June 5 - The Fast and the Phineas

5:42 am

Ferb Fletcher

Oh, Phineas. What am I going to do with him?

Well, I guess the damage is done. And I'm not going to try and justify him. I'm not going to pardon his acts or try and excuse his behaviour. But we've all got selfishness like that inside us. It's a universal trait.

I woke up ten minutes ago – nightmare. No – no, I'm not going to write about that. Chances are, if I don't describe it, it'll just fade away, and I won't have to think about it. The point is, I looked over at Phineas' bed, and saw that he'd fallen asleep with his head under the covers and a torch – excuse me, a flashlight, still shining near the pillow (sorry, I forgot: you Americans talk strangely). Closer inspection revealed a pencil in his hand and our journal lying open with a new entry scribbled down.

So now it's my turn.

I guess I'll pick up the action where Phineas left it off – me walking out of his hospital room, ears empty of warning words.

It was raining hard, water dampening the London streets and drumming against the roof of the cab I called. Umbrellas and huddled figures draped in sopping mackintoshes trudged up and down the streets, and the steady splash of welly-ed feet was a refreshing sound above the rush of traffic.

I met with Edwin Radford that afternoon, to fix a date on which to erase my memories. We decided the next day would be fine – it worked with his busy schedule, as well as my own desire to get it over with.

The rest of the evening I rode around on the Tube, the underground network of trains in London, tuned out and wandering in my own mind, which I knew I would only possess for twenty-four more hours.

I must've been a strange sight to civilian commuters – a withdrawn, ten-year-old, green-haired boy, holding onto a rail and swaying to the motion of the train like some deep-minded businessman. Completely alone – without a parent or a guardian.

Ah, I'm falling back asleep. Five forty-five is too early for me. I don't know how much longer I'll be able to write.

It was very, very late at night when I finally returned to my grandmother's house. I flopped down onto my huge, king-sized bed, feeling very small and lost in such a big, cruel world. I drew a pad of paper from my suitcase, pulled a pencil from behind my ear, and penned a note to my grandmother, thanking her for letting me stay over for so long, and telling her I might not be able to come back next evening. Then I set down my pencil and let a few tears fall on the paper at the thought of my grandmother's daughter – my mother – dead for six years but always in my family's memories.

Well – not mine. Not tomorrow.

And so I cried my last tears for her.

.

But I wasn't sorry to lose my recollection of our times together – not if it meant I could save Phineas.

.

Ah, I'm so tired, but I can't leave it there.

It's too cliché, too heroic, even if it is true, for me to just leave on the page.

Maybe if I tell you a bit more about myself, about my mother, you'll understand what Phineas meant – means – to me. You'll understand that my statement about saving my brother was real and true and so sincere I'd write it again and again and again.

I guess the only place to start is the beginning – the root of the problem.

My mum died when I was four.

Even though I was young, her death was embedded permanently in my memory, along with her smiles and hugs.

I stopped talking altogether for about six months, and I'm not entirely sure why. Maybe it was because I was confused and just wanted to drink as much information in as I could. Maybe I was too stunned to say anything – she was gone so fast. I had been an extremely chatty boy prior to the car crash that took mum, and the silence, such a drastic change at such an impressionable age, got into me and affected me for life – like Helen Keller's scarlet fever.

I remember, very, very clearly, one morning three months after mum passed. I was eating breakfast while dad surveyed me over his newspaper. His eyes were concerned and sad, like they always were.

"Ferb, my boy," he said, "Won't you say anything to daddy?"

I looked up at him, and shook my head.

"Nothing? What if I told you we're moving to America?"

I blinked, but stayed silent.

"Yes, a change of scene, it's just what you need," he said, ruffling his newspaper but keeping his eyes on me. "That's what the doctor said, anyway."

I looked back down on my cereal. I didn't need a doctor. I knew that, even at the age of four. There was nothing wrong with me. I'd just decided not to talk. I didn't want to talk.

Well, it turned out that America, at first, was not what I needed, but what he needed. He found someone there – a pretty single woman with two small children, Phineas and Candace.

Pretty soon, he asked me if he had my permission to ask this woman, Linda, to marry him.

I nodded.

But the nod had been a sort of spur-of-the-moment action, and on the car ride to Linda's house, after the engagement, I seriously considered recanting my permission. In all the fairy-tales, stepmothers were horrible, and stepsiblings were worse! What if my new family turned out to be monsters or ugly brats like in the story of Cinderella?

