Inkling Page 8

  Dad turned in a slow circle, his eyes darting round the kitchen.

  “I paid for it,” he said, “and then . . . I must’ve left it on the counter!”

  “You forgot the cake again?”

  “No, I just . . . forgot to carry it out!”

  “The kids are getting picked up in ten minutes!”

  “Cake!” someone screamed from the dining room.

  “There’s no time to go pick it up,” Dad said. “We can improvise.”

  “How do you improvise a cake?”

  From the fridge, Dad grabbed a loaf of sliced bread and slapped it onto the counter.

  “No,” said Ethan.

  Dad slipped it out of the bag, then rummaged in some drawers, found an elastic band, and stretched it around the entire loaf to keep it together. The ends got a bit squished.

  “Oh yeah,” said Dad. “They won’t even notice. We’ll call this”—he snatched a jar of Nutella from the cupboard—“vanilla loaf cake.”

  “Wait, wait!” said Ethan. “That’s hazelnut! There might be allergies!”

  Dad looked exasperated. “Well, just go ask them!”

  “They’re little kids! They might not know!”

  “Fine!” Dad rummaged around in the cupboard above the fridge where Mom had kept all the baking supplies. “Yes!”

  He pulled down a dented tin of chocolate icing and peeled back the lid. Ethan leaned in for a look and winced.

  “We can just . . . add a bit of hot water and loosen it up a bit,” Dad mumbled. “Can you get something to spread it with?”

  When they were done, it was the ugliest cake Ethan had ever seen, but at least it held eight candles (and a ninth, which Ethan jammed in because Dad had forgotten how old Sarah was).

  “Hang on,” Ethan said. “What about the elastic band?”

  His father faltered a moment. “It’s good, it’s good. Come on.”

  They marched into the dining room, singing “Happy Birthday” louder than they ever had before.

  Sarah blew out the candles and then looked carefully at the cake but said nothing. Ethan thought it was best to serve it fast. With the first slice, he cut through the elastic band, and with a snap it whizzed across the table and hit the jug of cranberry juice, leaving a chocolaty smear.

  “What happened?” Eva asked.

  “Nothing,” said Dad. He looked at Ethan. “Keep slicing.”

  It was very easy to slice. Within seconds, Dad had a piece in front of every kid at the table. As they chewed, all the kids had slightly puzzled expressions on their faces. For a few moments everyone was silent.

  Then one of the girls from Sarah’s playgroup said, “This is bread.”

  Ethan couldn’t bring himself to lie to her, so he said nothing, just refilled everyone’s glasses with juice.

  “It’s a loaf cake,” said Dad, shoveling another forkful into his mouth. “Hmm! It tastes a little bit like bread, doesn’t it?”

  Luckily the doorbell rang, and the first parents arrived for pickup. Forks hit the plates as the kids fled the table.

  As Ethan handed out the loot bags near the door, he saw one mother glance at the hideous remnants of the cake on the dining room table.

  “What’s that?” she asked her daughter quietly.

  “That’s the cake!” piped the girl. “It was bread!”

  That night, Inkling returned to Mr. Rylance’s bedroom and this time slid right up onto the pillow. Ethan’s father was snoring again. His breath smelled like the empty glass of wine on his bedside table.

  Inkling moved closer still. He was still scared of him, but he also somehow felt responsible for him.

  Was Mr. Rylance dreaming? Inkling wanted to see the strange bed again—he wanted to see all of it this time, without Rickman interrupting. Would Ethan’s dad even have the same dream again?

  Right away, Inkling was drawing on the white pillow. He had no control over it. It was all automatic, just flowing through him. A piñata being whacked with a stick. A cake that someone was reaching for but just kept getting farther and farther away.

  It wasn’t long, though, before Inkling found himself sketching the high bed again. The railings, the wheels, the ridges in the ugly green blanket, and then the person in the bed.

  As Inkling drew, it wasn’t just a picture he was creating, it was a whole storm of feelings from Mr. Rylance’s sleeping mind. Loneliness and sadness and anger and regret. It was almost too much to bear, but Inkling finished the picture, erased it, and fled.

  Back in Ethan’s bedroom, Inkling found the piece of paper on which he’d started the picture of the terrible bed—and now completed it.

  Ethan was woken by his sister climbing over his back.

  “Sarah, it’s only—Ow! That really hurt!” He pushed her poky elbow off his neck.

