Just Like Heaven

Chapter Two

Seven years earlier…

It was year 1961. The bright April sunlight was beaming through my bedroom’s window, lightening up the room. I was supposed to be getting ready for church like every other Sunday morning, yet I was sitting on my bed with my back leaning against the headboard, hastily writing additional wordings in my notebook, which contained texts written by myself; I’d rather not to call them poems, for at the time I didn’t believe they were good enough to be called that and probably not worth much. But writing eased my mind and helped me escape reality, and that was good enough for me.

       “Edwin!” I heard my mother calling me loudly from downstairs. “Hurry up! We’re leaving!”

       Looking at the little clock on my nightstand, I saw that I only had five minutes to get ready. “Shoot,” I mumbled under my breath, closing my notebook shut and promptly jumping off my bed.

      “EDWIN!” Mother’s voice rang up again.

      “COMING!” I yelled back, briskly throwing on my blue shirt and buttoning it up as quick as humanly possible. I threw one last look in the mirror, trying to neat my black hair desperately by running my hands through it.

       My heart jolted when I heard a knock at my door and not a second later, Mother opened it angrily, throwing me a deadly glare. “What’s taking you so long?” she asked firmly.

       “I’m done,” I said with a casual shrug, walking toward my bed to pick up my notebook.

      Mother sighed to herself before getting out of the room. “Do you really have to take that thing everywhere with you?” I heard her say as she was walking down the stairs.

      “Do you really have to ask that every time?” I muttered under my breath quietly so she wouldn’t hear me as I left the room, following her downstairs with my notebook in my hand.

      Father was already outside, getting the car ready for us in front of our small yard. I moodily got in the backseat, leaning my head against the window as we started for St. Joseph’s church.

      Throughout the whole fifteen minutes that it took us to get there, I kept my gaze outside the car’s window, watching the people and cars pass by, trying to ignore my parents’ bickering. I couldn’t even care less to know what they were arguing about this time. All I knew was that I wanted to get this day over with as soon as possible.

      This was what had become of my life; every day like the other. Nothing interesting happening out of ordinary. No stories to tell. All the people my age went out every night, trying to enjoy the summer before college to the best of abilities. But all I did was to shut myself up in my room, reading books that helped me pretend that I lived in a different world, where my life could be different.

       But I hated Sundays. It reminded me of the reality in which I lived. Everything always happened in a routine. The same words were said each week. The same people came every time. All in all, it felt like I was reliving one day over and over again for the rest of my life.

     With my notebook still clutched in my grasp, I got out of the car along with my parents after Father had parked the car somewhere near the church. We were all wearing our best clothes, looking our neatest. Yet mother was somehow never satisfied with the way I looked.

      I glanced around worriedly to check whether anyone was looking my way while Mother was trying to straighten my shirt. I had learned by then that there was no point fighting her off after she had set her mind on fixing my hair or tidying up my sleeves. 

      After she was finally done, Mother took a step back to look me up and down and then let out a soft sigh and shrugged, as if to say this was the best she could get out of it. So with that, the three of us started walking toward the church’s entrance, where many other families were going through.

      I liked observing people in silence. It made me realize how different we all were, if only you paid close attention. So I kept looking around, seeing many different people; old and young, rich or poor. But among them all, my mother held her nose up the highest and my father looked to be the sternest.

      I had gotten my black straight hair from my mother. She was rather tall for a woman and thin for her age. But while her eyes were blue, mine and my father’s were both a dark shade of brown that many mistook for black.

      I had inherited my all father’s features; he was tall and slim, but he stood straight with his chest proudly out, which made him look rather intimidating. His hair was always neatly kept out of his face, revealing his sharp jawline and stern facial features that gave him a look of natural authority. Yet unlike mine and Mother’s hair, his was light brown with a few grey strands obvious among it.

