Autumn Leaves
~~~
“I prefer to leave the paintings to speak for themselves.” –Barnett Newman
~~~
I’m a normal kid. Really, I am. Just plain ol’ Max.
A young, teenage adolescent with a slight attitude problem, an awkward body, and the feeling of superiority that doesn’t really exist.
But, I’m comfortable with myself and my simple life.
Except it’s not as simple anymore. See, my mom already lost her job a year ago, and so then we had the whole issue of not spending as much. It was fine, though. I still got to live my life normally, albeit not as luxuriously. And I had all my friends and such.
Then my dad lost his job. Our only source of income was suddenly ripped from us, all because of the economy and unemployment and all that nice (cough—awful—cough) stuff.
Things went downhill from there.
We started selling off our possessions at garage sales to earn a bit more cash—for what, I had no idea, but Mom and Dad kept on saying it was for a reason. The little things, like cable TV and magazine subscriptions, were taken away. Our showers were given a time limit—ten minutes max, and that was pushing it—and any and all unneeded lights were always turned off.
But I was fine, really. My friends were a big help, always being supportive, and neighbors would drop off meals once a week, sometimes more. Besides, Dad did get one of those unemployed paychecks. It wasn’t as much as when he had a job, but it kept us sustained.
I was happy, carefree, really. I had no idea what was going on, and didn’t care, either. No responsibilities, because, for some strange reason, my parents were encouraging me to spend time with my friends and not get a job dog-sitting or mowing yards. I was free as a bird.
And then came in the boxes. Not filled-with-something boxes that every kid gets excited over because that means something’s inside, but flat boxes. Moving boxes.
Suddenly my freedom seemed like a cruel trick, as if I were a dog let loose in the fenceless yard, only to find out it was indeed caged in after a sharp jolt of electricity. As if I were a bird held captive in a glass cage.
“We’re moving?” I asked incredulously, gawking at the stacks of folded boxes all lying about the living room. “When was this decision made? Why didn’t I know?”
Mom, who had been leaning over a box and peering into its few contents, sighed. “We started thinking about it last year when I lost my job, and then when your father lost his, well, it became official.” She shuffled over to the couch, staring at it as if deciding if it could go or not.
Gulping and feeling ridiculously childish, I asked, “When?” My hands were clenched into tight fists by my side, shaking. From anger, I told myself. Not fear or worry. Fourteen was not an age to be scared of little things, so I shouldn’t be afraid of moving.
Mom sighed again, a long, weary thing, like there were boulders stacked on top of her, weighing her down, forcing the air out of her lungs little by little. “As soon as your school year ends,” she answered. Then Mom went back to packing, ignoring me in a way that was purely Mom, and I left to go get answers from Dad.
He was in my parents’ bedroom, packing as well, though he looked more distracted and frazzled, which I thought was strange because my mom was normally the stressed one in our small family. Then there was me—the one person in our small family that never seemed to know what was going on, even if I was old enough to understand.
There was a cluster of boxes in the far corner, filled with extra clothes and random things that I had never noticed before they were so blaringly missing. I felt odd, like maybe I should be packing, too; or being packed, since I had no idea what to do and was useless. An object kept around because I was interesting, because I could humor my parents on occasion.
I must have been standing there in the room for a long while, because my dad noticed me and said, “Hey, Max. What’s up, kiddo?” Staring curiously at me, Dad stopped packing and shifting through his clothes. “You okay?”
He sounded nervous, which I thought was stupid. I mean, why would your son be upset? It’s not like you made a huge decision without even telling him or something. But I understood; I really did. We had to move, because there was no work, and as for not telling me—well, my parents wanted me to stay happy as long as possible.
Ignorance is bliss, right?
“Yeah, I’m okay,” I replied, nudging some folded, empty boxes by my feet. “It’s just sudden, I guess. Didn’t see it coming, even though I should have.”
Dad nodded, like he understood, although he didn’t. We both knew that. “It’s okay, kiddo. We’ll be fine.” He smiled then, though it seemed strained, like Mom. The smile was supposed to comfort me, I knew, but it really didn’t do anything, except maybe make me a bit more worried for the move.
We were silent for a while, Dad so-called packing as I stared at the ground, both of us nervous and jittery and not knowing what to say, what to do. It was awkward, to say the least. Dad and I were always awkward like this, because while Dad was talk and talk and talk, the same way as mom, I was more reserved. No one knew where I got it, but I was.
