Annaka

year.
“I think that’s a normal feeling. And whatever you do I got your back. But—” Tia paused.
“But what?”
“I guess what I’m trying to say is, maybe don’t keep your expectations too high, y’know? I mean, has he ever tried to contact you while you were in Halifax?”
“No.”
He never did. Every Father’s Day in school I spent time making cards for Grampy. When we made the switch to Halifax I would mail them to him. So I know Tia was right. I shouldn’t hold someone who never put in the effort to introduce himself to a high standard.
My mind drifted back to the attic. I knew I couldn’t tell anyone what I had seen; they’d think I was out of my mind. I moved off the couch and saw the shoebox from the other night was still sitting on Tia’s table. I opened it up and pulled out my drawing. I saw all three of us again, and looked at Clay. Maybe I had just been seeing things that weren’t really there. In the drawing, Clay was holding onto the journal.
Something clicked in my brain.
“I think I’m going to get some sleep,” I told Tia.
“Wanna crash here?”
I shook my head. “I think I should stay close to home tonight.”
“That makes sense. Need a lift?”
“Nah. Thanks, though,” I said as I made my way to the door.
She followed me and gave me a big hug. “I’m always here for you, Anna.”
I was overwhelmed with guilt. I hadn’t always been there for her like she was here for me now. I wished I had kept in better touch with Tia after we left, but I couldn’t change the past. All I could do was attempt to be better in the present. She understood that when not many people did. Tia was a real one. I had to keep her close.
When I approached home, I saw the last few cars leaving. I kept my head down because I didn’t want to talk to Mom or Nan. I managed to skip past them by going in the back door and heading straight upstairs to the attic.
Everything was the same as the night before, full of dust and memories. I didn’t exactly know how to summon an imaginary friend—it’s not like there were any professionals on the subject. So I just spoke.
“Hey. I know what I seen last night. If you’re around, I’d like that journal back, please.”
There was no reply.
“You’re not going to make this easy for me, are you?” I took a few steps. “Listen, dude. Can we cut the bullshit? I’m sorry I left. Can we talk? It’s been a while.”
Still nothing.
“This is so stupid.” I put my face into my palms.
Maybe it had just been wishful thinking after all. Everything else was still in the same place, the photo albums, the blankets, and the trunk.
But the journal was still gone.
I went outside to get some fresh air. The cool ocean air felt nice, and it was so quiet out here. Then I noticed that the side door to the garage was open. I made my way inside.
Inside was Grampy’s big old red truck. I guessed Mom had parked it there so guests had more room to for their cars. God, I loved that truck, even if it was rusty and even if it was old. I climbed up the passenger side and blew a thin layer of dust away from the dashboard. I lay back in the seat to look around the garage. It was beat down, not well kept, and it made me sad. Clay and I would play hide-and-seek in the garage when we were young. I remember getting in trouble one time when Nan found me in here alone, because she thought I was making a mess. Maybe we were, but she never found Clay. He was always the better hider—me, I was always the seeker.
I got out the truck and looked around a bit more. I could see Grampy’s toolbox on the floor. Behind it was a box of books. I searched it and found a bunch of old muscle car magazines, which made me giggle. Grampy was never much of a car guy, and I always made fun of him for having these magazines. There were also some textbooks in there that he used to teach his English class at Yarmouth High. I kept moving the books until I came across it again: the journal.
“There you are.” I smiled.
I felt the cover—so soft. I opened it for the second time in ten years and saw the drawings of me, Grampy, Nan, Mom. I continued flipping through the journal until I came across Clay again. I found a drawing of him and I standing outside of our tree house holding hands. I looked at the journal’s damaged spine again, and this time I noticed pages were missing from the back. It was definitely already worn out by the time Grampy had given it to me, but I’m sure time hadn’t helped the thing either.
I hopped up in the bed of Grampy’s truck and scanned more pages. There was a drawing of the lake iced over in the winter, and I was skating across it, holding hands with Clay. It made me smile. I guess some of Mom’s talent did rub off on me. I didn’t end up the worst illustrator in the world, that’s for sure.
“Where did he go?” I wondered out loud.
I found a drawing of Nan braiding my hair on the front steps while Mom painted on a canvas. I chuckled. I loved having my hair in braids. There was a drawing of Grampy and I sitting in his truck. We had gone on so many adventures, all of them better than the last. Maybe that drawing represented the last one we went on. I closed the journal and tried not think about it.
But I couldn’t stop thinking about the funeral. When I had touched Grampy’s urn, that’s when everything became real. That’s when