      “Ah, Mr. Hudson!” a short blonde man exclaimed as he suddenly saw us, walking forward and taking Father’s hand in his, shaking it enthusiastically. “It is so good to see you, sir!”

      “Thank you, Johnson,” said Father, his lips curling up into the smallest smile as he pulled away. “How is your family doing?”

      “Great, sir! We’ll be forever in debt to you,” said Mr. Johnson, smiling broadly. He sounded like he truly meant it.

      “I was just doing my job,” said Father, shaking a hand at the man reassuringly before gesturing at me and my mother. “May I introduce you my wife, Maria. And of course, my son, Edwin.”

       “How do you do?” Mother shook the man’s hand with a sweet smile on her face, yet I knew it was surely fake and was merely displayed for good manners.

       So I mimicked the same polite smile and shook his hand as well. I hadn’t heard his name until then, but from the way he had greeted my father, I deduced enough that Mr. Johnson was my father’s client; Father was a celebrated lawyer, known for his strictness and persuasion. I didn’t know what trouble had Mr. Johnson been in, seeing as Father never spoke of his work in the house, but by the way the man had thanked him, I could tell that Father was successful once more to help someone in court.

      After bidding us goodbye, Mr. Johnson left our side and so the three of us took our seats in the row to the right, awaiting the others, seeing as we were always among the earliest to arrive. At last, we were asked to get to our feet by the priest to say our usual prayers.

       When we sat back down, the priest started with his usual speech and once again I found my mind wondering away. I opened my notebook in my lap, reading the last few sentences that I had written, thinking of a way to perfect it.

       “Put that thing away,” Mother whispered hoarsely, but when I looked up at her, I saw that she was still looking forward, her eyes on the priest.

       With my teeth gritting together, I snapped the notebook close and placed it on the empty seat next to me, folding my arms as I looked back up at the priest. I wasn’t even listening. I had heard all of it for eighteen years. There was nothing new to it. Instead, I let my thoughts carry me away as I tried to amuse myself by imagining what my life would be in ten years. Would I get into law school just like Father always wanted me to? Would I carry out my mother’s wishes and get married before I thirty to a girl from an honourable Catholic family just like ours and have many kids? Or would I go down a completely different path, become an author, and travel around the world on my own, as I had always dreamed?

      Before I knew it, the ceremony had come to an end and I was snapped out of my thoughts when I saw everybody getting to their feet. I still felt slightly dazed as I followed my parents out of the church and back to our car in silence.

      We couldn’t have gone for more than five minutes that I suddenly came to myself, remembering that I had left my notebook back in the church.

      “Turn the car around!” I suddenly said, going at the edge of my seat as my heartbeat quickly picked up in terror.

       “Why?” Mother asked flatly, but my father didn’t even bother to answer me. The way he acted, it looked like he never even listened to the things I said.

      “I – I left my book,” I said nervously, looking at the back of her head. “Can we please go back? I’ve been writing in that for two years now.”

      “No,” she said simply. “That would teach you to take better care of your possessions.”

      “But –”

      “End of discussion,” she said in a final manner. She didn’t even have to raise her voice to get me to stop arguing with her.

       Folding my arms, I leaned back in my seat, biting the inside of my cheek to prevent myself from snapping back at her. My feet had started tapping on the car’s floor without me even noticing as I glared at the back of their heads.

      The moment we got home, I ran upstairs and shut my door close, pacing around the room angrily. If the church’s janitor threw my notebook away, I could never see it again; meaning that two years of writing would go to waste. I needed to take it back.

       Glancing outside my window, I reminded myself that Father would be in his office all day long and couldn’t care less about me, and Mother wouldn’t bother with me until lunch time, which was in three hours. Therefore, if I hurried, maybe I could go to the church to get my notebook and come back in time for lunch, without anyone noticing my absence.

      So with one last glance at the clock on my nightstand, I took a deep breath and slid up my window, letting in the fresh summer breeze. I looked over the street to check if anyone was passing by before climbing out of the window and using the plumping to get now. As I neared the ground, I let go and jumped down, landing on my two feet easily. I had done this many times before to stroll around the streets at night that now I could do it with no difficulty. 