Finally, Dad couldn’t take it and blurted, “We’re moving to your Aunt Darline’s.”
“My Aunt Darline?” I asked, eyebrows scrunched together in thought. Nope. Didn’t know her.
Shifting from foot to foot, Dad rearranged and fluffed one of the many pillows on the bed. “Your aunt,” he said.
I snorted at this, because, duh.
A flash of a grin lit up his face. “She’s your great aunt, actually. Your mom’s aunt. She lives in Florida.”
Florida. That… was a long ways away. Especially from Nevada.
Dad grimaced, and this time I knew he could sense what I was feeling and understood.
Because he was moving to the other side of the country, too.
I left after that, because, really, did I need to know anything else?
​
~~~
​
ALL
​
~~~
​
Time went by too fast.
Seconds ticked by. They turned into minutes, which then spun around to hours. Those hours made days, and those days turned into weeks. Weeks counted months.
And then my family was packing up the car, neighbors and friends crying out on the sidewalk, all waiting for the Limbering family to disappear from their lives. I don’t know why they were crying, because we were only one family and it wasn’t like their lives were about to be flipped upside down. We weren’t the world. Their entire existence did not rely on us. No, it was only the Limbering family. Only me.
I should have been crying, sobbing even, because I was losing my old life and everything was spinning wildly out of control. But I didn’t. I was the only dry-eyed person there was, although I wasn’t happy by any means. I did not crack a smile when my dad made a joke or Kyle promised to run across the country to tell me when he finally got a girlfriend, and that I should, too; I was numb inside, completely dead.
Maybe it’s all a dream, I kept telling myself.
But then we were in the car, hours running across the clock, and we were in a motel for a night. Then we did it again. And again.
Nightmares don’t happen this way, not in this horrible cycle of repeat.
The numbness crept away, and I ended up crying in my mom’s shirt that night, when it finally hit me that I had absolutely no control over anything, that everything was going to be different, that we were really leaving, that we had already left. When we were a day’s drive away from Florida, from Great Aunt Darline. When we were four days away from my old life.
After I stopped sniffling, Mom wiped my face like she used to when I was a baby, and then she began telling me how things were going to happen so I would understand, like she was finally noticing that I was growing up. It was almost contradicting, how on one hand Mom was babying me and on the other was treating me like an adult, but I went with it.
And then the next day, we drove again.
~~~
THE
~~~
Aunt Darline’s house was older than she was, and that’s saying something.
I would say the house was in the middle of nowhere, except that it wasn’t, because it had some neighbors, just farther away than most places. But it was strangely isolated, standing alone, apart from all of the other newer, smaller homes—almost as if it had been alienated, and no one sought to befriend it.
Most likely it had to do with Aunt Darline, though. She wasn’t exactly crazy—at least, she wasn’t the type to go running out the door, swinging her cane and screaming at people to get away. No, Aunt Darline was calm, a bit too calm, to be honest. She was probably the most boring person to ever inhabit the earth. Every morning, she would hobble to this chair by a painting, and then she would sit there, staring at it, all day long. Every day she did this, picking one of the many paintings that lined her walls up the staircase (actually, there were two staircases that started separately and then met at the second floor) or one that was hanging on the wall on the second floor.
She would leave me to my own devices, which is great to most teens, but since there were no other kids on the street and apparently danger lurked on every corner, I stayed in the house. There wasn’t much for me to do anyway. In all honesty, I was bored. My parents were gone all day so I was left with only Aunt Darline, but because she wouldn’t talk to me I was left doing absolutely nothing.
Well, I could always join her in the everlasting task of staring blankly at pictures, but I would probably fall asleep and end up tumbling down the stairs to a death that would star on “A 1,000 Ways to Die.”
And, strangely enough, I planned on living a long, prosperous life, so that didn’t sit well with me.
(Aunt Darline never did fit in that picture.)
​
~~~
​
LEAVES
​
~~~
​
I finally asked Aunt Darline what was so special about the pictures that lined her walls.
Eyes roving over a plain painting dominated by a single tree, leaves vibrant shades of red and orange and yellow, she told me, “This is my favorite.”
I didn’t see the appeal. It was a simple painting: an ancient tree not directly in the middle but slightly to the right, leaves blotches of multiple colors hanging by a thread on the thick brown branches, the ground littered with the fallen leaves so much that they showed not a centimeter of actual ground, the sky one of a rising sun. Most of it was orange, a color that I didn’t much appreciate.
