Amy

“Amy?”

Darryl bolted from his slumber, drenched in sweat, panting like a tuckered dog. For a moment, he thought he was seven years old again. But he wasn't, because he had memories of dropping out of college, getting married and hating his life. As his breathing normalized, he gazed out of his childhood bedroom window, across the moonlit shadowy backyard, towards the remnants of his old treehouse.

The cozy aroma of coffee summoned Daryl like clockwork to the kitchen of his childhood home. His mom, Annie, floated about the kitchen as she did from his earliest memories of his youth. Her bright smile greeted him as he rounded the corner.

“Good-morning sweetheart,” she greeted, placing a steaming cup of coffee on the table for him. It was the same cup she always used when he visited. Annie found these adorable cups with each of her children's names and their meanings inscribed on them. Beloved was the meaning of Daryl's name.

“Good-morning mom,” he replied, taking a seat at his favorite spot at the table.

“How’d you sleep?” she asked as she carried on with breakfast. Her chipper disposition couldn't hide the fact that she didn’t sleep well the night before. Her eyes weary, red, and swollen from another night of mourning. His dad’s sudden passing crushed them all. But the children were grown and living their lives. But Annie now lived in this world without her best friend.

“I guess,” Daryl shrugged between slurping his coffee. “Mom, do you remember Amy?”

She chuckled, “How can I not. You used to go on and on about him. Why do you ask?”

Daryl sighed, “I don’t know— I could feel him around me last night. Then he called my name. Woke me up.”

Annie placed two plates of scrambled eggs, bacon, avocado, and tomatoes on the table, before taking a seat beside her son. Her brow furrowed as she sipped her coffee, “Amy was more real to you than any of us.”

Thoughts of Amy persisted. Daryl couldn't shake how powerful his presence was last night. So when the rest of the siblings arrived, he quietly scurried off to the backyard and made his way to the dense woods at the perimeter of the backyard. The overgrowth had nearly engulfed the old treehouse. A light sensation of playfulness surrounded him, as if summoning him to go for it. Before he knew it, he was in the thick of it, pulling at vines and ripping away branches until locating the rickety ladder barely attached to the structure. With most of the rungs gone, Daryl stepped gingerly on the remaining ones. Thick vines webbed the opening to the treehouse. Grasping a sturdy branch with one hand, he ripped away the foliage that had encroached around the entrance, with the other. Finally, after much effort, Daryl found himself sweaty, out of breath with bloody hands standing in the place he and Amy played and shared many deep conversations about life.

The energy in the space was as alive as Amy was when Daryl was a young boy. He could see him plain as day, but no one else could. That got him ribbed mercilessly by his siblings. Guilt washed over Daryl as he remembered his last encounter with Amy. Just go away, Amy! We can’t be friends anymore because you are not real. Amy cried.

“Shit,” Daryl sniffed as he brushed a tear from his eye. Fitting in and not being labeled 'that weird kid' was more important than make believe for a seven-year-old trying to figure out his place in this world. Glad to be normal, it was a relief that Amy never showed up again. But there were moments of regret for how it all went down, but it had to be done. Over the years, Daryl thought less and less of Amy, until the memory of him was nearly eradicated,

A ray of morning sunlight peeked through a missing panel, illuminating a little black notebook that lay on an old, rusted school desk. 'Well, what do you know, it’s that little black notebook Amy always carried around.' Excitement got the best of Daryl as he lunged forward to retrieve it, but not before his foot broke through a weak panel in the floorboard of the treehouse.

“F@#K," he cried, pulling himself back up. Balancing himself firmly on stable beams, he was mindful to be more diligent in his movements. Finally, retrieving the book, Daryl opened the dusty, worn pages marveling at what excellent condition the book was in. It appeared to have held up way better than the treehouse. Flipping through the pages, it dawned on him that he'd never glimpsed inside Amy's book. Perhaps it was more of a journal. It had entries, and dates and doodles. How odd. The lighting was dim, so reading Amy's scribble was impossible. Daryl shoved the journal in the seat of his jeans, as he'd need both hands free to maneuver back down the busted ladder. But before his descent, he glanced at the desk where he'd retrieved the black book. A memory flooded his consciousness.

"Com'on Amy, let's go play," cried Daryl.

"Wait, I’m writing-- it's important,"replied Amy as he sat at the desk like a grown up.

" Why are you always writing stuff?" He sighed.

Amy smiled, but didn't answer why, he just replied, "This is for you. Something for when you get old, it will help you.”

“Who cares when I’m old-- com'on, let’s go play.”

