[This one feels like it has potential for expansion. There's a lot more I want to do with it. But for now, here's the short story.]
“Come on Megan! We’re going to be late AGAIN!” Better than
an alarm, that’s how Erma woke me up every morning she stayed with me. My kid
sister had a ridiculous idea of punctuality. She assumed that “on time” meant
15 minutes early, unless it was a show. Then you had to get there no less than
30 minutes before start time or something bad would happen—you’d be late. If she didn’t look so cute with
her plump little cheeks, that innocent “I know everything” smile, and the two
short pony tails she kept her hair in, she might never have made it past her 8th
birthday. Actually, she almost didn’t see 9, but not because of me.
Mom and Dad had me just as they were starting their careers.
That means I got shuttled between grandparents and various other adult
relatives until I was old enough for school. Then it was off to buses, after-school
programs, and any extracurricular activities that kept me busy until it was
convenient for one of my parents to pick me up. My favorite relative had to be
Uncle Pete. He flew a charter propeller plane for rich people who wanted to get
away quickly, usually to some secluded hideaway with their flavor-of-the-month
love interest or for some last-minute business meeting, but didn’t want to buy
their own private jet. Whenever Uncle Pete took care of me, he would strap my
car seat (booster seat when I was older) into the copilot spot in his plane and
we would fly to some city where he swore they had the best pizza, ice cream,
ballpark, whatever. I loved soaring in the air, not so high that the clouds
covered everything, but up far enough that everything looked like my dolls
lived there. Even after I started school, Uncle Pete would sometimes pick me up
on a long weekend and we’d go in search of adventure; well, it was an adventure
to a little kid anyway. I should have known that it wouldn’t last forever.
Erma came along when I was almost done with middle school. I
was 13, the top of my class, a decent tennis player (I’d say winning
tournaments 4 years in a row makes me decent), and my teachers loved me, but
not in a teacher’s pet kind of way. I even had a good group of friends to hang
out with who didn’t try to lead me astray. But did my parents notice? Of course
not. Bouncing baby Erma came along. Everyone extolled her sweetness, oohing and
aahing over every little giggle and bodily function she made. I guess I shouldn’t
have been surprised that neither my mom nor my dad even showed up to my 8th
grade graduation or my tennis tournament that year. In fact, only Uncle Pete
was there in the audience both times. My grandparents had an excuse; they were
old and forgetful. My parents didn’t have that problem. I know, I’m not
supposed to get upset. After all, 8th grade is no big deal. But the
thing is, it always felt like nothing I did was a big deal to my parents for my
whole life. Even before Erma came along, they were too busy climbing their
corporate ladders to notice me. Erma just gave them something else more
important than me.
My time in high school seemed pretty forgettable, at least
if you asked my parents about it. Sure, I graduated with honors and got into
the college of my dreams on an almost full scholarship. But Erma was just
starting school as I left for college, so they didn’t have time to notice me as
they suddenly realized that they didn’t want to miss a moment of Erma’s
childhood. Thanks Mom. Thanks Dad. I’m so glad I mattered so much to you. I
went to a city where Uncle Pete took me a few times in search of the ultimate
hot fudge sundae. I have to admit that we found it there. We also found
Hollandale University. I fell in love with the campus the first time I took a
tour there in the 9th grade. They have this awesome architectural
design program. I got a referral from my math teacher, my physics teacher, and
my art teacher, all telling the university that I would be an ideal candidate
for their early-entrance program. My teachers believed that Hollandale would be
perfect for my future plans. I decided that I wanted to build small charter
airports all across the country so that people like Uncle Pete would have safe
places to land without being overwhelmed by the big commercial airlines.
I finished high school in 3 years, cramming in as many extra
classes as I could over the summers. I even took a few college classes in my
last year of high school since I already advanced through the regular classes. I
didn’t slow down when I got to H.U. either. I took full loads every semester
and worked through summer, too. I got a job as a DJ, working almost every
nightclub in town at one time or another and even a lot of special events—weddings,
birthdays, banquets. It’s not like I was in a hurry to graduate or anything. It’s
more that I felt like I was pursuing something grander than just myself. I gave
up on trying to impress my parents a long time ago. I was doing this for Uncle
Pete and anyone else who might benefit from my ideas.
As my time at H.U. drew to an end, I decided to try my hand
at the real world. I drafted some pretty elaborate plans for my first charter
airport design and submitted them to every architectural firm in the state. I’m
sure it was sheer coincidence that my parents decided to send Erma to the kids’
camp at Hollandale University the summer after I finished my bachelor’s degree,
before I began my master’s program. The camp encompassed 3 weeks of activities
from all the different departments on campus—math, history, science, art,
architecture, philosophy, drama, athletics, literature—all geared toward
keeping kids busy during the day with as much diversity of activities as could
be dreamt of while parents worked. I’m sure it was also a coincidence that our parents
decided to take a month-long cruise around Europe at the same time. Maybe they
figured 8 years of devotion to Erma was enough and they wanted a break. So, I
got to put on the hat of the babysitting relative, much like Uncle Pete and
many others before me. I still wonder to this day why my parents bothered to
have kids in the first place if they were just going to shove them off onto
other people all the time.