“That’s not an answer,” I pointed out.
She turned to me, eyes slower at taking the path; they were trapped on the painting, like it meant something to her, and then they were glued to me. “You don’t like it, do you?”
“Not particularly,” I answered truthfully, slightly ticked that she was avoiding the question. “I don’t like orange that much.”
Aunt Darline pursed her thin lips, twirling a strand of her long gray hair around a frail finger. “Orange is my favorite color.”
“It’s not mine,” I replied quickly, “and although the painting is very nice”—I cringed at my own obvious lie—“I would like you to answer my original question, please.”
Please, so I can leave, I begged internally. Why did I ever think it was a good idea to ask Aunt Darline about the paintings?
Her brows furrowed over her eyes—a piercing gray that spoke volumes about what she thought of my impatience—as she stole a glance at the painting. “It’s titled Autumn Leaves. Fitting, is it not?”
“Yes, very—”
“Wouldn’t you love to jump in?” The words flowed from her lips smoothly, as if she had said it a million times before. The answer was simple, an easy yes or no.
I didn’t know what to say. “Oh, um. In the painting? Well, erm, I don’t know. I never—I never thought about it before.”
Aunt Darline giggled, a soft, gentle sound, dainty, even; something that betrayed her age and made her seems decades younger. “I had in mind the leaves, but, yes, you could say the painting itself.”
“I don’t know,” I repeated, eyes now locked on the painting.
“Oh, hush,” Aunt Darline admonished. “Think about it.” She closed her eyes, breathing in deeply. “The sun in rising and the air is crisp. A nearby tree is dropping brittle leaves onto the covered ground. There’s a pile already there, the biggest one you have ever seen before.” Smiling, she asked once more, “Wouldn’t you love to jump in?”
Our gazes connected as she asked her question.
I thought about it carefully. Having lived in Nevada, I had never actually seen a large pile of leaves; never had to opportunity to leap into one. I had seen it on TVs and read stories where people had, though, but I had never wondered what it would feel like, never truly imagined doing such a thing. “I think it would be fun,” I finally said.
Aunt Darline smiled, a simple quirk of her lips, and went back to staring at Autumn Leaves. Her hand grazed over the surface, like she was trying to feel the cold air and rough bark and crackling leaves.
As I left, my hand, of its own accord, touched the painting, and I swear I could feel just that—the millions of leaves and brittle air, the bark of the single ancient tree—as if I could jump into the picture itself. As if I could push my way through the surface and disappear into another world.
Aunt Darline seemed to think so, too.
​
~~~
​
FALL
​
~~~
​
It was absurd. Crazy. Utterly insane.
And I wished so much for it to be true.
It was like a dream, a story, where fantastical things happen, where I could be the hero. I would go on an adventure, do something incredible, impossible. Everything would be right in the world after I had saved everyone.
But that would never happen to me, because I’m normal. A normal fourteen year-old kid. Your everyday, average snotty teenager.
I’m not anything special. I’m not some sort of miracle.
Then Aunt Darline repeated, “Please, Max, do this for me,” and I broke down and decided to humor the delusional woman. She was crazier than I previously gave her credit for, thinking that Cara, her best friend, was somewhere inside; my guess was that Cara wasn’t even a real person, just a figment of old Aunt Darline’s imagination.
I walked up to the painting Alone, which was hanging to the right of Autumn Leaves. It portrayed a dark opening—like a bomb had gone off, leaving only a circular dent in the earth, the grass dead and the color of pitch—in the middle of the woods, where the trees were mere twigs barely distinguishable from the background; a lone, ancient swing creaked from the bare arm of one of the many naked trees. Everything was shrouded by black, shadows thrown across the ground and the moon’s light hidden by the thick layers of trees. Apparently, on the wooden swing was supposed to be a girl, Cara, who was in mourning.
“The only bright thing in the entire picture was her hair,” Aunt Darline had said. “Blonde as the sun, she is.” Her gray eyes were foggy, wistful of a past that never existed.
I needed to call the loony bin on her.
Instead of doing that, though, like any logical person would have, I stepped closer to Alone, pressing my hand against its surface, which was strangely cool to the touch, like a brisk wind in the dead of night.
She’s crazy, I thought.
I pressed harder, felt more something that was most definitely not the texture of paint against canvas.
