Gibson, The Paranoid Orphan

“Dear Son: If you’re reading this, then your mother and I are dead.” 

Gibson’s father never beat around the bush. His father was a big man, with a big personality. Gibson always imagined he’d die in his sleep, a quiet end to a loud life. 

Instead, lightning struck him dead at Lake Maracaibo in Venezuela. Gibson's mother suffered the same fate. The week before that they sailed the Caribbean. Before that they hiked Colombian coffee fields. 

Gibson had not left his home in five years. He was 18. 

The letter continued… 

“Your condition wasn’t easy for your mother and I, given our lifestyles. And we’re sorry we spent so much time away from home, away from you. We loved you son, even if we weren’t there to show it.” 

Gibson paused then. He looked up, out the window. The letter shook in his hands, snot leaked from his nose. Yet he read on. 

“But it’s been years since the incident. You can’t stay cooped up forever. How long has it been now?” He could feel his father staring down at him, even through the letter. Doesn’t he know I want to leave? Gibson thought. He looked back to the letter, but wished he hadn’t. It closed with a simple, daunting request. 

“You're meant to live life making memories with people you care about, and who care about you. If you ever loved your mother and I, then you’ll leave the house. Go, Gibson. The world isn’t all that bad.” 

Five years ago, Gibson was beat to a pulp walking home from school. His parents found him unconscious, eyes swollen shut. He was missing for hours. Before his parents arrived, no one offered to help. They let him lay alone, helpless and hurting. 

He was 13 when it happened. 

Ever since that day, he stayed home while his parents traveled the world. When people asked them about their son, they moved the conversation elsewhere. Gibson was a footnote in their lives. 

Hell, Gibson was a footnote in general. 

But he wanted to leave. A part of him dreamt of wandering out in the world, like his parents. Yet the real world held too many unknowns. It was much easier to stay home, safe and protected from the kind of people who let a 13-year-old kid rot on the sidewalk. 

His father’s words echoed through his mind as he continued to justify half-a-decade of his life. “If you ever loved your mother and I, then you’ll leave the house.” 

Between too many tears and too many thoughts, Gibson drifted off to sleep. And in the back of his mind, hidden deep in his unconscious, a seed was planted. A seed that grew into a question as he slept… 

Where would he even go? 

***

Gibson rolled out of bed as the sun rose. Odd, he thought. The sun was usually much higher by the time Gibson woke up. And despite having lost his parents, he felt energized. Inspired, even. He wondered if he should feel guilty. 

Go, Gibson. He heard his father’s words again. 

Gibson turned and approached the door. He peered through the peephole. Am I a coward? The question slithered into his mind. Gibson always felt like he had a right to stay home. But his father’s dying request made Gibson question that right. He spent his adolescent life in their shadow when they were alive. Would he continue to do so in their death? 

Screw it. 

He reached for the handle, turned down, and then pulled. Sunlight flooded over him and air filled his lungs. He took a deep breath. Closed his eyes. And lifted his right foot off the front entry’s welcome mat… 

But he didn’t feel the rough concrete beneath his feet. Instead, his foot landed on what felt like a ball of fur and he heard a loud YELP! He lost his balance, and then fell face-first into a football-sized, golden-coated puppy. 

Who are you? Gibson thought perplexed. A pair of confused brown eyes stared back at him. 

***

In the basket where the dog sat, Gibson found a letter. The dog licked his hand as Gibson reached in to grab it. His knee-jerk instinct was to pull away. It had been so long since anyone had touched him other than his parents. But how could those innocent eyes mean him any harm?

Gibson opened the letter and read. 

“Gibson, we heard about what happened to your parents. What a shame, but what lives they lived! We know you don’t leave the house much, so we figured you could use a friend. You can name him whatever you’d like. 

We’re here for you, 

The Christiansons”  

Gibson looked off towards the left, where he thought the Christiansons lived. It had been so long since he had seen them, of course. The houses in the countryside were spread apart. Miles of grass fields separated them. 

Well, that was nice of them, I guess… 

Then his mind raced to work out whether they could have an ulterior motive. Was this some sort of trick? A joke? He tried to find an answer, a logical explanation, but could not. 

He dropped the letter, then looked at the puppy. His long ears fell to the sides, hair curled in all different directions. The tip of a pink tongue hung out his mouth. He had brown eyes that looked at Gibson with as much curiosity as Gibson looked at him. The pup looked like he was smiling, so Gibson smiled back. 

But then the dog stood, tail wagging and ready to move. He turned his head to the road, then back to Gibson. Gibson stood and faced the long dirt trail to the main road from his house. Tall trees shot from both sides, blanketing the road in shade to mask the hot, humid air. 

