Christopher Hugo was only eight years old when he decided that he was going to stop having an imagination. It hadn’t been a decision made lightly, but four years later, on the cusp of his teenage years, he felt that it had been a good one, the intervening time having proven to him the trouble that imaginations could cause.
Prior to his momentous decision, Chris had been just like any other boy, although possibly a little more bookish than most. He had a thirst for knowledge that was matched only by his capacity for memorising minutiae and trivia, which he loved to display while watching quiz shows with his parents in the evenings. He had never excelled at sports at school, preferring the cool darkness of the computer lab or the seemingly boundless knowledge contained in the library.
And he loved scale models, preferably military models. They seemed almost magical in the way they started as a seemingly random pile of parts that he was able to assemble into a completed vehicle, like entropy in reverse. Life had been simple back then, before the day his parents had come into his room while he was in the middle of building a scale model of a German A7V tank (Apparently the first German tank to be used in battle, April 24th, 1918, at Villers-Bretonneux)
“Chris, we’ve got some news” his father had said.
“Good news” his mother had added quickly. A little too quickly, Chris realised in hindsight.
“Sit down son,” said his father.
“I am sitting down” replied Chris, frowning slightly.
His mother had elbowed his father in a playful manner, as if sharing some private joke.
“Ah, yes. Well, good, because we have some news”
A wide, almost manic grin had spread across his father's face. He used to smile a lot more, back then.
“Oh, I’ll tell him!” his mother exclaimed.
She had kneeled down in front of him as he sat at his work desk, completely befuddled. She smiled gently, taking his hand.
“Chris, sweetie…my little bookworm…you’re going to have a little sister!” Chris had leaned back in his seat, almost reflexively. His elbow dropped onto his desk, landing on a tube of superglue and squirting the contents onto his half-finished AV7, jamming up the tracks far more effectively than the mud of any WWI battlefield.
That was the beginning. Things had gone downhill since then. Six Months, one week and three days later, Keira Graham Hugo was born. At first glance, Chris thought she looked for all the world like a root vegetable in a tiny wig. She had the thick crop of dark hair that his whole family shared, and a pair of wide silvery eyes that stared back up at his own brown ones in an unfocused manner.
Occasionally, to Chris’s horrified amazement, one eye would wander independently of the other, as though it wasn’t yet properly attached, or she was trying to peer inside her own head. Tiny fingers writhed and clutched at the air like a wizard performing an arcane ritual. Despite all this, visiting adults seemed to adore her, pronouncing her ‘cute’, ‘adorable’ or ‘precious'. Chris decided that this must be some form of forced politeness, as it was probably a terrible social blunder to tell a parent how hideously ugly their baby really was. She had arrived home earlier that week with his exhausted looking Mother and Father, and since then relatives that he hadn’t seen for years and in some cases didn’t know existed had dropped in to stare into the bassinet and pronounce her, against all visual evidence and logic, the most perfect baby ever.
With a small pang, Chris remembered when people had fussed over him like that. It didn’t seem that long ago.
“Chris!” His father’s voice snapped him out of his reverie. “Can you get your Auntie Dora a glass of juice?”
Chris nodded and made his way to the kitchen, forcing a smile at Auntie Dora, who was in fact an old neighbour from a street they had lived in years ago. Even he could tell by his parent’s increasingly weary attempts at small talk that she and her thick Scottish accent had overstayed her welcome, but she seemed oblivious. Opening the Fridge, Chris scanned the wide selection of juices available. Apple, Cranberry, Orange, Mango, Tropical Punch...all 100% organic and sugar free. His mother was big on health food, and always made sure the kitchen was well stocked with all manner of fruit and veges, and generally bereft of anything that may cause a cavity or a sugar rush. Luckily for him, she was also an imaginative chef and made sure that the family meals were never dull. And he always got a gold star every time he visited the school dentist (13 visits and no fillings) so he didn't miss the lollies too much. Pouring a glass of OJ from the fridge, Chris caught sight of his reflection in the kitchen window. At a cursory glance, he didn’t look any different. His thick mop of dark hair still fell into the serious dark eyes that people constantly told him would drive girls mad when he got older. (Not that he could see the appeal in that, girls seemed generally mad enough already.) He wasn’t any taller, although he was tall for his age. His small chin still displayed a disappointing lack of manly stubble. No, he didn’t look any older, but he certainly felt it. Seven and three quarters old and already redundant.
