The Clay Lion (5 page)

I could barely concentrate on my calculus test
knowing Dr. White was prescribing the potentially toxic medication as I was
completing my final computation.  It seemed absurd to me that I should
have to retake every test and rewrite every essay, but there was always the
chance that I would save Branson’s life, and maybe, just maybe, college would
again be in my future.

As the bell rang, I threw my exam on the
teacher’s desk as I sprinted out of the classroom.  Instead of heading to
my next class, I made my way clear to the other side of the building in the
hopes of catching Branson coming into school.  I stopped in the office and
quickly scanned the attendance sheet.  My mother had signed him in only
fifteen minutes before.  Branson would be heading to Spanish class. 
I took off in that direction, without regard to my own tardiness.  The
late bell rang well before I made it to the foreign language hallway.  The
classroom doors were all closed and I peered through the window into Branson’s
class.  He was there, seated in the back, leg wrapped and propped on a
spare chair.  I tapped gently on the door.  Mr. Hernandez waved me
in.

“Can I help you Senorita?” he asked.

“Um, well, yes sir, I was wondering if I could
speak to Branson for a
minute?
”

Branson gave me a quizzical look and struggled to
get up out of his chair.  I hurried in to kneel down beside him so he did
not have to get up.

 “I was just wondering what the doctor said
about your leg,” I whispered to him.

“Are you kidding me, Sis?” he laughed. 
“It’s just a rash from my shin guards.  He gave me a prescription for some
cream and wrapped it up so it doesn’t get all dirty.  What’s gotten into
you?  You act like I’m dying!” 

I blanched at his comment.  If I was acting
as if he was dying, it was only because he was.  I knew I would have never
in a million years have reacted so extremely the first time.  I did not
remember even acknowledging his rash, except perhaps to tease him that he was
itchy due to a lack of good hygiene.  I had to admit that I was acting
weird.  I tried to backpedal.

“It’s just, I uh, was wondering if he said if you
can play Thursday or not,” I stumbled.

“I can play.  He said the meds should work
fast.  Mom’s filling the prescription now and I can put it on when I get
home.  Now go to class spaz,” he joked.

“Okay.  Yeah.  Bye,” I said.

I backed down the aisle, tripping over three
backpacks along the way.  I thanked Mr. Hernandez, apologized for
interrupting his class, and quickly left, closing the door quietly behind me.

I was on my way to the office for a tardy slip
when I changed my mind.  The only way I was going to get my hands on that
cream before Branson was to get home before he did and somehow get it from mom
between the time she got home from work and Branson got home from school. 
In the meantime, I needed to find a suitable replacement to have for Branson in
place of the methotrexate sodium.  I admonished myself for not having
lined it up in advance.  I could have easily had the replacement cream
waiting if I had had the forethought to plan ahead.

I knew Branson would go to soccer after school
even though he would not be able to play.  I had never known him to miss a
practice, regardless of his situation.  I snuck out the back door of the
building and made it to my car without being seen by any school
personnel.  On my way to the store, I considered that, without the correct
cream, there was the possibility that the rash would continue to fester and
that Branson might be out for the rest of the season.  It would devastate
him.  I pushed the thought to the back of my mind.  Sitting out the
last three weeks of the season was a small price to pay for his life.

At the pharmacy, I was shocked and impressed by
the vast selection of creams from which I had to choose.  I pulled out my
tablet and researched which over-the-counter cream might be the best choice for
actually helping to clear up whatever it was on Branson’s leg.  As long as
I was taking away the cream that would heal the rash, I wanted to replace it
with one that might at least help to clear it up.

After looking at dozens of pictures associated
with various skin creams, I decided to purchase a lotion used for the treatment
of psoriasis, as it most closely resembled the rash on Branson’ leg.  I
picked up three tubes and paid the pharmacist.

“Howdy, Brooke,” he said.  “Just saw your
mom in here about an hour ago.  Must be some rash Branson has that she
sent you back out for this too!”