Well, this reversal of roles, me taking care of an unwanted
child instead of being the unwanted one, was an opportunity to show that I
could still do something that mattered to my parents. Don’t get me wrong. I
didn’t hate my sister. The truth is, because of the age gap and the different
ways our parents treated us, I really didn’t get much of a chance to get to
know her. She felt like a distant cousin to me. I know I should love her—everyone
did anyway—I just didn’t know that much about her. I travelled home maybe twice
a year once I moved away for college and we, my parents and Erma and myself,
rarely talked on the phone. I guess they thought I was too busy to bother. Or
maybe they were too busy to remember that inconvenient daughter they never really
raised. They sure remembered my existence quickly when they needed someone to
watch Erma while they went on vacation.
So, that brings us back to Erma’s repellent wake-up
technique. I know it was supposed to motivate me to move my carcass out of bed.
The truth is, however, it more often made me really wish it was part of a dream
that I could worm my way through until a more reasonable hour. Erma didn’t have
a snooze button, though, so there was no deferment to waking when she was
around. On this particular morning, her camp was putting on the final touches
for the play they would perform at the end of the program. Erma got to play the
role of the narrator, so she spent a lot of her time practicing her lines. I
informed her that the narrator gets to read the lines straight from a script;
that was the point of narration. She still insisted on trying to memorize as
much as inhumanly possible. I managed to get her to camp early (on-time in Erma
tense) even though I insisted on completing my entire morning routine—shower,
dress, breakfast. I know there are some college students who sometimes make an
exception about personal hygiene when they’re running late, but I would much
rather show up tardy and clean than on time and reeking.
I was lucky enough to have the day off since I didn’t have
any classes starting for another couple of weeks and my next DJ gig was not
until the weekend. After I dropped Erma off I decided to go visit a couple of
museums in town. My favorite was the Peterson Museum of Art because Uncle Pete
used to tell me all these neat stories about the paintings. I know he made up a
lot of them, but it was still fun to hear. I had a little time before the
museum opened, so I decided to treat myself to a strawberry cocoa and this
little book shop near campus. As I sat down at a table by the window opening
one of the many books I always seemed to be in the middle of never finishing,
my cell phone rang. I prayed there was nothing wrong with Erma. She didn’t get
in trouble often and she usually didn’t get sick, but you never know with kids.
I was surprised to see that it was Uncle Pete on the line.
“Megan, how are you?” He asked after I picked up.
“Okay. What’s up, Uncle Pete?”
There was a short pause as he cleared his throat before
replying, “Well, are you free for a chat? Face-to-face, I mean.”
“Sure. I always have time for you.” I said, “Where would you
like to meet?”
“I’ll be at the Peterson Museum of Art when it opens. Meet
me in the sculpture section.”
I agreed and he hung up. Talk about coincidence. Of course,
part of me was thrilled to meet up with Uncle Pete, but another part of me
started to wonder whether this was going to be a less-than-pleasant visit. I
checked my watch and leisurely finished my cocoa. The museum was only a block
away from the book shop. I did make a private little sigh as I looked down at
my book. I wondered if I’d ever get
past chapter four in Bucky Amsterdam’s second space adventure. Oh, well, Bucky
and Lulu would have to wait for another day. Checking my watch again, I drained
the last few drops of strawberry chocolate goodness from my cup and headed for the
museum.
Peterson Museum of Art was founded by a trust fund of the Peterson
family (duh, I guess, since their name was on the building). It opened when my
grandparents were kids. Uncle Pete said he used to pester them to drive through
Hollandale on family vacations so he could ogle the pictures of birds. I guess
that was part of his inspiration for becoming a pilot, like he was my
inspiration for becoming an architect. Unlike some other art museums that mixed
displays up all the time, the Peterson Museum organized itself by the medium
used in the pieces. Paintings were found in the largest room, probably because
more people liked to paint than anything else. There was a room dedicated to clay
sculptures and one for stone statues. Another room housed metal-work art. There
was even a room for what some people would call more arts and crafts than art,
things that were made with cloth or yarn, weaving kind of pieces. I made my way
to the sculpture room. Uncle Pete was radiating excitement. It looked like he
was about to burst.
“Megan!” He called to me as he waved me over to a painted sculpture
of a green albatross about to launch itself into the air. “I’m glad you could
make it!”