“Do ye remember Jan? Her wee lass has gotten into university, studying Marine Biology, now thar’s a fine thing… Oh, thank you Christopher dear…”
Chris smiled automatically at Auntie Dora and glanced briefly at his mother, concerned. He didn’t know all of the details about having babies, but a few months ago the family had been watching a nature documentary, which showed the process in some detail. His mother must have caught his open-mouthed look of shock, because she had quickly changed the channel. He had brought it up later with his father who had answered his concerns briefly and with only the hint of a smile playing around his lips.
“Your mothers not a giraffe son” He had said “The baby won’t need to survive a two-meter drop”
Chris knew his mother wasn’t a giraffe, but looking at her drawn and exhausted face now, he knew that however a baby was born, it was hard work, and both his parents were too polite to state the obvious.
“Auntie Dora” he said quickly, before his brain talked him out of it.
Truth be told, his mouth had taken it totally by surprise, his brain having very little say in the matter.
“Mum and dad are really tired now, I think they need to sleep”
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I can’t believe you actually said that! Yelled a small voice inside his head, possibly his stunned brain. We’re both in trouble now!
Auntie Dora blinked at him. His parents stared, surprised but(hopefully) not angry.
“Of course they are dear” said Auntie Dora. “ nae, yer right laddie, I should be off, it’s just been bonnie to catch up...”
“No, it's been fun, but…we are a bit tired”
“Of course!”
“Come around anytime Dora, it’s great to see you”
“And if you ever need a babysitter…”
“We know who to call.”
As Auntie Dora was politely but firmly escorted to the door, she paused briefly to regard Chris thoughtfully.
“Yer a good boy Christopher” She said, “Very responsible.”
Chris smiled. So, this was growing up. No longer cute and fussed over, but responsible and respected. He could live with that.
The coming weeks, however, were not easy. Keira was a newborn baby, and Christopher soon learnt that that equated to noise. Ongoing noise, at all hours of the day and night, with no respect for homework or worse, favourite TV shows. And, because of his new responsible and respected status, he was expected to help out to a disturbing degree. He did dishes, vacuumed the floor and kept his room scrupulously tidy, although he drew the line at changing nappies.
In spite of his help, his parents had a constantly exhausted look about them, stumbling through the days in a bleary eyes haze, muttering to each other things like ‘Why did we do this again?’ and ‘I don’t remember it being this hard’.
I must have been a very easy baby, Christopher thought. No-one would be silly enough to go through this twice.
Eventually life took on a semblance of normality as a routine established itself. Unfortunately, that routine still rotated almost entirely around the baby who, it had to be said, didn’t show a lot of appreciation. She had two expressions, crying and confused. She smelt of milk, talcum powder and, mercifully only on occasion, rancid cabbage. She couldn’t move apart from uncoordinated wriggling, couldn’t speak apart from a high-pitched screaming that sounded like a sheep that had swallowed a helium balloon, and certainly couldn’t help Christopher with a jigsaw or play a board game. In that respect, she had something in common with his parents. They had no time to play with him either.
He was staring into her cot one evening, once again trying to fathom the appeal, when he got his first indication that all might not be normal with his baby sister. She was oddly quiet for a change, seemingly attempting to see something just beyond her range of vision. As he watched, her eyes scrunched up, then widened, and the slightest hint of a smile seemed to flash across her face. Surely babies don’t smile this early, he thought. Idly, he followed her gaze upwards.
And gasped!
Floating in the air, just below the level of the ceiling, were three radiant globes, gently glowing with a warm, golden light. As he watched, they circled slowly around the single electric light in the centre of the ceiling, as though performing a dance. Christopher blinked, glanced quickly down at Keira. She was still focused on the globes, following their movement. Looking back up, Christopher noticed that the globes weren’t perfectly round. They were in fact changing shape as he watched, undulating gently as though they were floating in a lava lamp. They also seemed oddly unfocused and indistinct around the edges, like he was looking at them out of the corner of his eyes, even though his gaze was firmly locked on them. And they were floating with absolutely no visible means of support. Christopher finally forced a sound past the catch in his throat.