I’m crazy.
And then I, Max Racer Limbering, fell through the painting, fell into Alone.
​
~~~
​
DOWN
​
~~~
I was blind as I stumbled my way through the woods, branches slashing my legs and arms and face, my grasping hands and unseeing eyes.
Dark was an understatement in this situation. Pitch black was nearer to what was needed to describe the black blanket that covered the earth. But devoid of any light whatsoever won the prize.
I tripped over twisting roots, which grabbed at my bumbling, uncoordinated feet and tried to pull me down. Things—what looked to be crawling branches—appeared and tugged at my legs with their extended arms. I was cut, sliced by pointed whips; thin trickles of blood were slipping down my arms and cheek. My shoulder grazed rough bark, scraping away a thin layer of skin, but I could barely tell because I just wanted to get out, get out, get out!
And then I raced headfirst into a wall.
Well, hit wasn’t exactly the right word, was it? No, it was more like I had run into a large glowing rubber ball or bubble, one that was strong enough not to pop and instead bounce me back hard enough to land on my a— bottom (which is a nicer word to use). When I landed, pain arched up my spine, knives scraping along the bones. I yelped loudly—and, by yelp, I most definitely do not mean squeak, because, as a young man, I do not squeak; only small rodents and girls squeak. The breath was knocked out of me, leaving my lungs empty, my mouth uselessly gasping for air.
After the initial shock, bones creaking, I eased myself up, rubbing my sore bottom and tingling thighs, my numbing back. The things were still lingering in the background, I could tell. Their short bodies, which were made from two medium-sized branches twisted together, darted among the trees like crabs, clawed feet digging into the earth, razor-sharp hands reaching out. Golden eyes glinted from the faint glowing of the—well, I still wasn’t quite sure what they were.
Hoping for something, I prodded the bubble with my foot, the toe of my shoe sinking in before I yanked it back out. It looked like a wall, but made of translucent glass, making whatever was on the other side blurry, the colors of blues and silvers and blacks swirling around unnaturally. The glass wall towered over me, stretching up and up and up passed what I could see, and its width was much the same.
Unfortunately, I figured I would have to step through. Either that, or be ripped to shreds by the little crabby monsters.
And so I did.
I forced myself through, and then I ended up in a world completely and utterly different, this one with a beach and crashing waves, a moon hovering over the horizon. Another one of Aunt Darline’s pictures, the one directly to the right of Alone.
Apparently, I was heading in the wrong direction.
But I couldn’t find the great big glass wall, for it had somehow disappeared, and so I continued on, searching for another exit (or entrance, depending on how one looked at it). When I found it—another glass wall, the colors brown and green and yellow—I passed though, and then I went on looking for the next one, and the next, and the next.
Until I landed in one that sent me reeling.
It wasn’t that it was horrible or anything; in fact, it was completely normal—for a painting, at least. But it still totally threw me off my groove, which, frankly, pissed me off, just a bit.
Because this painting had people.
Couples huddled together on rocking gondolas, oarsmen singing in Italian as they rowed down the canal. Families bustled over bridges and waved from open windows. Children dared their friends to dip a toe into the water, or more; some even spat into the water as they walked by. It was all so chaotic, so full of life. So completely opposite of all the other pictures I had passed through.
It was a little overwhelming.
I almost expected someone to walk over, ask me what I was doing, and then somehow shove me out of this universe entirely. All the while screaming at me in Italian. That would do me in for sure, and I’d probably end up having a heart attack and die alone, except for the strangers that weren’t really real. I wondered if anyone outside of the painting, studying the art or whatever, would notice me.
Probably not, considering how Aunt Darline always studied them yet never found hide nor hair of Cara.
Fortunately, no one paid me any attention, so I wasn’t about to die of cardiac arrest at the ripe old age of fourteen.
Not that it mattered much anyway, because, unless I wanted to take my chance in the labyrinth of Venice, I was pretty much stuck, trapped on a dock outside of some completely random building. With some random blonde chick wearing all black at the end, sitting at some random little table.
I shrugged to myself, figuring, What the hey. She sounded like my best bet to finding my way out, and I just hoped that she didn’t turn out to be some crazy monster that I had to somehow kill, because, yeah, my killing experience is none, unless videogames count. If that’s the case, I’m a pro. Sort of.