I thought quickly and replied, “Oh, no sir, this
is for me.  I have a small patch of something on my back.  I’m sure
this will do the trick!”

“Your
mom know
about
that?” he asked.

“No sir.  It’s really no big deal, but thank
you,” I said, as I grabbed the bag of creams and headed for the door.

“Take care,” he called after me.

I hurried home, music blaring as I pulled into
the driveway.  I immediately turned down the volume when I realized my
mother’s car was parked in the garage.  I was unaware that she had planned
to take the entire day off from work instead of just the few hours for
Branson’s appointment.  I was not due home from school for at least
another hour.  She would be suspicious about why I was home already, so I
immediately starting devising a plausible explanation.  After my little
white lie to the pharmacist, I figured I was on a roll.  I smiled to
myself as I considered that time travel was going to cause me to become a
pathological liar.

I pinched my cheeks a few times to bring out the
flush and patted some water from my water bottle on my face.  Sure enough,
my mother was happily reading at the kitchen table as I came through the door.

She turned as I walked in, and then glanced at
the clock on the stove. 

“Why are you home so early?  Is everything
okay?” she asked, her voice full of genuine concern.  It broke my heart to
have to lie to her, but I had to remain silent about my mission at all costs.

“Ugh, Mom, I just feel lousy.  Maybe I’m
coming down with something.  I’m clammy and I have a horrible
headache.  I think I’m just going to go upstairs and lay down for a
while.”

“School didn’t call to tell me you were coming
home.”

“Yeah, I didn’t bother to go to the nurse. 
I felt so bad after calculus that I just left.  Please don’t be mad at me,
I just didn’t feel like dealing with ‘Nurse
Ratched
.’”

“Okay, honey, well go lay down.  Do you
think you are going to want dinner?”

“Maybe.
 
I’ll let you know.  Also, how was Branson’s appointment?”  I asked,
fishing for information.

“He thinks the rash is from his shin
guards.  I bought him some new ones.  Dr. White prescribed some cream
and said it should feel better in a few days,” she responded.  She
subconsciously glanced over at her purse, signaling the location of the
cream.  Getting it from her was not going to be easy.

I headed upstairs.  I had almost three hours
before Branson would get home.  Somehow it did not seem like nearly enough
time to divert my mother’s attention away from her purse long enough for me to
swipe the cream, peel the label off, place it onto the psoriasis cream and
return it without being noticed.

I threw my backpack on the bed and sat at my
desk.  I had spent so many hours of my life sitting at that desk, staring
out the window into the forest.  I watched as a squirrel buried a nut in
the yard.  I wondered if he ever found them again.  I scolded myself
for thinking about the wildlife instead of my mother when I saw her cross the
yard and walk up the driveway.  She was heading to the top of the hill to
the mailbox. 

I dumped the contents of my backpack on the floor
and found the pharmacy bag filled with the cream.  Taking one of them out
of its box, I raced down the steps two at a time, nearly squashing the cat
sleeping at the foot of the stairs.  Once in the kitchen, I carefully
searched the contents of my mother’s purse.  Luckily, the tube of lotion
was in the first pocket I inspected.  I took a second to look out the
window and check on my mother’s location.  She was still heading up the
hill, away from the house.

I took the box out of the plastic bag only to
find that the pharmacist had placed the prescription label on the box, not the
actual tube of cream.  I meticulously peeled back the corner of the
label.  Slowly, slowly, I inched the label off the box, being ever so
careful as to not rip either the box or the label in the process.  After
what felt like an eternity, I was able to remove the entire label from the
tube.  I took another glance out the window to see Mother returning,
slowly, flipping through the mail as she walked back down the driveway. 
The label was slightly large for the replacement tube of cream that I
purchased, but it would have to do.  I wrapped the label around the
psoriasis cream tube and placed it back in the box.  I put the
prescription tube in my pocket and shoved the rest back into the purse just as
I heard Mother’s footsteps on the porch.  Quickly, I moved over to the
sink and began pouring myself a glass of water.  She opened the door.

