I haven't been feeling well lately, and I have also been depressed due to stress. Out of my mixed up emotions came inspiration for this one-shot. I hope you all enjoy it.
Arnold sighed as he sat down at the kitchen table. Phil looked up from his newspaper.
"What's got you down, Shortman?"
He shrugged and kept his gaze on the table. "Today in geography class my teacher said there is no country called 'San Lorenzo.' I looked it up online, and he was right...it doesn't exist."
Arnold looked up at Phil, his eyes pleading. "Grandpa...?"
Phil folded his newspaper, setting it on the table. He shook his head and leaned forward in his chair. "I'm really sorry, Arnold..."
"Why are you sorry, Grandpa?" Arnold felt the panic rising. He had expected to come home from school and find out that his teacher was mistaken, that everyone was mistaken.
"It was just meant to be a bedtime story when you were a baby." Phil fidgeted with his hands, unable to meet Arnold's gaze. "It was hard. Pookie and I tried really hard to keep you happy. We wanted you to have a happy childhood. That story always cheered you up. So we decided to let you believe that it was real..."
Arnold's heart pounded. We let you believe it was real...it was just a story...
Phil nodded at his grandson. "I have something to show you. Wait here."
His footsteps disappeared up the stairs. Arnold ran his hand through his hair, his mind whirring. He dug through his memories. While it was common for his grandfather to embellish on stories, Arnold thought that there had been truth to his parents' exotic disappearance.
How could it not be true? They didn't want to leave me...did they?
When Phil's footsteps returned, Arnold straightened up.
"What's that?" Arnold watched his grandfather struggle with a large box.
Phil set the old cardboard box on the table. Dust fluttered from the lid. He pulled another leather-bound journal from the box. It was green. He sighed and handed it to Arnold.
"This is where your father wrote his novel. It's all about the green-eyed people and La Sombra...The journal that I read to you first was his personal journal."
Arnold took the heavy book into his hands. The leather was cracked and worn. He opened it and saw his father's neat handwriting. The majority of the pages were filled.
"Your father didn't have a chance to finish it..." Phil started pulling more items out of the box. There were photo albums, and folders with papers. He sat down in his chair, holding a small figurine. Tears rolled down his face.
"What happened to them, Grandpa?" Arnold's voice cracked. "What really happened to them?"
Phil set the figurine down and opened one of the folders. He pulled out a yellowed newspaper clipping, but didn't hand it to Arnold.
"Your mother was a nurse, she worked at the Hillwood Hospital. She was working the late shift on a Friday night, so your father went to go pick her up. He was always afraid something would happen to her on the bus or the subway that late at night..." Phil wiped his eyes on the back of his hand. "A drunk driver hit them..."
He slid the newspaper across the table to Arnold. He saw a photo of his mother, and a photo of Miles in a hospital bed. His father's face was almost unrecognizable from the wounds and the swelling. His breath caught in his throat.
"The car hit the passenger side...your mother was killed instantly..." Phil went on, his nose was starting to run. "Your father was rushed to the hospital, but he died three days later from internal bleeding."
Arnold set the newspaper back on the table. His hands were shaking. Phil blew his nose with a handkerchief. The sound made Arnold jump. His throat was swelling up with emotion, his eyes burned.
"Why?" Arnold gasped as fat tears rolled down his cheeks. "Why?"
Phil shook his head. "That's how life is sometimes, Shortman."
That night Arnold sat in his bed with the green journal in his lap. His head ached from crying. Phil had let Arnold take the box up into his room. It sat on the floor near his desk. The brown journal was still neatly tucked away in his bookshelf.
How many people knew? It was in the newspaper after all! Has everyone been lying to me all this time?
He stroked the binding of the green journal, his eyes on the skylight.
I love you, mom and dad. His lip trembled as he stared up at the night sky. I really thought someday I would get to meet you...
The journal slid from his fingers as he shifted on the bed. It plopped open near the end. Arnold picked it up and flipped to the last page Miles had written.
"...he wrapped the cortisone in an old feed bag. The beautiful green glow disappeared as he tucked the sacred gem away. The bandits had lost his trail, for the moment..."
Arnold flipped through to the end, there was no more writing. He went back to the last piece of writing and sighed.
"I wish I could help you finish it, dad..." Arnold whispered. "Then maybe it would all be real again..."