Slightly hesitant, I shuffled my way over to the random blonde chick, who was chatting amiably with—at? to?—a worn teddy bear sitting in the seat next to her and sipping tea. Overall, she wasn’t giving me the best first impression, what with the air of gloom and doom from the black she wore from head to toe and the crazy that emanated from her in cuckoo waves. But her hair glowed like the sun, a bright beacon in this strange foreign place, so I pushed forward.
I’ll admit, the girl was pretty—easy on the eyes, if you will—and as I got closer a strange feeling that I should know this girl prodded at the back of my mind. Black clothes, blonde hair—where was that from? But nothing came, and, besides, I could not possibly know her, because she’s in a picture hanging on the wall of my Aunt Darline’s house. Where could we have possibly met? Excuse me—when?
The black she wore was a dress, something I could imagine a girl wore to a funeral, and long black stockings were stretched up her legs—no shoes, though, which I found… different; her long curly locks were pulled back in a brown wooden clip with an intricate design carved into it. Really, if she wasn’t having an amiable conversation with a teddy bear—and if she were real—the girl could have passed off for normal.
But I guess nothing about this could ever be considered normal, huh?
I gently prodded her in the back. “Excuse me, but—” But what? Help me get out of this painting because I’m a real person and you’re not? Maybe I didn’t think this through well enough. Or at all.
Before I could come up with an excuse—or, better yet, escape—the girl gripped my wrist and yanked me down to sit next to her. Turning to face me, but never looking me directly in the face, she babbled, “Mr. Fuzzles here was just telling me about Spit—you know him, right? He’s the best spitter in all of Venice—and his latest challenge is the hardest one yet.” She asked Mr. Fuzzles, the ratty old teddy bear, “How far did he have to spit again, Mr. Fuzzles?” She nodded, satisfied with his—its—answer. “Over two meters, Spit has to spit. Can you believe that?” She laughed, throwing her head back, and, wow, she shouldn’t look this pretty and be this crazy at the same time. It was unfair, honestly.
She patted my hand, then my stunned face on the cheek. Placing a cup of tea in front of me, she continued, “Now, where are you from, hm? I’ve never seen you around, not that this is my picture, but mine is so lonely. It’s only me, you see. That’s why it’s called Alone.”
“I’m not from any painting,” I blurted out, but then something caught up to me. “Wait—Alone? You’re Cara?”
The girl—Cara—looked shocked. “Why, yes, I am Cara, but then where are you from?” She squinted her eyes to narrow slits and pointed suspiciously.
I took in a deep breath, told her one word: “Darline.”
~~~
AND
~~~
​
Cara dragged me through the maze of Venice, leading the way to the next painting, Autumn Leaves.
“We used to go there all the time,” Cara had told me. “Before… before she couldn’t come through.” She murmured to herself, “Seventy years. Over seventy years.”
From what I could gather, Cara had not even been aware that Aunt Darline couldn’t cross over anymore; she had, sadly, assumed that my aunt no longer wanted to see her estranged friend anymore. Never aging and time practically nonexistent, Cara had gone through the years not once attempting to contact Darline, thinking that, if my aunt were to come back, she merely needed time. While to my Aunt Darline, the years had stretched and aged and changed her, Cara remained much the same, unchanged, forever waiting without knowing when forever had come to pass.
Suddenly, Cara stopped, and I bumped into her. “Oh, uh, sorry,” I mumbled, but Cara waved me off, the earlier happy-go-crazy girl gone and turned into someone on a mission—AKA get to Darline ASAP. Which includes one too many acronyms, I think.
“Do you need help?” she asked me.
“Uh, what? To step through? No.” I shook my head, already moving to place a hand onto the orange glass wall.
“Oh,” Cara mumbled. “It’s just that, Darline always needed help, at least a little bit. She could call for me easy enough, but she couldn’t actual pass through on her own.” Sighing heavily, she said, “I should have known that one day she wouldn’t be able to see me, to call for me, even.”
I patted her awkwardly on the back, untaught in the art of comforting, or even talking to, girls. “Don’t beat yourself up over it. Let’s just hurry it up, yeah?”
“Yeah.” She nodded. “Yeah. Let’s get going.”
And then we landed in fallen leaves.
Truthfully, just looking at the painting wasn’t enough to truly appreciate Autumn Leaves. The crisp wind brushed my cheeks, the sky glowing vibrant colors with the rising sun, leaves crunching and crackling as I rolled around like a giddy child. It was so… surreal. Just nature in all directions—untouched, pure, with only a single massive tree that let loose dancers in the singing breeze.
