Maximillian Mumfrey swallowed hard, took a look behind him and dove off the rooftop.
The wind whipped past the eleven-year-old boy’s face as he fell through the air, like a window fan giving him momentary relief from the oppressive mid-day heat. He licked a bead of sweat from his upper lip, trying not to focus on what was about to happen. He wished it didn’t have to be this way, that there was some other option but he couldn’t see another way out. As he hurtled toward a partially stripped 1998 Honda Accord on the street below, Max clenched his jaw, his face etched with concentration but his eyes full of regret. The air around him shimmered brightly before imploding with a slight crackling sound.
A second later, Max was somewhere else, in a place he’d been multiple times. As he rapidly blinked his eyes, trying to regain his equilibrium, the room seemed frozen in time. The boy was in a large, worn but comfortable, light brown, Lazy-boy armchair with a wooden TV tray next to it. He moved his body until he was sitting upright but no matter how he adjusted himself, he always felt so small in that chair. A few familiar odors filled his nostrils, a mixture of jasmine, baby powder, and Lysol. It was so quiet he could hear the carbonation from a can of Diet Coke on the tray fizzling intermittently. Next to the soda was a white, Corelle, dinner plate with the remnants of a turkey club sandwich on whole wheat toast. The small, origami swan sitting near the corner of the tray caught his eye, as it always did. He smiled wistfully.
The small boy looked at the oversized, digital desk-clock across the room, noting the time: 1:34 PM. His face changed, a look of profound loss overtaking him. Next, he espied the television. As usual, it was paused in the middle of a movie but this time, it wasn’t the Bruce Willis/Ben Affleck action film, Armageddon. Instead, it was frozen on a scene featuring Kevin Hart and Ice Cube. Just one a several small details that always seemed to change. After taking a moment to identify the movie as Ride Along, Max looked around the room with sadness. The youth recognized the modest décor and furniture, seemingly long overdue for replacement. He’d seen it, or something very similar, numerous times over the past several weeks. Despite growing trepidation, his gaze stopped on a nearby end table.
The boy stared at five framed pictures displayed on that piece of furniture. It showed two separate shots of a smiling bride and groom, both images now faded with age. They looked so happy as they began their life together as husband and wife. The other three pictures were of the couple and their daughter. One frame said “Baby’s 1st Birthday, showing a happy infant with cake all over her face. Another depicted the three of them at the child’s High School graduation, Mom and Dad beaming with pride. The final picture was of the daughter holding a newborn baby of her own in the hospital, so full of joy it fairly burst out of the photograph. The pictures always spurred something in Max, a longing for the family he never had. Ever since he lost his parents and entered the foster system, there weren’t many happy memories like the ones displayed so lovingly in this place. The boy dropped his head as he fought back powerful emotions, the suffocating shame that accompanied this particular scene beginning to overwhelm him.
Max finally heard the footsteps he’d been anticipating. With each step, his heart broke a little more. It was always this scenario, always the same predictable pattern. There was no way to change it. Every time he saw her, the pain grew. The young man wished he could leave right now, wished he didn’t have to see her again, but knew it was too soon. He had to stay a little while longer, had to go through the motions. He had to let this sad tableau play out to the bitter end or it would all be for nothing.
“I got a surprise for you, sweetheart,” a woman’s voice said as she exited the kitchen, holding a small plate with a piece of cake. The boy knew all too well who she was: Mrs. Angela Mumfrey, “Angie” to her friends and family, beloved spouse of 64-year old Max Mumfrey of Springfield Gardens, New York.
“I found a sugar-free recipe and made you some dessert,” the woman said as Max silently mouthed the words along with her, having memorized them. As usual, the woman gasped as she turned the corner but this time she didn’t drop the plate. Max marveled at this added, subtle difference while thinking to himself, here comes the-
“Aaaaaah!” Mrs. Mumfrey screamed. “Who are you? What are you doing here?” The old woman looked around the room, her lips trembling. “What have you done with my husband? Where’s Max?”
“Take it easy, Mrs. Mumfrey,” Max said gently, putting his hands out in front of his body, trying to calm her down.
“How do you know my name?” Angie yelled, her face turning to anger. “You tell me what’s going on here and you tell me right now!”
“Please,” the boy said with a pained expression. “Please, sit down and I’ll try to explain.”
The elderly woman’s face softened, her entire body relaxing, as she finally took a good look at the boy in her husband’s favorite chair. Something about the young man’s face seemed so familiar. It was the way his lips drew back into that familiar grimace, the way his forehead and eyebrows moved when he looked at her. It was almost as if…as if…
“Max?” Angie said softly. “Is…is that you?” Mrs. Mumfrey placed one hand over her heart as she reached for the nearby standing table with the other, placing the dessert dish next to an ornately patterned, oriental vase.
“Yes…and no,” the boy said. “My name is Maximillian Mumfrey…but…I’m not your Max.”
“I-I don’t…I don’t understand,” Angie said. “How-?”
Young Max shifted in the chair uncomfortably. This was the part he hated most. No matter what he said, it never did any good and it never got any less gut-wrenching. Still, it was necessary if only to waste a little more time until he could go back to where he came from.