Beyond Broken

 Trigger Warning: car accident involving children,grief, anger

“Michael? Are you going to walk the dog?”

“Soon,” I called back.

The mission of clearing out the basement was well underway. My wife, Rachel, and I were emptying out my dad’s house, my childhood home, preparing to sell it. 

I wanted to sort one more box, the one marked “Mike”, before taking Daisy on her walk. Inside, I found my high school yearbooks which were keepers, and below them, various sports team pennants and towels, all of which I decided to discard as donations. 

At the bottom of the box, bright yellow and beckoning me back to yesteryear, was a faithful friend, my Walkman, in pristine condition with its water-resistant casing and stereo headphones. 

There was still a mixed tape inside. I rummaged in Dad’s desk drawer for batteries and pressed rewind. The Walkman whirred to life. Pushing play, I was blasted with eighties rock music. The best of times came flooding back to me, followed by the punch of remembering my brother, Timothy. I turned it off.

“Hey, Michael! Time to walk the dog!” The voice was more impatient this time, not at all like Rachel!

Taking the stairs two at a time, I nearly fell backwards when I was greeted not by Daisy the golden retriever, but Bear, the black lab of my childhood. I grabbed his collar and reached for the leash hanging next to the mirror. The reflection showed a teenaged boy. It was me!

I walked into the kitchen to see my mother at the stove, my father setting the table, and my little brother, Timothy, excitedly talking to his friend over the phone about his first skateboard. 

I was speechless, not knowing what to say to any of these people whom I loved dearly, whose funerals I had attended. Dad had died last month, Mom in 2011, and Timothy back in 1990.

Mom looked up and asked, “Is something wrong, Mike?”

“Err, nnnno,” I stammered, lost for words and not entirely sure that I was awake. 

“Mike,” Mom continued, “Go the quick route and you’ll get back in time for dinner.”

Finding my voice, I replied, “Okay, Mom!” 

Back downstairs, I slid my feet into a pair of well-worn high tops. Grabbing my ragged, flannel-lined jean jacket, I slipped out the door with Bear a few steps ahead of me. 

I was outside on the streets of my youth with my favourite music and a nostalgic sense of belonging. One block over, I climbed the hill to a small park. It was dark and deserted. As always, I sat up on the old picnic table. From there I could see various parts of our neighbourhood, known as The Hills.

I wondered if Bear knew that his boy, Michael, Mikey, Mike, was now a man with grown children of his own? There was nothing in his appearance or in his demeanour to suggest that Bear knew anything other than the joy of this walk. 

At the mention of a walk, Bear would always turn his head from side to side. If you were sitting, he would raise his paw, urging you to move. But, if you were standing, he would place his paw on your foot and lick at your hand. 

So, as I stood up, I felt the familiar weight of a paw on my foot and a lick at my hand. Forget the quick route. Bear deserved our favourite walk: up through the park, along a trail, onto the back of the school grounds, and past the buildings to the main road.

Walking along that road, I noticed that the big box stores we had passed that morning had vanished. There were just a few strip malls separated by vacant land. Instead of taking the turn to return home, out of a curious desire to see my childhood best friend, John, I detoured down a desolate dip in the road. Bear loved the abundance of bushes along this stretch. 

As always, I threw a pebble at John’s bedroom window. His face appeared from behind the curtain before he ran down to open the front door. 

“Is everything okay?” John asked. 

“Yes. I just was walking Bear and figured I’d say hi.”

“You only left here two hours ago.”

“Oh… I know. I’m just out with Bear.”

“I’ll call you tomorrow night after our family outing.”

“Oh right.”

“Hey, are you going tomorrow? Skateboarding? With Timmy?”

“Nah, you know, not really my thing. But wait, is that tomorrow? Are you sure?”

“Yeah, for sure. It was planned before the break. January 2nd.”

“Did you say January 2nd?”

“Yeah. Are you sure you’re alright?”

I nodded silently with a smile but inside my stomach was churning and my head was spinning.

“Okay, goodnight,” he said, closing the door.

Turning to leave, I almost collapsed on his steps. In my head, a vivid image of my brother’s headstone flashed before my eyes:

       Timothy Richard Swain

  Dec. 10, 1977 to Jan. 2, 1990

Tomorrow, my brother was destined to die, along with two friends; the three of them would be killed instantly in a skateboarding accident. 

The weight of that tragedy came crashing down on me: inexperienced pre-teens sitting on their boards, riding downhill at top speed, colliding with a car! Here I was, with hindsight, and a chance to change the past, to save my brother, to spare us all the overwhelming, unbearable pain that we had endured. 

I headed back home with Bear who was happily sniffing every bush while I was lost in my thoughts hardly aware of my surroundings and yet so familiar with them that I could have walked with my eyes closed. 

As I walked, I devised an ugly but viable plan. Upon entering the house, I let Bear off the leash. I walked purposefully into the mud room and grabbed Timothy’s treasured board. From upstairs, I heard my mother calling me to come eat; they had started without me.

I ignored her, set on my mission. Letting the back door slam behind me, skateboard in hand, I ran to the cement wall that surrounded the carport and bang after bang after bang after bang, I bashed that skateboard down time and time again into the unyielding concrete. Hearing the commotion, my family had followed me. Despite cries from my parents and screams from my brother, I continued to smash up his prized possession until the board shattered and the wheels clattered to the ground.

The board was beyond saving when Dad, a peaceful man, wrestled the pieces out of my hands. My mother was speechless, standing in her slippers and apron, holding her head, and then reaching for Timothy as he lunged at me with surprising strength for his size. 

He grabbed my Walkman and forcefully threw it down before stomping on it. His bare feet were powerless, but the damage was done. The Walkman was wrecked. Beyond broken. 

Then, after all the crashing and smashing and the screaming and yelling, there was nothing but silence in that carport. A silence that was gradually filled by the sobs of my mother, myself, and my brother. Then came the booming voice of my father as he ordered me to my room.

 “Grounded! No music! No TV! No….”

Crying, I ran back into the basement, the broken Walkman in hand. I was a fifteen-year-old boy with the wisdom of a fifty-year-old man. My destruction was nothing compared to the carnage it spared. 

“Michael!”

Rachel’s voice brought me back to 2025. The Walkman, with its cracked casing and broken buttons, was still in my hand and silent. Out of the corner of my eye, I noticed the newspaper at the bottom of the box.

January 5, 1990 - The Hills neighbourhood mourns the loss of two young skateboarders …

“Hey hon,” said Rachel, coming up behind me. “Daisy’s in the yard. We can walk her after we eat. Timothy just texted to say that he’ll be here tomorrow.”

Surprised and speechless, I thought to myself, Timothy! Tomorrow!

Rachel continued, “Isn’t that your infamous Walkman? The one he smashed up. According to him, your teenaged temper saved his life all those years ago.”

“All those years ago,” I repeated in a barely audible whisper as I felt the sensations of a paw on my foot and a lick at my hand.