Yes, words would never be enough to describe it, and a painting was still far from capturing the true beauty. You had to live it to understand.
And I was one of the few to get that chance.
Above me, Cara smiled softly, glancing at the tree in the distance. “Yes, yes, I know—it’s perfect,” she said gently, pulling me up. “But we have to hurry, right? Maybe… maybe you can come again some other time.”
“Definitely.” I grinned excitedly, trying to take in everything at once. “I most definitely will come again.”
Never mind that this whole experience is downright crazy. Never mind that people might wonder where I disappeared to. Never mind any of the consequences.
Least of all that this might not be real.
But this has to be real, because I could never come up with anything this bizarre.
Besides, how many other people can literally walk into a piece of art?
Cara marched through the dark-colored glass, and I followed, leaving behind the bright orange falling leaves.
~~~
SO
~~~
Immediately, the crab-like creatures were upon us.
They reached out with their rough bark claws, scratching at me and Cara as we stepped through the wall. Their beady golden eyes, glinting wickedly, stared us down as they circled like predators stalking prey. It didn’t exactly boost my confidence.
Batting away the arms, Cara suddenly screeched, “Go away! Shoo! Come on, you little beasts, go!” Growling, a sound like wood grinding together harshly, the creatures slinked away into the darkness. Cara huffed agitatedly. “Sorry ’bout that. They usually never bother me, but, then again, they never did like Darline either…”
“What—” My voice, about an octave higher than normal, cracked; I cleared my throat. “What were those things?”
Cara shrugged. “I call them barkers, but enough on that. We’re almost there.” She started forward, and I saw a long gash on her forearm, from elbow to wrist. Noticing my, um, somewhat distressed look, Cara told me, “I’ll paint it better later. Now, come on.”
“Paint it better?”
“Yes, yes, yes. Now hurry up, slowpoke,” Cara called over her shoulder, practically running in the direction of the empty opening, save for the lone swing.
We raced through the woods, Cara leaping over every crawling root, ducking beneath the snatching branches, and dodging the trees like she knew every square inch of the woods (which was highly likely) as I stumbled behind, tripping and falling, hopelessly trying to keep up. When we finally made it to the swing, breathing heavily, Cara dashed forward to what looked like… nothing. No grass or trees or even creepy little barkers. Just… blank space.
And then a hand.
“Hurry up and help me!” Cara shouted, and I darted over to the hand trying to force its way through. “Help me pull her through!” Grasping at the hand, Cara tugged, and I did the same. It seemed useless, like attempting to hold air; but suddenly the hand jerked and there was an arm, and attached to that arm was a shoulder. “Come—on!” Grunting, Cara dug her heels into the ground, pulling with all her might.
Then there was a head. “Cara!” The word came out garbled and unclear, as if Aunt Darline were underwater. “Cara, it isn’t working. I’m—”
The arm slid away, the hand disappearing, taking Cara with it. I lunged forward, wrapping my arms around Cara’s waist at the last second. The top half of Cara had vanished outside, hopefully still holding on to the hand.
And, well, that left me to yank them both back in.
Step by step, I inched my way backwards. Slowly—much too slowly in my body’s and my personal opinion—Cara reappeared, and eventually so did the hand, and then the arm, and the shoulder, the head, a body.
And then, with one final heave, arms shaking from the strain, Aunt Darline popped into Alone.
Gasping for air, I gingerly sat (read: collapsed) on the ground; my body trembled, exhausted, and I seemed to be hallucinating or something ridiculous, because there were two old ladies holding each other tightly in front of me, instead of one Aunt Darline and one Cara. “Hi, Aunt Darline,” I wheezed, “how are you?” A deep inhale of air, because, dang, those two weigh a ton. “Hey…” I blinked, still dazed. “Hey, Aunt Darline, do you know where Cara is?”
One of the two old ladies, the one that I was positive was not Aunt Darline, detached herself and hobbled over. “Here, you silly,” she croaked, and that was when I saw the black dress and long curly hair, though now snowy white instead of blonde.
I shot to my feet, black dots swimming in my vision. My vision blurred as the blood rushed from my head. “Oh, gosh, are you okay? What happened? Oh—”
Cara whacked me on the back of the head. “Quiet, you. It must have happened when I got sucked outside. And don’t worry—I’ll paint myself all better. Maybe even Darline can get a new makeover.”
