Silent Harbour

Chapter 12: An Unlikely Friend

December 20, 2013

The winter season started early this year and showed no signs of letting up. My last exam for the semester, originally scheduled to take place tomorrow, got cancelled earlier today due to the inclement weather. Ever the embodiment of a time-strapped university student, I was overjoyed with the news, mainly because I had woefully procrastinated studying for my bird-course-turned-GPA-annihilator until the last minute. But of course, there was a downside–flight cancellations throughout the country, leaving me stranded at school miles and miles away from my family. The only, albeit selfish, silver lining is that since my friends are grappling with the same issue, we've planned to keep each other company during this holiday season.

In all its lack-of-insulation and peeling-paint glory, my apartment is now the unofficial hub for all of our friends as we weather the storm. The landlord had the foresight to install generators in the fall after one too many phone calls from upperclassmen during the summer blackout season. We've exhausted just about every board game and card game the group pooled together and have switched to watching some good old-fashioned holiday movies to revive our spirits.

"Psst, Em" whispers Jackson. "Would it be cool if a buddy of mine came over? His place just lost power."

"As long as you promise to make sure he doesn't eat the last apple fritter, I'm fine with it," I reply.

He chuckles. "Perfect, because he's already on his way here."

I muster my best deadpan tone, "Of course you did." Sure enough, a few minutes later, there's a knock at the door, alerting us to the arrival of Jackson's friend. I toss a piece of popcorn at Jackson's head to get his attention. "Well, are you going to answer the door? If not, I'm happy to let whoever it is freeze to death outside our door," I exclaim while gesturing towards the entryway.

"Geez, I was just about to get up," he replies, making a show of leaping up off of his seat. I hear him open the door and greet his guest, "Look what the snow dragged in. Hey, T!"

"Hardy har, you're so clever. Step aside and let me come in, doofus," says T. If the muffled stomps against the doorframe are any indication, T at least has the common courtesy of clearing the snow off his boots before he toes them off in the foyer. Or perhaps he's observant enough to notice all the footwear neatly arranged in a line beside his own.

"Hurry up so I can introduce you," says Jackson before putting his arm around T's shoulders. There are still a few stubborn fluffs of snow in T's hair–I only notice because he has his head tilted towards the ground, watching his step as Jackson drags him in front of the television. "Listen up, everyone, this is my buddy, Tommy. He lives next door and goes to school at the college. Tommy, this," he gestures grandly with his hands, "is everyone."

Just as Tommy lifts his head to make eye contact, my breath catches. It can't be. It's as if time slows to a halt (before this very instance, I always considered that a completely illogical notion). There must be hundreds of thousands of Tommy's in the world. It just can't be.

My eyes dart to his forehead where, sure enough, an ever-familiar raised scar sits a couple of inches above his left eyebrow. That scar was just as telling as a person's thumbprint, at least for those of us from Ms. Barton's sixth-grade class. Nearly two decades later yet I can still recall her stern reprimand after Tommy accidentally launched himself into the wall while racing against the other boys on their scooter boards during phys ed. Tommy being Tommy, had refused stitches, embracing the burgeoning scar as a badge of honour, a testament to his toughness. But for me, it always had the opposite effect. It served as a reminder of his fragility, a glimpse beneath the facade and bravado he so carefully crafted.