  “Can she have a cuddle?” Sarah asked, scrabbling across his body and thrashing her way under the sheets.

  The clock said 6:37. Sarah was a notoriously early riser.

  “Yeah,” Ethan said grumpily, “but don’t poke me anymore. And I want to sleep, okay?”

  He sank down lower under the blanket. He usually didn’t mind having her in bed with him, but she was a wriggler, and a talker. This time, though, she was on her best behavior. All he was aware of was the warmth of her small body as he drifted back off to sleep.

  When he woke, Sarah was gone and he could hear the sound of one of her shows from the TV room. He leaned over and peeked underneath his bed.

  “Inkling?”

  When Inkling didn’t appear, he went to check the comic drawer, but it was empty. From the corner of his eye, he caught a smudge of movement from the bookshelf, and saw Inkling emerge from a book called The Old Man and the Sea by Ernest Hemingway. Ethan remembered it was about an old man who catches the biggest fish in the world.

  “Did you finish it?” Ethan asked.

  YES.

  “I liked that one.”

  IT WAS GOOD.

  “The part when the sharks come, that was really exciting.”

  THE WRITING WAS GOOD AND CLEAN AND TRUE. IT WAS GOOD TO READ IT. IT WAS GOOD TO READ ONE CLEAN, TRUE SENTENCE AFTER THE OTHER.

  “Um, yeah,” said Ethan. Was that the way people talked in the book?

  I LIKED THE GOOD, PLAIN LANGUAGE. I HAVE BEEN USING TOO MANY WORDS. I WILL USE FEWER.

  “Just because the book talks that way doesn’t mean you have to,” Ethan said.

  NO. I AM DECIDED.

  “Okay. Can we work on the project after breakfast?”

  YES.

  Ethan didn’t smell coffee or any other breakfast smells as he walked to the kitchen. There was no sign of his father. He checked the TV room. Sarah was standing in front of the TV, wiggling her fingers.

  “Hey, Sarah, where’s Dad?”

  On weekends, usually Dad made her breakfast and let her eat it in front of the TV.

  “In the big bed.”

  It was weird for Dad not to be up. Ethan went and quietly poked his head into the room.

  “Dad?”

  He heard a grunt.

  “You getting up?”

  “In a bit. Can you do breakfast?”

  Ethan grimaced. “Um, yeah, okay.”

  At least it was a Sunday, so he didn’t have to worry about picking out Sarah’s clothes for school. He got her a bowl of Cheerios, made scrambled eggs (Mom had taught him a while ago), and put some on a plate for Sarah with a big splotch of ketchup. She wanted ketchup with pretty much everything.

  He ate his own breakfast with her, sitting cross-legged on the sofa. Occasionally she’d come over and throw an arm around him, then go back to the TV. Afterward, she wanted to play animal checkup, and then indoor catch with one of her soft toys. After that, Ethan was bored and grumpy. He wanted to get to work on his graphic novel. He swung by Dad’s room again.

  “Dad? It’s ten-thirty.”

  Dad was turned away so Ethan couldn’t see his face, but Ethan had the feeling he wasn’t asleep. He j
ust wasn’t answering.

  Ethan closed the door behind him, loudly. First Dad left him alone at the birthday party, and now he wouldn’t even get out of bed! Ethan let Sarah watch more TV. Why should he play with her all day?

  At around eleven there was a knock on the door, and Ethan opened it to Soren standing astride his bike.

  “Want to go ride in the park?”

  “Yeah, but I can’t. I’ve got to watch Sarah.”

  “Where’s your dad?”

  “Sleeping.”

  Soren nodded. “I can hang out here for a bit.”

  Ethan was glad to see him. They hadn’t talked much since Soren had asked to use Inkling for his history test and Ethan had basically said no. He didn’t want to confess how he didn’t want to share Inkling with anyone.

  “Inkling’s teaching me how to draw,” he told Soren after he came inside. “So I’m going to start doing the drawings myself. Want to see?”

  From his bedroom, he got the illustration board and markers—and Inkling—and in the kitchen he showed Soren how they worked together.

  “I’m still pretty slow,” Ethan said.

  YOU WILL IMPROVE, Inkling wrote. WE WILL WORK EVERY DAY.

  “Thanks, Inkling.”

  YOU MUST HAVE COURAGE. IF YOU DRAW ONE TRUE LINE AFTER ANOTHER, YOU WILL NOT FAIL.