Then the dog started trotting along, his tail bounced with each step. He stopped and looked at Gibson, as if to say, “Aren’t you coming?” 

If he’s brave enough to go, then so am I, Gibson thought. 

Then the reality set in: he was scared. Or at least I can pretend...

They both started down the road.  

***

Half an hour later, and Gibson was actually smiling. The house was still in his line of sight. Of course, he wouldn’t let it get too far. They had wandered off the trail, through the thin veil of trees, and into a wide open plain. 

Gibson looked out at the field before him. It’s been years since I’ve ran. Before the incident, he always ran. He remembered how the air on his face made him feel like the horse riders on TV. He remembered racing his dad every Saturday when he was 9. He remembered… 

He took off at an all-out sprint. 

The air blew through his curly red hair. His muscles felt stiff at first, but after a few strides they opened up. He felt fluid. The dog ran with him, his tongue falling out the side of his mouth when he looked up at Gibson. 

After 100 yards, Gibson collapsed onto the grass. He laid there staring into the sky, his chest heaving up and down from exhaustion. A photo his parents took when they traveled to the Cape of Good Hope flashed in his mind. It was taken at one of the most southern tips of Africa. The sunset was captured from the jagged coastal cliffs, looking out on miles upon miles of ocean. In the top right corner of the photo, there was a single seagull flying. To where? Gibson couldn’t say, nor did it matter. But Gibson could now understand it, and the freedom it must have felt. 

But then something moved.  

It happened in the line of trees another hundred yards away. Gibson only caught it from the corner of his eye. But the dog was already faced in that direction when it happened. The dog’s ears shot back. He growled. Then in a feat of animalistic athleticism, he tore off towards the trees. 

Gibson shot to his feet, then the trees swallowed the dog. He looked back to the house, but he had to squint to see it now. Back to the trees. Before he had time to reconsider, he felt his feet carrying him towards the trees. Towards the dog. Towards the unknown. 

***

Gibson’s courage faded quickly. 

I’m an idiot, he thought as he wandered through the thick brush, calling out at every other step. He never named the poor dog, so he yelled, “Here boy!” It made him feel so stupid, so cliche. The weight of his parents’ death was bad enough. But the thought of losing this dog made it that much worse. 

And then he heard it. 

A bark penetrated the eerie silence of the forest. Gibson stopped and listened. Over there, to the right! Towards the river. Yes, it was unmistakable. Gibson took off in a fast walk, making sure to check over his shoulder before he went. 

But when he got to the river, the dog wasn’t there waiting for him. Gibson stood alone, the water at his feet. The current was mild, but it was getting stronger. He had no idea where the river flowed, and he had no intention of finding out. 

Or so he thought. 

He looked up. Dark green tips from the trees poked high against a backdrop of red and yellow. Dusk. That meant darkness. Within minutes, Gibson would be stuck out here in this godforsaken forest. Alone, helpless, and afraid. Just like I was five years before… 

He ran his hands through his hair and squeezed his eyes shut. The dog will find his own way back, right? It could use its nose to track Gibson’s scent back to the house. 

The allure of the thought seduced him into believing it might actually happen. 

***

Gibson found his way through the trees and back to the field of grass. But something about the situation felt off. He tried to move his feet forward, but he couldn’t. And that’s when it hit him: he was abandoning the dog. Like his parents abandoned him for their work. And like strangers from years before abandoned him on the sidewalk. 

The self-disgust ate at him. He wouldn’t stand for it. He couldn’t. He needed help, but he had only one option. His insides twisted at the thought, but he had no other choice. 

He’d have to go to the Christiansons. And he’d have to trust them. 

***

Gibson stood in front of the wooden red door. It had a big brass knocker in the middle. The kind you’d expect to see in Medieval times. His hand shook as he reached for it, then he stopped. He turned his head to look back at the street. 

I don’t know these people. But then he remembered the dog, and he idea of him alone out there. Gibson knew how that felt. He turned back to the door, knocked, then waited. 

How am I going to explain that I lost the dog they gave me? Before he could try to plan an answer, the door opened. 

“Oh, Gibson!” A dark-haired girl who looked to be his age stood before him. His eyes went wide, and he felt a tingle he had never felt before. Her eyebrows raised, then her face relaxed into a friendly smile. Gibson stuttered. He looked at his feet, and noticed he was playing with his hands. Say something, you idiot!

“Hi, I’m… I’m Gibson. I live down the street just there,” he waved off to the left.

“I know who you are. We’ve been neighbors for years,” she replied. 

“You know who I am?” Gibson said, awestruck. 

“Of course. I’m Steph.” She reached her hand out to shake his. He looked at it. Then realized he should take it to avoid making this any more unpleasant than he was sure it already was. 