A month had passed since Daryl found Amy's journal, its new residence in a side table drawer in his bedroom. He had every intention of exploring it, but the challenges of life took precedence. Daryl and his siblings scramble to save their mother's property from being repossessed by the bank. There was close to 20,000 dollars in back taxes owed on the family home. The siblings had only scraped up a third of the amount between them. Also, Daryl was in the last stages of his divorce, so that took up any loose change he had lying around. Annie was a teacher and a pillar in her community and did not wish to lose the home. Jerry built that home. Her children grew up there. She did not wish to uproot her life to live with one of her children either. So they were fighting hard to help her in her home. None of them wanted their mother suffer more that she had to. Besides, it was their home too. Wonderful memories, wonderful friendships.

Suddenly a wave of sadness swept over Daryl as he lay in bed. Wonderful friendships he repeated the thought. Finally, it dawned on him that he missed Amy. That feeling has been gnawing on him since his dad's funeral. 'Why was it so different with him? No other friend ever measured up. It's like we'd spent life-times together. More like old friends, with so much history, but we were only four, five, six and seven.'

“How can you help me when I’m old?” asked Daryl, finally conceding to Amy’s request for more time before they run off and play.

“I have some dollars I stashed in a small town I was passing through in my 20s. You can have it for your family. It will be just enough,” assured Amy.

“Huh? But you are my age and my mom and dad have jobs, why would they need money?”

Immediately, Daryl retrieved the black journal from his bedside drawer and leafed through the pages. Upon further scrutiny, much of what was scribbled was foreign. Yes, some English, and other recognizable languages, but some Daryl could not figure out the origin. Weird symbols and sketches filled many of the pages. TO BELOVED and his family, titled one of the entries. Something about that struck him. 'Is this my message from that day?' TO BELOVED and his family was written in a six-year-old's hand writing. The remainder of the entry had the penmanship of an adult; and appeared to be written way earlier than the title entry. 'Hmm'. The writings spoke of a strong box with important documents in it, along with a substantial amount of money. Amy stated that the money wasn’t as important as the other items in the box. Then a blurb in Amy's six year old hand writing again instructed Daryl to take the money for his family and store the other stuff until the appropriate time. 'Until the appropriate time? What does that mean?'

Daryl flew into Jacksonville International Airport, rented a car, and drove 20 minutes north before hitting the Georgia/Florida state line. He took the first exit and followed his GPS into a quaint, coastal town in Georgia. It was a toasty, sunny afternoon as he cruised into the downtown area. Sprawling, sturdy oak trees and plantation-style homes lined the street as he drove towards to the waterfront. Many of these historic structures were transformed into bed & breakfasts, novelty shops, bookstores, restaurants and pubs. Finally, dead-ending into another street, Daryl turned right and drove alongside the river. Boating docks, a quiet park and a few more restaurants spotted this street. Finally, after re-routing, GPS took him to Oak Grove Cemetery.

The cemetery was peaceful, possessing a quiet beauty with its ornate, marble and cement gravestones. Carved angels and cherubs stood frozen in time, guarding over the dead. Unaware, cheerful birds chirp and flit back-and-forth in the swaying, moss laden oak trees. A most welcomed breeze stroked Daryl's perspirating brow as he rid himself of the light jacket he was wearing. Fallen leaves and acorns snapped and popped under his feet as he made his way towards the back, right corner of the property. It was at this point he wondered what the hell he was doing. Spending the last bit of his money to follow a haunch of someone that didn't exist? How can an imaginary friend write in or much less possess a journal? 'Am I this desperate for money?' Swatting away at some weird, demon-like, invisible bugs, Daryl realized he was becoming frustrated, so he re-focused. The plan was to find and mark the spot, then come back under the cover of night so as not to be discovered. Arriving at the edge of the property, he felt foolish. 'Now what?' He glanced at the journal entry again. It mentioned a Crepe Myrtle tree that should be in bloom this time of year. Adjacent the blooming Crepe Myrtle would be a massive oak with a face of a pirate carved in its flesh. Behind the face he would find the strong box sitting in the hallowed out flesh the tree. It would be located in the wooded area bordering the cemetery. More and more Daryl began to curse himself for doing this. Was he running away from his problems? Was he missing Amy and the adventures they used to have? 'If I still had a wife, I’d be mowing the lawn right now. Shit!' He glanced around the property. Those Crepe Myrtles were all over this town, white and pink blooms everywhere. The journal said this one would be purple, tucked away in the woods. Daryl glanced up and among the mighty oaks and tall pines, he saw a sprinkle of purple in the brush. He’d have to trudge about 15 - 20 feet into the woods to get to it. Glancing around, there was only one other person in the cemetery visiting the gravesite of a loved one, and she wasn’t paying any attention to him. He slipped into the thicket and maneuvered his way to the beautiful, blooming Crepe Myrtle. Once there, his eyes searched for the pirate face.

“Whoa!”