I clutched the little British flag I had brought closer to my chest as I walked through Linda's front door and into the living room.

A red-haired woman swooped down on me, gathering me in her arms and smiling at me. "Oh, Lawrence, he's adorable!" she said.

"Hi, sweetie," she greeted me.

"Ferb, this is Linda," dad said.

I waved shyly.

"How are you?" she asked me.

I was feeling optimistic at the sight of such a friendly face, but I couldn't say so. So I jus stared up at her and hoped dad would explain.

He did. "Ah, yes," he said, "Remember how I told you he doesn't talk much?"

Linda nodded. "Yeah."

"Well – he doesn't really talk at all."

"Well," she said kindly, "Maybe we can help him find his voice."

I shook my head wildly, but dad just smiled and said, "I hope so."

"Would you like to meet Phineas?" Linda asked me, and I shrugged and nodded.

"Candace! Phineas!" she called.

A girl bounded down the stairs, followed closely by a tiny boy. Both had their mother's red hair and bright blue eyes, and both wore identical wide smiles.

"This is Candace, your new big sister," Linda said. "And here's Phineas."

Phineas beamed.

He was small, but he seemed to contain energy enough for twenty bigger boys in his pint-sized body. Excitement and zest and happiness just radiated out of him in electrical waves.

"HI!" he cried, and jumped toward me.

And I smiled.

For the first time in six months, the corners of my mouth turned upward, and I felt my face split open in a massive grin.

And as my outward appearance changed, my heart lifted and soared.

It was only for a second, before I remembered my mother again, but in that second, a weight seemed to lift out of the pit of my stomach. It was small, but it made all the difference in the world.

The pain was gone for a heartbeat, and that heartbeat gave me a vision, a taste of the freedom and happiness I hadn't felt for half a year.

And the source of my joy was the bright, happy smile on Phineas' face. He seemed so carefree, it made me wonder if I could be, too.

"Wow, I love your hair! It's GREEN! How'd it get like that? Was it born like that? Can I touch it?" he poked a tuft of my hair, and then stared at his finger. I wondered if he was catching his breath from saying so much in one breath.

"Did you build that?" he gasped, pointing at the flag I held in my hands.

Well – I had stapled the material to the pole, so – yes.

I nodded.

"AWESOME!"

It's just a flag, I thought, but I couldn't help smiling again.

"We're going to be best friends," Phineas said, with assurance in his voice. "BEST, best friends. I like to build stuff, too! Come on, I'll show you!"

And with that, he grabbed my hand and dragged me off to his room upstairs.

He had a huge box of Legos there, and we pieced together a castle. It was twice as tall as Phineas, because we built it from the top down, placing the upper sections on top of the lower ones. It was Phin's idea.

"We did some great work today, bro," Phineas said, three hours later, staring up at the mega-structure.

And with that, he pulled me into a one-armed, congratulatory hug.

It only lasted a second. But it reminded me of my mum. The quick, casual squeeze she gave me before – before she went out to the grocery store and never came back.

I wanted to cry.

But I didn't.

I spoke.

"Yes, Phineas. Yes, yes we did."

.

And then I was free.

.

Have you ever felt sad, or angry, or helpless, or depressed, or boxed up, and then cried, and let it all out? Have you ever felt some huge anvil weighing you down take off and fly away?

Imagine that, except a hundred times better. I hadn't been ready to lose my mum. I had felt bogged down by confusion – where had she gone? Why had God let her go? – but Phineas made it better. I won't say completely better. I still don't talk as much as normal kids. But, to use the Helen Keller illustration again – Helen was still never able to hear or see, even after she learned to speak and write. Some things stay. But some things get immeasurably better. Because of a certain someone, who frees you to be who you were really meant to be.

Phineas showed me the innocence of never-ending summer days, he taught me the fun of letting your ice cream and cherry soda drip down your chin, he demonstrated the optimistic, bright catchphrases I felt hesitant to say. "Ferb! I know what we're gonna do today!"

.

.

It's not easy to see someone like that fall so far into darkness.

It's even harder to give up their tiny chance of redemption.

If one of us had to try this memory-eraser on, well, I was going to make sure it was me. It's not really heroism. It's just – I don't know. I hope I've made myself a little clearer. And now, I really am too tired to write any more.