The Jump

So cold and clinical, the feel almost devoid of life. Can’t believe this will be the last place I ever see him—my papa—his mind sharp as a tack but his body too tired to go on. Well, that’s what he told me when they took him away in the ambulance last week… Waiting for my turn to say goodbye…

“Sam, Papa is ready for you. He has requested to see you alone?” My mum raises her eyebrows at me, and I shrug my shoulders. I have no idea what Papa wants.

The room is ice-cold as I approach the bed. The body lying in it appears too small to be Papa, but if it is, he seems half the size he was last week!

“Papa?”

“Yes, Sam, come here. I have something important to tell you.”

I pull a chair closer to his bed and climb on up. He is thin, much thinner than before, and his hands are shaky and his eyes glassy. He’s looking at me as if he has too much to say and not enough time to say it.

“Sam, you have—” He coughs and closes his eyes for a moment. When he opens them again, they shine with renewed determination. “—the gift.”

I look at him in confusion, no idea what he’s talking about.

Papa coughs again, then manages to wheeze out, “My gift.”

I shoot a quick glance around the room. Is he giving me something?

“I’m sorry, Sam. I never… found the right time… to teach you.”

His words are punctuated with more coughing, each one seeming to weaken him even more. I reach over and touch his weathered hand.

“Teach me what, Papa?”

“It… I… I just don’t know how… where… what… There’s no time. I’m sorry, I wanted it to be easier…for you… than it was for me.” Papa is coughing so much now, he can hardly get the words out.

“What, Papa?”

Mum comes in then, but Papa gestures for one more minute, waving her out of the room. I look at Mum, then back at Papa. She looks upset and confused, and he looks anxious and worried.

I squeeze his hand. “It’s okay, Papa. What is it?”

He looks at me, tears gathering in the corners of his eyes. His voice shakes when he whispers, “I’m sorry, Sam. I love you… so sorry.” He slips a small wooden box out from under the sheet covering him and hands it to me, then starts coughing again, an intense sadness falling over his pale face as he struggles for breath. “Sorry, Sam… you will… figure… it out… Sorry… you can’t… tell… anyone… ever…”

His voice fades away, and then Mum and a nurse suddenly enter the room. “Sam, wait outside!” Mum almost shouts the words, her desperate fear evident. As I take one more look back at Papa, a warm breeze passes through me, cutting through the icy chill of the room. I can feel it then; he is gone.

*****************

The car ride home is awkward, Mum quizzing me through her tears about what Papa had said. I don’t know what to say, not even sure I know. Did he say anything that makes sense? I feel the box in my pocket, play around with it. It has smooth patches but doesn’t seem to open.

“What is it?” Mum asks again, I’m guessing about my conversation with Papa, since I’ve kept the box hidden as Papa requested on his final breaths.

“I really don’t know, Mum. Nothing really, just that he loves me.” My thoughts are on the box; I don’t know what’s so important, but is that the secret? Is the box the gift he spoke of?

I need time, hopefully I can work it out.

I feel the weight of my papa’s secret weighing me down. Will I know what to do with his gift? And what does he mean that I have it? All I have is this box…

*****************

It’s been weeks now since Papa passed. The box is still just a box, a very well-made wooden box that emits a dull thud when you shake it, but it doesn’t open. I’ve tried, spent so many hours looking at the box, but nothing. I cannot open it nor understand any point to it. I mean, it’s pretty, but what’s so special about it—and why did Papa give it to me? Why is it so important, that he used his last breaths trying to explain… something to me?

*****************

Another wasted day at school. We all have to do a presentation on society and culture around the world. I swear, this is the fifth year we’ve done the same thing, every year since the third grade. Will we ever learn anything new?

The speeches are all the same, nothing different or remotely interesting—until quite matter-of-factly, Jane Marvan mentions Himitsu-Bako, a Japanese puzzle box that was made from wood to entertain tourists over one hundred years ago. I couldn’t help thinking, is this what Papa has given me? A puzzle box, an old Japanese trinket? My curiosity sparks with new hope and I’m excited to get home and examine my little treasure.

I run in the house, calling out “Hi, Mum” as I make a beeline straight for the stairs and up to my room in the attic, to the box I’ve hidden in a hole in the wall behind my bed.