  “Who’s he talking like now?” Soren asked.

  “I think he’s still on Ernest Hemingway.”

  “Well,” said Soren, “looks like you’ve got yourself the best teacher possible.”

  “It’s still kind of cheating, but it’s not as bad as before.”

  “I get it,” said Soren. “I’m memorizing dates for the history test, by the way.”

  It was past lunchtime now, so Ethan heated up some soup and made grilled cheese sandwiches for everyone. He cut Sarah’s into triangles because she liked dipping them into the soup.

  Afterward, Soren had to take off for home. When Ethan looked in on Sarah, she smelled a bit poopy, but he didn’t want to check whether she’d had an accident. That was Dad’s job.

  Ethan paced the living room. Now that Soren had left, he felt a lot lonelier. Worse, he was starting to feel scared. It was almost three o’clock, and Dad was still in bed. Was he having some kind of nervous breakdown? What if he never got up? After Mom died, there’d been a few times Dad stayed in bed all day. Ethan had a terrifying image of Dad being taken away to the hospital in an ambulance. What would happen to him and Sarah?

  He went into the dark bedroom. “Dad, you’ve got to get up!”

  “Yep.” He didn’t move.

  The room was stuffy and unpleasant. Ethan yanked up the blinds and opened a window. He felt a bit less afraid with fresh air and sunlight pouring in. He dragged the blankets off Dad. Dad slept in boxers and a T-shirt. He looked surprisingly pale and somehow smaller than normal. For a second Ethan felt sorry for him.

  “Okay!” Dad said, slowly sitting. “Thank you.”

  “I think Sarah needs a change,” Ethan said.

  “I’m on it.”

  Ethan kicked at the carpet. “I looked after her all day!”

  Dad’s shoulders lifted and fell heavily. “I’m sorry.”

  Ethan didn’t know whether to slam the door or hug his dad. In the end, he just walked out.

  Chapter 10

  “Dad is such an idiot,” Ethan said to Inkling.

  With a sigh, he lifted his marker off the illustration board. He couldn’t concentrate on his drawing. Suddenly he was telling Inkling everything—how worried he was about Dad, and how angry. How tired he was of always being the one to play with Sarah. He even talked about how things were so much better when Mom was alive, and how much he missed her.

  Inkling was still for a moment, as if mulling things over. Then he wrote:

  HE HAS SAD DREAMS.

  “How do you know that?”

  I SEE THEM.

  “You can’t see people’s dreams!” But even as Ethan said it, he thought, Why not? Inkling was like some piece of Dad come loose. A bit of his imagination running around all over the place, like a stray dog.

  I ONLY SEE HIS DREAMS, NOT ANYONE ELSE’S. I DREW A PICTURE.

  Inkling darted underneath the bed. Ethan got down on his belly and peered into the mess of newspapers and ancient, forgotten stuff.

  “Inkling?”

  A long, inky line slithered out to him. He followed it with his hand, sifting through papers until he saw Inkling making a thumbs-up sign on a particular piece of newsprint. He pulled it out. It was blank on one side, but when he turned it over, he saw a picture of a woman in a hospital room. He could tell it was a hospital room by all the equipment on the walls and the railings around the bed. But it took him a few seconds to recognize the woman.

  “Is that Mom?” he asked softly.

  YES.

  Ethan felt like a fist had clenched inside his chest. Mom’s face was puffy. Her long, curly hair was limp. There were tubes in her nostrils and taped to her arms.

  He’d never seen her like this. When she got really sick, Dad said she hadn’t wanted him or Sarah to visit the hospital. She didn’t look like herself, Dad explained. She didn’t want him and Sarah to be upset. Maybe when she felt a little better. But there hadn’t been a better. Ethan had never had a chance to say good-bye to her.

  Furious, he crumpled up the paper with Inkling inside and hurled it across the room. He didn’t want to remember Mom like this. She didn’t look the way she was supposed to. She looked sick and ugly.

  From the crumpled paper, Inkling emerged and glided across the floor toward him.

  “Why’d you show me this?”

  THIS IS WHAT HE DREAMS.

  “Big deal! Of course he misses her! We all miss her. But he’s just got to . . . get over it! He’s a grown-up. He can’t just stay in bed all day!”

  HE IS STUCK.

  “Well, he better get unstuck!” muttered Ethan.