“Sure, Uncle Pete. Tell me what’s on your mind.” I looked
into his green eyes all shiny with enthusiasm. He was a couple years younger
than my mom, but you couldn’t tell when you put them side-by-side. They both
had short wavy black hair with a few streaks of white sprinkled around, were
both just north of medium height, and both had a similar medium build, not too
thin or too much padding.
Uncle Pete bounced on his heels a couple times before he
could respond. He handed me an old piece of paper and said, “Can you tell what
this is?” It was a barely legibly drawn plan for what looked like either a city
or a really complex mall. The most notable part of it were the notations
indicating height, depth, and length dimensions. But there was another set of
notes that I didn’t understand.
“Okay,” I said while handing it back to him, “I think I get
what this is, but why don’t you tell me before my head hurts.”
Uncle Pete nodded. “One of my charter clients handed this to
me last week after I dropped her off at her retreat. She said she got it from
an old boyfriend, but didn’t know what to do with it since it didn’t make sense
to her. She thought maybe you could take a look at it after I told her about
your major.” He blushed a little here. “I brag about you a lot to anyone who
will listen.”
It was my turn to blush. I covered it up with a question, “Okay,
so this is some kind of plan or design for a really large complex. It’s not
easy to tell if it’s supposed to be all one building like a mall, or a bunch of
connected buildings like a shopping center. Did she tell you anything else?”
Uncle Pete shook his head then said, “No, but I got a hold
of the guy who gave it to her. He said it was something his dad worked on
before he had a breakdown. Too much stress, I think. He did say that his dad
used to mumble a lot about portals and stuff, but the guy just assumed he was
trying to figure out where to put doors.”
I took another look at those fourth set of numbers and
notes. I felt compelled to draw up the draft in a larger format, or even with a
3D model, as if something about it really wanted to be built. I convinced Uncle
Pete to come with me to one of the computer labs in the architectural
department at Hollandale University later that afternoon, after I picked up
Erma from camp. Together the three of us watched as I scanned the image and
then punched in the formulas on the page. A model of a city popped up. It wasn’t
anything grand like most of the major metropolitan centers everyone knows
about, but it was definitely more than a mere village. I punched in the last
equation, even though something in the back of my mind felt like it was
forbidding me to go through with it. Maybe I should have listened. Before we
knew what was going on, the screen flashed orange and the city seemed to pop
out of the screen. Then everything was gone in a flash and a loud whipping
sound.
I looked around, expecting the monitor to be fried. Instead,
I saw nothing that looked like a computer lab. Uncle Pete and Erma were still
beside me, but we had all been knocked to the ground. Erma moaned as I helped
her up. Luckily none of us seemed to have suffered more than a slight headache.
“What happened?” Erma asked as she looked around in awe. “Where
did all this come from and where did everything else go?”
I took a better look around when she said that. Instead of
the campus or anything familiar, we were smack in the middle of what looked
like the model that I had been drawing. Once inside it, I could tell that it
was definitely a gathering place of some kind, maybe a market square or
something. The buildings weren’t the square and rectangular pieces you see in
modern cities. They were closer to pyramids, but taller and narrower, almost as
if someone combined the dimensions of a skyscraper and a ziggurat. The largest
structure was made of reddish-brown stone, standing twice as tall as any other
buildings. It was decorated with blue and gold patterns all around. Other
buildings were similarly decorated, only smaller.
We started to make our way toward the high tower when a
voice called out from behind us, “Stop! You don’t want to go there! Trust me.”
We turned around to see a short man with almost all grey hair racing toward us.
His body seemed to be made entirely of wiry muscles as he bounded our way. “I’m
Ray Peterson,” he introduced himself as he made a graceful stop in front of us.
“Uh, hi Ray,” I stammered as I was too stunned to say much
else. After taking a moment to gather my wits I was about to introduce us when
Uncle Pete piped up.
“Ray Peterson? As in the founder of the Peterson Museum of
Art? As in one of the wealthiest men of the 20th century who went
missing not long after the museum opened?” I did mention that my uncle was a
bit of an enthusiast about the museum, right?
Mr. Peterson nodded. “It would appear that you now share my
fate,” he said. He explained that when the museum first opened they received many
submissions from artists all over the country, some even from around the world.
Among the submissions was a drawing of the place where we now stood. Being an
amateur sculptor himself, Ray decided to try to build a model of the city to
display next to the drawing. Like myself, he easily discerned the normal
dimensions, but the fourth set of numbers threw him. He decided to embed them
into the model, thinking they were some kind of personal mark by the original
artist. Once he wrote them into the clay, however, he found himself transported
into the city. That was the night of the disappearance. He had been trapped
here ever since.
“Is there anyone else here?” I asked him. He shook his head.
“Okay, then why should be stay away from that tall building?” I asked, pointing
to the largest structure.
“They don’t like visitors.” That’s it. That’s all he had to
say about it.