“Muuuum! Mum!”
The Globes vanished. Keira began to cry. His mother burst into the room, her eyes wide with panic.
“What? What is it?”
Her eyes quickly scanned from Christopher to Keira, narrowing slightly in confusion as she took in the apparently normal scene.
“What?” She asked again, as Christopher struggled for an answer.
What indeed? How to best describe what he had seen?
“There were…the ceiling was glowing...like really big fireflies”
His mother leaned against the doorframe.
“Fireflies” It was not a question.
Christopher felt his certainty falter under her tired but even gaze. “Or…maybe…ghosts…” It sounded lame even as it was leaving his mouth.
His mother rubbed a hand across her face and lifted the crying baby out of her cot.
“Chris…please don’t set the baby off for no reason. We were just enjoying a nice quiet moment”
With that she left the room, gently clucking and cooing to calm down the unhappy potato in her arms. Christopher glanced back up at the now normal ceiling. He had seen something. He had!
More weeks passed, and the odd apparitions didn’t return, despite Christopher’s constant scrutiny of the bedroom ceiling. He began to think that maybe he had looked up too quickly that night, that the bright lights were all in his head. Or reflections from outside. Or ball lightning. Over time, his anxiety faded. And was replaced by anxiety for his mother.
Even to his eight-year-old mind, she seemed a little ‘too’ tired. His father seemed to have bounced back fairly well and was going for morning runs again, but his mother…she spent a lot of time in bed. She looked pale and didn’t smile much anymore. And, in the occasional unguarded moment when she didn’t think he was watching, she looked worried. No, more than worried. She looked scared.
His concerns were confirmed when his parents returned from the hospital, supposedly for a ‘checkup’. His father had called him into the lounge, where he sat on the couch with his arm around Christopher’s mother. Christopher sat down on the carpet in front of them, his face a blank mask. But inside, his stomach was churning. His mother looked white, and her eyes were staring dully at nothing in particular. She was leaning against his father as though she didn’t have the strength to hold herself up. His father cleared his throat briefly and then spoke in a shaky voice. “Chris…you’ve been a great help over the last few weeks. Your mother and I, well… we’re really proud of how you’ve stepped up son.”
Christopher nodded. The words registered, and at any other time he would have been overjoyed to hear them, but he knew that’s not what he was here for. He waited for his father to get to the point.
“Your mother…she’s not well at the moment. So, we’re going to have to ask you to help out for a little bit longer while she’s in and out of hospital”
Christopher nodded.
“Thank you, Chris,…don’t worry, everything’s going to be fine.”
His mother jerked her head up quickly to look at his father, the first time she had moved since he’d sat down. Some unspoken communication passed between them, and she turned to Christopher, smiling weakly.
“I love you sweetie…you’re such a good boy”
Christopher nodded again, while unasked questions screamed in his head. What’s wrong with you? Why do you need to go to hospital? Are you going to die? But he didn’t ask any of these. He just got up quietly and went to sit in his room, surrounded by his incomplete models.
Over the following weeks and months, Christopher found himself retreating more and more into his imagination. As his mother grew weaker, he imagined himself as a great doctor, discovering the miracle cure for whatever was wrong with her. He imagined that he found a magical lamp, and the genie inside gave him three wishes (Full health for his mother, riches for the family and a volume control for the baby). He imagined that aliens with advanced medical technology came down from space and made his mother better, back to how she was before Keira was born. But none of these increasingly desperate fantasies helped in reality.
And then one day, one awful, rainy day…she went away. And Christopher imagined he had a miraculous healing power in his hands, that all he had to do was touch his mother and she would come back, and everything would be normal again. But as he took her hand while she lay in her bed, and felt how awfully cold it was, heard his father softly weeping next to him, and heard the suddenly hated baby, the ungrateful, demanding baby who had taken his mother away crying in the next room, reality threw cold water in his face. And so, he decided not to imagine anymore.