Steph’s father appeared behind her. He looked at Gibson, and his mouth dropped. Then, as if snapping himself out of a trance, he shook his head and the Christianson smile settled on his face. He was barrel-chested and wore a warm-looking red flannel shirt. 

“Gibson! My boy, it’s been years since I’ve seen you out and about. And you came to see us, ha! Well, we should feel honored, Steph.” There wasn’t a hint of sarcasm in his voice. Gibson’s chest felt warm around these people… 

No, he thought. How can you trust them? He forced a smile, and decided to get on with it. 

“Hi, Mr. Christianson. It’s good to see you. Look, this is pretty embarrassing,” he looked down again, incapable of meeting the big man’s eyes. “I… I need your help.” 

Mr. Christianson’s face fell as he remembered the news about Gibson’s parents.

“Gibson,” he started. “We can help you, son.” He looked to Steph when he said this, and she nodded back in eager agreement. “What’s going on?” 

“Well, first off, thank you for the dog. I suppose you dropped him off this morning before I woke up?” Gibson asked. 

“We did, we figured it was the least we could do. We know you don’t like leaving the house much. And, well, figured you could use some company…” Mr. Christianson’s voice trailed off, unsure how to handle the topic. 

“Right. Well we were in the field across the way there,” Gibson pointed off to the distance. “And he ran off into the trees. I can’t find him, but I think he’s near the river. I’m sorry. I… I didn’t mean to lose him.” 

Mr. Christianson realized what Gibson was asking. 

“That’s okay, Gibson. We’ll go and help you bring him back. He’s a good dog, so he shouldn’t have strayed too far. We’ve got flashlights. Wait here.” He turned and left Gibson and Steph alone on the front porch. 

***

The three of them hiked through the field until they reached the line of trees where the dog was last seen. They each carried heavy-duty flashlights. Yellow circles of light shot in this direction and that. 

There was no sign of the dog. 

“Here, I’ll take you to where I last saw him.” Gibson guided Mr. Christianson and Steph to the river. It sounded louder now. The current must have picked up, Gibson thought. And then there was a splash. They froze, then turned their flashlights towards the river.

“There!” Gibson shouted. 

It dawned on them when they reached the lip of the river. The current was much stronger at night, and the dog had already drifted down a couple yards. He flowed further and further every second. Gibson looked at Steph and Mr. Christianson. They were bundled up in layers to fight off the chill. Gibson was still in his t-shirt and jeans from earlier. 

He knew what he needed to do. 

He ripped off his clothes and dove into the river. He had not swam since he was 13, weeks before his life changed. The water engulfed him. And for a split-second, he was in this same river with his parents years before, in another life. The memory jolted through his muscles, and his body started to swim. 

The current pulled him down the river, faster than he thought. He reached the dog and felt his legs kicking for dear life. Gibson scooped him up in his right arm, while his left reached for a branch or the land or something to slow him down. 

He couldn’t grab anything. The current got stronger. The water got louder, like someone was turning up a track of white noise. It slushed and sloshed and morphed into what could only be one thing: a waterfall. 

He tried to swim upstream. But with one arm, it didn’t do him any good. Gibson’s left leg cramped up. Then his right leg. This is it, he thought. 

But right before Gibson almost accepted his fate, Mr. Christianson dragged Gibson and the dog to the edge of the river, while his other hand held on to an overhanging tree. 

“A little cold for a swim, don’t ya think?” Mr. Christianson teased before letting out a booming laugh. The cool air chilled Gibson to the bone, but he didn’t think about the cold. 

“The water looked so inviting, I couldn’t help myself!” Gibson replied with a laugh, trying to add humor to the situation. He felt looser now. More comfortable. More… relaxed? 

“I wasn’t about to let you go over the edge!” Mr. Christianson replied, wiping off the dirt from his boots. “It wasn’t that hard, really. I took off on a run when I saw what was happening, then I grabbed this tree here to keep me steady…

But how are you, son. You okay? Seemed a little shook up for a second.”

“I’m great,” Gibson replied. “Actually, I feel more alive than I have in a long time.” 

*** 

They walked until they reached the Christianson’s house. Gibson’s house was down the road a little longer. They reached the door, then turned to look at Gibson and the dog. 

“You want to join us for some dinner?” Mr. Christianson asked. Gibson’s eyes met Steph’s. She smiled, and held his gaze. Gibson still didn’t know what that tingly feeling was whenever he looked at her, but he liked it. 

He remembered his father’s letter. “The world’s not all that bad,” it said. His father was right about that. These people were proof. 

“You're meant to live life making memories with people you care about, and who care about you,” it also said.

Maybe you're right about that too, Dad. With the dog at his side, he turned his back on his house, and joined the Christianson’s for dinner.

The air was warm, the smells were delicious, and Gibson was happy.