“Okay, stay away from the tower. Got it. What have you tried
to get out?” I asked. It turns out that Ray Peterson was a clever man. He tried
just about everything any sane person would have tried, and some questionable
tactics, too. Nothing seemed to work. Erma began to cry. She was worried that
we would be stuck her too long and she would miss camp the next day. I worried
that I’d never see anything besides these buildings again. It was getting late
and we were all growing hungry. Ray took us to his camp where he made us a
mystery dish. Given that I hadn’t seen any animals or other living things
around, I didn’t think I really wanted to know what it was, so I didn’t ask.
Erma fell asleep on a moss rug not long after eating. Uncle Pete decided to
climb one of the other towers, not the big one, to get a different view of the
place. I started drawing in the sand with a stick.
The first thing I drew was a frowny face. I know it wasn’t
the most artistic or mature thing to do, but it was the first thing that came
to mind. Then I started to draw simple animals. My bunny rabbit had lopsided
ears. The cat’s whiskers were a little too long. I was always better at drawing
structures than I was at drawing nature. I wiped out each drawing before making
the next one. I drew an albatross that looked a lot like the one Uncle Pete
stood by in the museum that morning. I looked over at Erma sleeping, wondering
if her dreams were pleasant of not. I looked back at the sand, thinking about
what I wanted to draw next. The albatross wasn’t there anymore! It was hopping
away from my drawing spot, trying to take off into the surrounding area.
Unfortunately, I wasn’t as accurate as I wanted to be, so the poor thing
flopped around on its uneven legs, flapping a right wing that was too high and
a left one that was too short. It struggled for about 5 minutes before it disintegrated
into nothingness.
My mind started racing, wondering if there was something to
this, of if I had just completely lost my sanity. I called to Uncle Pete as I
drew his propeller plane. I tried to make it as life-sized and accurate as
possible. He watched as I sketched. “That looks pretty good,” he said. “I
really wish we had that here so I could look around this place.”
I stepped back from the sand, indicating that he should back
up as well. Before our eyes the plane popped up in full dimensional beauty.
Uncle Pete jumped in and started her up. He was off before I had a chance to
jump in with him. The plane circled around the city for about 5 minutes when
things started to go wrong. Uncle Pete approached the tallest tower as the
plane began to disintegrate like the albatross did. I didn’t even have a chance
to shout before I saw him plummeting toward the steps at the base of the tower.
The crunching noise as his neck snapped still haunts me to this day. That wasn’t
even the worst part. I scrambled up to run to him when Ray held me back. He had
been watching the whole time. As Ray pushed me down to sit once more, a black
smoke emerged from the opening at the head of the stairs of the tower. It
covered everything in front of it for several yards then receded. When the
smoke was gone, so was Uncle Pete.
“I’m so sorry,” Ray said softly as he held my sobbing body
close. “I used to make little toy cars from the sand and draw animals, too.
Until one of them got too close to the tower and the same thing happened. That’s
one of the reasons I couldn’t get out of here,” he continued. “Nothing ever
lasted more than a few moments or if it did, it made its way too close to that
tower and was swallowed up by that smoke.”
I sobbed until I fell asleep. My dreams were haunted by
Uncle Pete’s smiling, laughing face turning into nothingness as it was
surrounded by black sand. In the morning I had another idea. I didn’t want
anything to happen to Erma and I didn’t want us to be trapped in this place
forever. I remembered the fourth set of notations from the drawing and decided
to try something different. I took my stick and began to write in the sand. As
the equation grew, the sand started to glow. I yelled over the growing wind
that rose from the spot in front of me, telling Ray to wake Erma and bring her
right by my side. Once I finished the equation, the sand glowed with the same
orange light from the computer screen and the wind howled around us. I knew we
would only have a few moments, so I shoved the others through. I took one last
look behind me, saying a silent farewell to Uncle Pete, then stepped through
myself as the portal closed behind me.
We found ourselves back in the computer lab at Hollandale
University. Ray Peterson looked a little worse for wear, but he was otherwise
all right. Erma was visibly shaken. It took her a little while to recover from
the loud noise of the whirlwind. As soon as she did, she started to ask about
Uncle Pete. I shook my head before she could say a single word. She cried for a
while, then we hugged. I was grateful that I could bring her back in one piece.
The rest of the week finished off without a hitch. Erma’s
camp ended and we still had a week left before our parents got back from their
vacation. I spent the time with my sister showing her the museums and taking
her out for the best hot fudge sundae in the world. We drove to Uncle Pete’s
house just outside of our hometown. It was actually halfway between there and
Hollandale. We saw his plane sitting sadly in the expansive field behind his
house. Later, after I finished my master’s degree, Uncle Pete was declared legally
dead because he had been missing for so long. His will left everything to me. I
used the inheritance to build my first charter airport on the land that used to
be Uncle Pete’s. I think he would have been happy with it.
[Copy write 2014 Christina Guardino]
