A Day with Toby

Chapter One

Have you ever missed someone without even meeting them? Yes, I know, it sounds strange. But it is a real problem for me.

I had a brother once. He was the first child, the one that should be here setting the standard for my sister and I to follow. But this is what happened instead.

Everyone was so excited about this little being that was going to be entering the world, and my parents were no exception. They moved to a peaceful neighborhood, bought a minivan, and spent hours creating the most beautiful room, just for him. The baby shower was huge, bringing together family members from all over the place. Even my Aunt Xavier from Switzerland came.

But nothing compared to the sheer joy that everyone felt when they welcomed the new addition into the world. He was held, cuddled, and cooed at by all who happened to see him. He brought radiance and joy to the new home. His life was a true blessing.

Then the darkness came. The precious baby began to get sick. He got thinner and more pale, and soon he could no longer eat. And slowly, torturously, that little life was ripped away from them.

The funeral was attended by many in the town. Never were so many tears shed in that dreary graveyard as there were on that dismal, rainy day.

Life went on, but never in the same way. The beautiful little baby room was locked, and the key was buried under a tree in the backyard. The baby's first moments journal was stashed away in the attic, next to a small box that contained pictures of the happy little family. They traded in the minivan for a smaller vehicle, and they donated the stroller and car seat to charity. It was a hard time for them, and they did not want to be reminded of the life that had been lost.

But the death didn't just affect my parents. Friends and relatives were traumatized by it, too. My aunt Lucinda moved away a few months later, and the remaining family members were silent and somber when they came to visit. My mother told me once, long ago, that my Grandma Peters hadn't always been a sour, grumpy old woman like she is now. This change took place shortly after "The Loss".

That is what we call it. "The Loss". It sounds so cold, so formal. Yet it is an understood rule that we must not speak of it, and when we do, it should be termed as such.

Now my parents have two more children, myself and my little sister, Mylea. They go to work every day, and they sometimes get back in time to take us out for dinner. We don't really see each other much, but we still manage to keep up an okay relationship.

But I feel it. I feel the sadness. I see it in their eyes. It is always there, always at the back of their minds, haunting them. I sometimes think that all of the work, all of the things that they schedule for themselves to do, are simply ways to keep their minds busy. To escape from things.

And it has been seventeen years. You would think that they would have recovered at least a little bit by now. But I kind of think that they started running from the sorrow the day they said goodbye, and have just never come face to face with reality. Hopefully someday they will.

For now though, I am left with the knowledge that I have a brother, one that has been lost. I think about him a lot; every time I walk past that locked baby room I can't help but think of it. What would he have looked like by now? Would he be a kind big brother, the type that I could count on when I needed someone? Would he be proud of me?

Whenever I make comments to my friends about wishing I had a big brother, they always blow me off. They tell me that big brothers are torture; they pull you hair, tease you endlessly, and throw stinky socks and gym clothes all over the place. But I don't think that my brother would be like that. I think that he would be different.

I have talked to my cousin Leyla about this. She is the only one in the family that is willing to talk about "The Loss", probably because she was only eleven when it happened. She understands my sorrow, and I can tell her how I feel, knowing that she has also experienced some of my pain.

Leyla is the source of almost everything that I know about my brother's short life, and his death. No one else really ever talks about it, and many people in the town have forgotten about it and moved on. And I suppose it is pretty strange that a fifteen-year-old high-schooler like myself would even be bothering with this stuff, when there are so many other things that I could be doing with my time.

Mylea, on the other hand, could care less about the whole thing. She's nine, and she still lives in a world of sunshine, lollipops, rainbows, and unicorns. Absolutely nothing bothers her, and she is endlessly telling me that I should lighten up. But I just can't

Anyway, I suppose that I have gone over the entire state of things, so now you know.

Oh, one last thing. I almost forgot to tell you.

My brother had a name. His name was Toby.