frame shook with his sobs as he gripped his legs tightly to his chest, keeping his head down to muffle the weeping. Worried I would frighten him, seeing as he likely didn't expect a random woman to be in his room, I spoke softly and kept my distance from him. "Hey, now; don't be upset, sweetie. What's wrong?"
Without raising his head, he choked out a response between whines and I barely caught the explanation. It took some time for my mind to register exactly what he had said and when it did, my heart ached for him. His mother had died. I reached out to gently pat him in comfort, but found that my hand passed through his shoulder. Despite this bizarre occurrence, he must have felt me somehow and looked up curiously. It was strange that he seemed unperturbed by my presence and rather than scream for help he wiped his freckled cheeks and studied me for a long time. "Did you climb in my window?"
"I'm not sure; I don't remember how I got here." He reached out his wet hand to touch my own and, just as mine had done; it passed through my hand and leg to the floor. "Maybe you're a ghost."
"I suppose that's a possibility. I admit that would be a bit disappointing." He rubbed his eyes and blinked a few times before crawling from the closet and scrutinizing my appearance. "You look sort of like the lady from TV; the news lady."
I looked for a mirror and climbed to my feet, examining my reflection in the glass. I certainly looked professional in dress, but I didn't recall anything about being a news anchor. I looked down at the reflection of the boy beside me and smiled when I saw that his tears had stopped their flow and was relieved that I could ease his pain at least for a moment.
This was how my relationship with the Hawthorns began. Through process of elimination, and the insistence of his father, we rationalized that I was Colin's imaginary friend. The news anchor was very much alive and, in my opinion, not as close in resemblance to me as he thought, but to the mind of a young boy I suppose I could see his reasoning for the similarities. When we had determined my actual status, I found myself suddenly depressed to know that I wasn't real, but Colin had given me a name, Kara, and a purpose. As if I had become somewhat of a surrogate mother, I sometimes treated him like my child but he was also my best friend.
As he grew up, though, he stopped talking about me to others, but his father could tell by his actions that I was still hanging around. I would catch him casting glances in my direction as if I were there, especially when he was giving the boy a lecture as if I could chime in and back him up. Occasionally I would and Colin would look at me in disbelief and speak aloud despite himself, "You're taking his side?"
I couldn't help myself; I was an adult and understood his father's logic. It wasn't my fault that he had imagined a mature motherly figure for his fictional accomplice. While his father, Trent, didn't necessarily find my presence in his house very appealing, likely concerned for his son's sanity, I would catch him smirk in my direction when his son revealed that I had agreed with his reasoning and I would often smile back while Colin was busy sulking. Trent was an excellent father despite the burden of doing the job alone and he was quite handsome for a man who chose to remain a single widower. If I were real, I sometimes thought, I would ask Trent to dinner. Of course I would never inform his son of this tidbit.
Thinking back on the years from my perch on the balcony seven years later, I smile at the memories we have shared. But I wonder how long this will continue and what will happen to me in the coming years. I have thought about this before, but after the events of the evening, I think my concerns are more valid. Colin had been startled by my presence in the living room as we sat in front of the television and he asked when I had arrived. ‘Just now’ was my answer; it was a lie.
I had been there from the moment he entered the room, but he had been playing the video game before him for nearly an hour before he noticed me. This has been happening a lot lately, especially since he started bringing a girl around. I didn't mind her and thought she was a good fit for him; she was a sweet girl who seemed honest and loyal, but since Olive came into Colin's life, I had become a smaller part of it.
Until I was no longer a part of it at all.
Why I Am Here
I’m standing in the kitchen, peering out the window at the young couple by the pool and suddenly Trent appeared beside me to peek out the window as well. He had startled me with his stealthy approach, but the real surprise was watching him open his mouth to speak. “Are you still here?” I look around and there is no one else in the room so I hesitantly respond with a 'yes' that sounds more like a question than an answer. Of course he can’t hear me, but he turns his back to the window and leans against the counter with the mug in his hand as he surveys the room. Is he looking for me?