He was taken aback. The carving was unnerving and straight up spooky. Anyone who may have been snooping around would be petrified, especially with the proximity to the cemetery. Daryl tied a white rope around the tree so that he could find it again. He examined the pirate faced opening to gage how difficult it would be to pry open and determined he'd definitely need to purchase a crowbar. He noticed that the enclosing gate of Oak Grove didn’t extend this far out and that this tree could easily be accessed from the road. All he’d have to do is park the car across the street at the docks and trek down, across and into the woods.

Daryl decided to have dinner and a few drinks at one of the local taverns. Sipping his beer, he took in the locals. The speech was unhurried, friendly and deliberate, sprinkled with some 'y'alls' and 'well I be damns.' It was charming. Everyone was friendly and the Southern hospitality did not disappoint. Daryl inhaled a plate of shrimp and grits he ordered. The bartender said it was a customer favorite and after tasting it, he knew why.

The sun had set a couple of hours ago. Daryl stayed on after dinner, had a few more beers, taking in the tunes. The DJ was spinning a sweet mix of 90s classics. He shook his head at the idea of 90s music being classics. A gentleman entered the bar dressed as a pirate and the entire place cheered. Daryl asked a gentleman at the bar about it. Pirates were a large part of the town’s history. Raids and attacks were a problem in the 1700s or 1800s. Daryl thought about the booty he would uncover that night. He fancied himself a real-life pirate.

The mysterious steel box was exactly where Amy said it would be. Brilliant to hide it so close to a bunch of dead people. After retrieving the box, Daryl untied the rope, stuffed it back into his jacket pocket and made his way out of the thicket. At the edge of the road, he inhaled the cool night air as he surveyed the area. Deeming it safe, he secured the crowbar and strongbox and trotted back to the rental. Daryl moved expeditiously, but casual as not to raise suspicion just in case anyone was watching. Propping the crowbar against the car, he brushed off some debris, then took off his jacket and wrapped it around the box, opened the door and gently placed it on the passenger seat. Daryl grabbed the crowbar and placed it beside the wrapped box and started the ignition and blew out of St. Mary’s feeling alive and exhilarated.

After a quick shower, Daryl placed the box on the table and studied it for a few moments; grayish-black, dinted, dirty, and rusty, but intact. Amy was right. And he wrote that note for me years ago. 'How would he know my family would be in trouble years later— when I'm old,' he chuckled. He was on 36. 'How ancient that must seem to a kid.' Now was the moment of truth. With a deep inhale, Daryl opened the box.

The items were contained in a stained burlap sack. Meticulously, Daryl reached in and pulled them out one by one. Another journal, this one red leather, stuffed with other papers, and what appeared to be a map. He’d explore that later. The next haul was a cluster of jewelry; rings, bracelets, necklaces, broaches. The exquisite pieces clamored all over the table as he removed them from the sack. He allowed the rest to fall away as the biggest piece; a gold necklace with an enormous green gem, cradled in sparkling diamonds, caught his eye. The brilliance of it caused his eyes to squint. But once they adjusted, the gem mesmerized him; as his heartbeat quickened. Once he recovered, he suddenly felt the need to protect the piece. He popped up and grabbed a hand towel from the bathroom and gently enfolded this precious necklace within it, then gently placed it on the table. The reveal continued as he pondered, 'Jesus, Amy, who or what the hell are you?' Finally, Daryl produced wads and wads of cash rolled tightly, bound in string. His heart was pounding out of his chest. As he pulled the last roll-out, his fingertip grasped onto another piece of jewelry, but as he pulled it out of the bag, it was a silver compass. But Daryl’s attention was on the bundles of money that lay sprawled before him. Sheer disbelief consumed him as he breathed a sigh of relief as he knew his mother would be okay.

"Thank you, Amy," he voiced, reclining in his chair. He just had to take a moment.

Surely there was more to this—no more to Amy. His eyes surveyed the treasures before him. He gathered the booty and replaced it in the sack, but not before scrutinizing the second notebook stuffed with ancient looking papers. A smile tugged at his lips. 'This is so Amy'. Their play always included swashbuckling adventures around the globe. Daryl thought back on his life. Everything was rigid, linear and screamed conformity ever since he banished Amy out of it. Yes, now he'd fit in, following the status quo, falling in line, never questioning established rules and norms of his culture, society or even his family. School had always been a challenge, but he went to college anyway, because that what successful people do right? But he couldn't hack it, so he quit— but still owes a crap load of money for a re-cap of his high school education. Always confused, wandering and under pressure to 'do the right thing', he joined the military, then did what his friends were doing and got married. The military wasn't for him, so he didn't re-enlist. His married disintegrated shortly after that. She wanted what she imagined her friends had, successful social media marriages. Daryl didn't care anymore about what the masses thought of him, his status, and money, all he wanted was peace. Time to figure out who the hell he was. Then his dad died and Amy came back into his life. Now, he’d dared to fly to the South in search of treasure from clues left by an imaginary childhood friend. Now that's living!

“What other adventures do you have planned for us, Amy?”