“Will it work?” I asked anxiously, because, let’s face it: Aunt Darline is old, with more than one foot already in the grave, and now Cara is just as ancient. They were two fossils, just waiting to crumble to ash. Could they die, here, in this place? It was obvious they could be injured, with how Cara had gotten scraped by a barker, so maybe death was not that far of a stretch. It wasn’t a comforting thought, to say the least.
Cara shrugged in reply, which didn’t exactly help, and shuffled back over to Aunt Darline, who was sniffling quietly as she stared in awe at her best friend. They embraced once again, and I stood awkwardly on the sidelines (but close enough to catch one of them if they, say, passed out or fainted or something), digging a hole in the grass with the toe of my shoe. Without warning, Aunt Darline reached out and pulled me into an even more awkward group hug, both ladies softly crying into my chest.
Then Aunt Darline clasped both of her wrinkly hands on my cheeks, placing a gentle kiss on my forehead and whispering, “Thank you, Max. Thank you so much. You have given me my greatest wish. You are a miracle.”
I took a step back, feeling warmth spread throughout my entire body, and was about to reply with something—a simple thank you, possibly, or a you’re welcome—when my hand got stuck, and then I was being pushed out of Alone, out of this wonderful new place I had just experienced. Aunt Darline and Cara both reached out and tried to grab me, but they were too slow.
I was leaving. I was falling.
​
~~~
​
DO
​
~~~
I was trapped.
When my parents came home, they rushed over, worriedly asking where I had been, where Aunt Darline was, but I wasn’t paying them any attention. I was trying, trying, trying—fighting—to push my way back into Alone, into Autumn Leaves, into any of them. To go back, because I could, right? I had to go back. I was the boy who could cross over without any help.
But that didn’t seem to be the case anymore.
Tears were streaming down my face by the time the police arrived, as they questioned where I had been, where Aunt Darline was, but I couldn’t answer—and if I could, what would I say?
Later on—was it weeks, months, years? Did we live here now?—someone tried to take away all the artwork, tried to sell it because it was unnecessary and too much for one house, and I screamed and shouted and fought, clutched all the pieces I could, held them close to my heart as I attempted once more to go through, go back inside to another world I had been forced out of against my will. In the end, I was left with one painting missing a blonde little girl and another that no one saw the beauty of because they couldn’t truly experience it.
As time went on, as seconds ticked by and turned into minutes which then spun around to hours, as those hours made days, and as those days turned into weeks which then counted months, and as those months sped through the years, I was left with only those two. But that was okay. It was enough. Almost. My greatest wish was still to go back, like I had assumed I always would.
​
And whenever someone made a comment on how dark and dreary one of my paintings was, I would tell them that there used to be a blonde girl named Cara, but she left because she wasn’t alone anymore.
And whenever someone made a comment on how bright and simple the other of my paintings—the one that no one could understand the true beauty of because they couldn’t live it—was, I would say, “Orange is my favorite color.”
​
~~~
WE
​
~~~
I’m an old man. In all honesty, I am. Just regular old Max.
A hopefully wise old man, with two children and five grandchildren and what looked to be a great-grandchild soon enough, if the way Caroline was acting was anything to go by.
But, I’m content with my life. My very simple life.
If only it hadn’t been so simple. If only I could go back. But it seems I would need help in order to do that, and who knows if Cara and Darline are still alive? It was fine, though: I still got to live my life fully, with all my family and such. We could live, albeit not a life of fantastic adventures and the like.
We lived normally.
And I will end normally.
I sighed, leaning dangerously heavily on the large tree in the painting that hung on my office wall; next to it was a painting with dark trees hiding sly creatures and a single lone swing. I had lived a long life, a fulfilling one, full of love and joy. Now, I was at the end of my time, ready to let go, to pass on.
It was my time to go.
If only I could go back, at least once, before I left.
When I closed my eyes, I could even imagine the brisk wind that brushed my cheeks; the sunlight shining through my closed eyelids, radiant colors dancing in my mind’s eye; and the leaves, dancers that swayed to the music of nature.
In fact, I can almost imagine two gentle sets of hands holding my feeble life as I fall down, down, down, just as the leaves do.
​
~~~
​
“A good painting to me has always been like a friend. It keeps me company, comforts, and inspires.” —Hedy Lamarr
​
~~~