“You okay?” she asked.

My heart was racing.  My mouth was
dry.  I felt like my legs were going to give out at any moment.  I
had done it.

“Yup.
 
Just getting a drink of water,” I replied shakily.

“Oh, you really don’t sound good.  Get on
upstairs and lay down.  You want me to make some tea?” she asked.

I looked at my mom. 
My
caring, beautiful mother.
  I believe in you, she had said. 
She believed in me.  I could not let her down.  And in my mother’s
world, a warm cup of tea could cure anything.

“Sure Mom, I’d love that,” I said.

I headed back upstairs with the tube of
methotrexate sodium heavy in my pocket.  Once I was in my room, I shoved
it in the bottom section of my backpack to dispose of later.  I could not
risk getting rid of it at the house.  I
laid
down
on my bed, sitting up against the headboard.  I had gotten rid of the
suspicious medication.  I only hoped that the cream that Branson would be
using instead would help enough that he would not need a refill.  Now that
I had taken care of
phase
one, I needed to prepare for
phase two.

Branson worked at the Cooper’s Hardware Store
several times a year when the owners needed extra help.  In the spring,
during the planting rush, he would work for three or four weeks.  He
worked the entire summer.  Finally, he always helped out during the month
of December for the holiday shopping season.  The roof had been replaced
during the December shift in the year Branson got sick.  Somehow, I needed
to convince Branson that he could not go to work at the store. 
Or at all.
 
Or something.

I was pondering my options when Mom showed up at
the door with my tea.

“Feeling any better?” she asked.

“Actually, yes.
  I took some medicine and my headache is
much better.  What’s for dinner?”

“Eggplant parmesan, Dad’s favorite.”

“Can I help?”

“Not tonight.  Stay up here and rest until
the boys get home.  Call me if you need anything.”  And with that she
was heading back down the steps.

Hours later, I still did not have a single good
idea for operation “Avoid the Hardware Store” when Branson showed up in my
doorway.

“Are you quarantined, Sis?” he asked with a
smile.

I turned around to look at him.  He was
filthy.  He had played on his leg after all.  His backpack was thrown
over his shoulder, his smelly duffle bag was in one hand and the tube of cream
was in the other.  I had to force myself to look away from the cream.

“I’m fine.  Got a bad headache and came
home.  I’m feeling better now though.  How’s your leg?”

“A little sore but I can’t
wuss
out with the championship on the line, right?”

“Right,” I said.  That was my brother in a
nutshell.  Don’t
wuss
out.  I thought of
him battling for his life.  It was a battle he had lost, but certainly not
because he had
wussed
out.

“I’m
gonna
go clean
up.  Eggplant parmesan for dinner…
barf
,” he said
pretending to put his fingers down his throat.  “And oh yeah, Chad and I
wanted to go see that new horror movie that comes out Friday night.  Will
you drive us?  You can bring Sarah if you want to see it too.”

“Sure.  I can drive you,” I replied. 
“I’ll ask Sarah, but maybe we’ll just go to the mall instead.” 

“Thanks Sis,” he said as he hurried down the
hall.

After dinner, Branson and I sat together in my
room doing our homework together, as we had done hundreds of times
before.  He was stretched out lengthwise on the bed and I was seated at my
desk.  We were listening to a new playlist on his tablet and Branson could
not help but sing along.  The simple act of doing homework together was
one of the many things I missed since he had died. 
Just
the presence of him.
  There was something comforting about having
him in the room with me.  I decided there was no time like the present to
bring up his plans for the hardware store since December was only days
away.  It was always risky to broach a new topic since the current
timeline was certainly no longer a perfect match for the one I previously lived,
but I decided the conversation was worth it.