I lay on my bed and examine the box, as I have every day for the past few weeks, but now with new eyes. Yes, it is made from wood of all different colours, the texture the grains of the wood running in different directions. Still, I cannot see how to open the box. It’s 1976, Google doesn’t exist, the internet is yet to even be invented, so I lay here thinking about what Jane said about the boxes in her speech: some have tiny pinholes, and when you poke a needle in, they open. I can’t see any holes, though, not even one slight imperfection on the box. She also mentioned something about magnets…

I walk downstairs and pinch one of Mum’s fancy new fruit-shaped magnets off the fridge, wondering to myself, what if it opens the box? Am I ready for what might be inside?

Sitting back on my bed, I run the magnet over the box, but nothing appears to be happening. I bring it close to my ear in case I can hear anything—click, the box splits right down the middle. It doesn’t open, so I jiggle the two sides, and it slides until the two parts separate. Inside is a tiny black book … and that’s it. I’m confused, not sure if it’s a joke, or what the purpose is of such a book.

The book intrigues me, though. So tiny, yet perfectly made, with a black leather cover and gold trim on the pages, to match the beautifully embossed gold letters on the front: JC. Jesus Christ? Nah, pretty sure it’s my papa’s initials—Joseph Cartwright. So, Papa, this is what you gave me, your little black book?

I turn the box over to drop the little black book into my hand, then realise the room’s icy cold and I feel dizzy. Wait a second, how did I get here? Where am I? I rub my eyes and shake my head as if to wake myself up.

“Wait, Papa what are you doing?” As large as life, I’m in my Papa’s garage. It’s the middle of winter, and Papa is here, alive, standing in front of me and jabbing himself in the leg with a needle. “Wait, what are you doing,” I yell as I lunge at him.

“No, Sam, it’s okay. I can explain.”

I freeze mid-motion. What’s happening? Am I going crazy? Papa’s dead, and I’m two hundred miles away from his shed, at my home in Sydney. Staring blankly, I wait, although I’m not sure what for. To maybe wake up from this crazy dream?

“It worked, Sam. If you are here with me now, my theory was right—but never try it yourself. I was desperate, as I had to ensure there was a backup plan if I never got to talk to you properly about the gift when I was alive.”

“So you're not alive, Papa?” I whisper into the dusty stillness of the shed, staring at his achingly familiar form and trying to get my head around what’s happening right now.

“No, Sam, this is a memory I created for you. I knew you had the gift, but you’ve only just started to have jumps. You probably still think they’re extravagant daydreams.”

“Jumps, Papa? Daydreams? A memory for me? I don’t understand.”

“It’s okay, Sam, I have a little time to explain it to you now. The gift is that we can touch an item that has a significant event attached, like the book I made for you. That’s what you saw me doing, I was injecting myself with adrenalin to stimulate an event. I think a whole-body reaction is needed to cause an imprint on the item. That was my theory, and it worked. We are here now, so I can explain.”

“I must be going crazy. This isn’t real, how did I travel hundreds of miles, and back in time?”

“Even I’m unable to answer that, Sam, but you can, and I could too. You often won’t get to choose when, where, or how it will happen, and believe me, it can get you into some pretty hairy situations. What I can tell you is, other than a few bumps and grazes, I have had more adventure than misery from the gift, but unfortunately you can’t tell anyone. Besides them thinking you’re crazy, it weakens the gift, and can make it harder for you to jump safely.”

“Can’t tell anyone? They all think I’m crazy already. And why you? Why me?”

“I’m not sure, Sam, but you know your anxiety, the overthinking and the struggles you have concentrating in school. I was the same, that’s how I knew if anyone would get the gift, it would be you.”

“What about Mum?”

“I don’t think so, it seems to be a little sexist like that. Your mother and my sister are empaths, can read people much better than most. Maybe they read people and we read things, I don’t know, but it’s another theory of mine.”

“So the book has pictures, what do they mean?”

“It’s my road map of sorts, to places I’ve been and the items that took me there. I’ve left you some money and other valuable things in a few of the memories.”

“Money? Is that what the family have all been fighting over? Why did you leave it to me?”

“They have more money than they need. I wanted something for the next generation, for your kids, and then their kids. It’s my selfish way to stay relevant into the future.”

“Papa, you will always be relevant, everyone loves you and misses you.”

“That’s now, but when my money runs out, will they still think of me?”

“Of course, you are a part of all of us.”

“Sam, you’re about to go back, and you can only take back what fits in the box. I love—”

I’m here in my bed. My skin feels ice-cold, as if I’ve been outside on a winter’s day, but the room is warm. It’s February and twenty-eight degrees. Was it some kind of weird daydream? I look down at the box in my hand. There’s a note inside it, along with the little book, that says: I love you, Sam. Enjoy the jump, have a wonderful life. xx Papa xx