  THERE IS SOMETHING HE NEEDS.

  “Yeah. Mom back, but that’s impossible.” He sighed. “What he needs is to get unblocked.”

  UNBLOCKED?

  “Yeah, he can’t come up with a new story. I looked in his sketchbook yesterday and he hasn’t done anything since . . .” He hadn’t realized it until now. “Since you jumped out.”

  On the floor, Inkling seemed to shrivel up a bit.

  “No, no, it’s not like it’s your fault,” Ethan said. “He was blocked way before you came. But it’s like you’re definitely part of him. He made you with his ink, with his inspiration, and . . .”

  He thought for a moment.

  “Do you think you could help him?”

  THERE IS SOMETHING- Inkling began to write, but Ethan interrupted.

  “Do you think you could draw a new graphic novel for him?”

  Inkling seemed to consider this.

  LIKE WHAT WE’RE DOING?

  “Sort of, yeah!”

  WHAT IS THE STORY?

  Ethan hadn’t thought this far ahead. “Well, I don’t know. Can’t you just make one up?”

  Inkling swayed back and forth thoughtfully.

  CAN IT BE THE STORY, TOLD WELL AND TRULY, OF A MAN WHO CATCHES A GREAT FISH?

  “Well, no, that would be too much like The Old Man and the Sea.”

  OR THE STORY OF AN ORPHANED GIRL WHO GOES TO LIVE ON A FARM ON PRINCE EDWARD ISLAND?

  “No—”

  OR THE TALE OF A GIRL SNATCHED BY A GIANT-

  “Inkling! It has to be an original story!”

  I CAN’T DO IT.

  Ethan blinked in surprise. “Why not?”

  I JUST DRAW. I NEED A STORY.

  Ethan thought about this. It was true. They’d given Inkling the story of the gorilla. He’d read Soren’s script, then used Ethan’s stick figures as a guide to make the drawings.

  “Well,” he said, “how about if we feed you more books? As many as you like! Especially Dad’s, all the best ones, just so you get a sense of the way he writes—I mea
n, maybe you know that already. Would that be enough? And then you could just sort of mix them all together. Sort of like Sarah does when she makes up her own stories.”

  I WILL TRY. I MIGHT FAIL. BUT A MAN WHO DOES NOT TRY CAN NEVER TRULY BE A MAN.

  Ethan figured Inkling would stop talking like Ernest Hemingway as soon as he read some other stories.

  “And look,” he said. “I’m not asking you to do the whole thing. Maybe just start Dad off with one big double-page spread, and that’ll be enough to unblock him!”

  YES.

  “Come on, let’s have a look.” He put out his hand and Inkling flowed onto it, giving him that cool, fluttery feeling. It was like a spring breeze. It was like something waiting to happen.

  In the hallway, Ethan paused and listened to make sure his father was still in the kitchen. He smelled coffee and felt comforted.

  When he crossed the threshold of Dad’s studio, his wrist suddenly pricked with gooseflesh. He looked down and saw Inkling trembling.

  “What’s wrong?”

  THIS ROOM FRIGHTENS ME, Inkling wrote on his arm.

  “Why?”

  I FEAR THE SKETCHBOOK.

  Ethan frowned, then remembered how he’d once threatened to put Inkling back inside.

  “Oh, I was just kidding, Inkling! It’s only a book. Paper. You love paper!”

  Inkling stopped shaking.

  YES. A MAN MUST FACE FEAR. THAT IS WHAT A MAN DOES.

  There were several bookcases in his father’s studio. The one closest to his drafting table was where he kept his favorite books. Plenty were ones that Ethan had read and loved, too: graphic novels and comics, science fiction epics and historical adventure stories.

  He made a small pile on Dad’s drafting table and opened the cover of the first book, Twenty Thousand Leagues Under the Sea.

  “Dad always said this was a really good one. Maybe we should star—”

  Inkling slid right onto the title page, eagerly slurping up the title, the author’s name, the illustration, and all the little, boring bits at the bottom.

  “I didn’t mean right now,” Ethan whispered, looking over his shoulder nervously.

  Impatiently, Inkling poured himself between the pages and disappeared. It suddenly occurred to Ethan that his plan involved completely erasing Dad’s favorite books. Some of them were really nice hardbacks. He sighed. He’d worry about it later. Maybe he could buy new ones with his allowance.