      I had a little money in my pocket, enough to get a taxi and get back to St. Joseph’s church. I paid the driver as it finally came to a stop and got out of the car, rushing toward the church’s entrance. When I walked inside, I found a few people sitting every here and there, praying in silence. So trying to make as little sound as possible, I went toward our today’s seats, but as I had expected, my notebook was no longer where I had left it. The church janitor must’ve taken it, and all I could hope for was that he hadn’t thrown it away and only kept it in their lost and found section, if they even had one.

      I looked around the hall, looking for a sign of the janitor or anyone that could help me get my notebook back, but saw no one. Although at the end of the hall to the left, I spotted a door. Thinking to myself that, that was where they kept the lost items, I crossed the aisle quietly, making my way over the door in the distance, trying not to attract any attention to myself.

      But as I approached the door, I started to hear something.

      It was the sound of music.

       Someone was playing the piano behind the closed door and singing along with it. As if enchanted by the song, my legs carried me forward like in a trance; not because I wanted to get my notebook. No. I had long forgotten about that. It was the voice that was dragging me forward.

       I stood near the door, listening. The voice of the singing boy was so full of light that I didn’t even care to listen to the lyrics. It felt like the music was both within and without me, washing away all my sorrow and cleansing my soul of the pain I didn’t know I had.

      It was like heaven.

      As if my body was no longer under my own control and instead enchanted by the music, my arm raised and I reached for the doorknob, slowly twisting it and swinging the door open.

       I peered inside and there I saw a large room, though it seemed small with all the antiques filling it up. There was only a small window inside, covered by dusty old curtains. But the beautiful sunlight had found its way through the room from where the curtains separated, beaming its rays and lightening up the place.

     And there, right in the middle of the room, there was a young boy sitting behind an old looking piano, playing and singing to it with his eyes closed, as if he were in a whole other world, as if his voice didn’t belong to earth. He looked to be around my age. His hair was red and rather messy compared to mine, and he was so freckly that I could even sight them from where I stood.

       I knew the right thing to do was to clear my throat and grab his attention, to ask for his help and see if he knew where the lost and found section was. But something held me back. Maybe it was his voice. Or maybe it was because I knew his mind was now far away from this world, and I didn’t want to be the one who dragged him back to reality.

      But as I was too dazed to know what I was doing, I suddenly leaned into the door and it creaked open. The boy suddenly jumped up from behind the piano, his eyes wide with shock, and frankly, so were mine.

      “I-I’m so sorry,” I said, trying to regain myself as I cleared my throat. “I was just –”

       “You’re not supposed to be back here!” said the boy. But from the way he worriedly glanced behind me at the doorway, I could tell that he wasn’t supposed to be in there either.

      “I was looking for a notebook,” I said, getting his attention again. “It has a plain navy blue cover. I left it here this morning. You – you don’t happen to know where I can get it back, do you?”

      “Oh… that was yours?” the boy asked, his ears going red from embarrassment as he rubbed the back of his neck sheepishly. “Yes, I did see it, actually.”

       He then walked toward a wooden closet nearby and opened it, where there were many objects inside, from bible and different books to an umbrella or even a wallet. There, on top of it all, I saw my notebook and my mind eased in relief.

       “Sorry,” said the boy, coming forward and handing me my notebook, “I couldn’t help but read a few pages.”

       “It’s okay,” I said with a grin, even though I felt myself become slightly nervous at those words. “Guess that makes us even, huh?”

       The boy chuckled, a dimple appearing on his right cheek and his blue eyes illuminating under the room’s dim light. So with that, I raised my hand for him to shake, saying, “I’m Edwin Hudson, by the way.”

       The boy took my hand after a small pause with a smile. “I’m Adam. Adam Smith.”