“He hasn't talked about you lately, but I wonder if you are actually still here.” He sits down the mug and lets out a chuckle as he shakes his head; I suppose he feels a bit foolish talking to the air, but he’s apparently determined to say something now that we’re alone.
“I don’t know if you were, or are, just an imaginary friend, or maybe,” the smile fades suddenly and I watch his knuckles turn white as a result of his grip on the counter’s edge tightening. “Maybe you’re Leah.”
Leah. No, I’m not your wife. Do you wish I was? My chest hurts; I’ve never felt pain like this and I’m not sure what to do. He’s not saying anything else, just pouring out his coffee and leaving the mug to soak. Should I leave? Yes, I should leave; he obviously needs a moment and I can’t respond to him in any way that he will see.
“Even if you aren't, I think we did a good job. He’s turned out okay.” I turn back to him and he’s still looking down into the sink. I wish I could do something; send him some kind of message to let him know I’m listening.
“You've done a great job Trent! You are an amazing father and he is a wonderful kid!” I shout the words and he still can't hear me, but he’s at least turning around and trying to smile. “You made it easier, so, thank you. I won’t forget what you've done for us.”
This is the answer I’ve been looking for; the reason I’m still here. His son has forgotten me, but Trent hasn't. I’m not Colin’s imaginary friend anymore; I’m his father’s. He can't see or hear me, but he’s keeping me here and I don't care if he thinks I’m his wife or some silly figment of his child’s imagination. I’ve helped him and even if I fade away, I will disappear knowing that I have been a part of their family.
Final Night
The living room is dark and the lights are out on the Christmas tree. How long have I been standing here and why haven’t I brightened the room? It’s as if I walked into the room and forgot what I came in here for, but it’s much more serious than that. No, this room has been dark for two nights now. I don’t know why I haven’t bothered to fix that and I’m not sure where everyone is. Everyone?
There are two stockings above the fireplace, but I don’t know who the other belongs to. I sit on the sofa and stare into the cold logs and debate building a fire, but I don’t know if I have ever tried. Someone must have lit it for me before, but I don’t remember who. Where are they? It’s getting cold and I’m so tired; I don’t remember ever feeling this tired. Lying down, I stare up at the dark ceiling light and listen to the ticking of the clock. I’m sure they’ll be back soon; I’ll just close my eyes for a bit and they can wake me when they get here.
~~~
It was late when Colin staggered up to the front door, weighed down by his awkwardly large cargo. After fighting to get the keys from his pocket, he fumbled with the knob until it finally turned and he could push into the dark living room with the box of opened presents. “Did you leave the heat on? It’s like an oven in here?” He didn't wait for a reply as he hustled toward his room to set down the heavy box of gifts from the family and Trent trailed into the house behind him, kicking the door closed as soon as he had cleared the threshold.
The man sat down the bags he carried before halting his movements and looking around the room. Something was missing. He inspected the area carefully and nothing appeared to be absent or moved, but there was definitely something wrong. He leaned on the back of the sofa and thought as he rubbed his chest which ached with a discomfort he hadn't felt for a long time. When Colin returned he looked at his father with concern, “Dad, what’s wrong? Does your chest hurt?” Trent didn't reply right away and his son grabbed his arm, “Should I take you to the hospital?”
The man sat down the bags he carried before halting his movements and looking around the room. Something was missing. He inspected the area carefully and nothing appeared to be absent or moved, but there was definitely something wrong. He leaned on the back of the sofa and thought as he rubbed his chest which ached with a discomfort he hadn't felt for a long time. When Colin returned he looked at his father with concern, “Dad, what’s wrong? Does your chest hurt?” Trent didn't reply right away and his son grabbed his arm, “Should I take you to the hospital?”
“No, no, it’s not that.” He waved his hand to dismiss his son’s concerns, but in reality the pain was, to him, more serious than a heart attack. There was something distressing about the home; something off. He looked down at the couch and felt as if there should be something there, but if there had been it was gone.
“I think we've forgotten something very important.” Colin couldn't help him because he had forgotten long ago, but Trent felt the loss even though he couldn't think of its cause. It was just the two of them in the house. There was definitely someone missing.
