The Secret Manuscript (9 page)

What the
heck?
he thought.

There was no
handle on the door, so he tried leaning his body weight into it,
but it did not move. He then noticed a numbered panel to the right
of the door, undoubtedly requiring some kind of code. Ben had no
idea what it would be, but punched in a series of random numbers
anyway just to see what would happen. Upon pressing enter, the
device beeped and the display read:

INVALID
ENTRY

Ben lightly
pounded on the area surrounding the steel door — it too was solid.
The room was clearly encased in concrete, so unless he wanted to
chisel his way through, he needed to get the code.

The task
demanded more energy than Ben could devote at the moment, so he
decided to go upstairs and get some sleep. On his way down the
hallway, he had a sudden moment of clarity. His posture stiffened
and his eyes grew wide. Frantically reaching into his back pocket,
Ben pulled out two pieces of paper, and shouted, “The notes!”

Returning to
the panel with trembling hands, Ben held out both notes stacked on
top of each other. He was so sure the numbers would work. He could
have kicked himself for not thinking of them sooner.

DON’T GIVE UP,
YOUR LIFE HAS A PURPOSE — 40 35 55 81 11

DON’T GIVE UP,
YOUR LIFE HAS A PURPOSE — 403-555-8111

Comparing the
two notes, Ben decided the first number he should input was 40,
then so on down the sequence until all five double-digit numbers
were entered.

Here we go,
moment of truth
, Ben thought as he pressed enter.

The device
beeped like it had done before, but this time the display read:

ACCESS
GRANTED

The door made
a series of noises from the internal locking mechanism. When the
sound stopped, Ben leaned against the door and pushed his way into
the room.

Ben had no
idea what he was about to uncover. His eyes set sight on the room
on the other side of the steel door for the first time. Much to his
dismay, it appeared to be just an ordinary room. There were no
jewels or stacks of money. The disappointment soon set in,
replacing any previous thoughts of discovering riches. However,
there was still enough excitement to continue. After all, there had
to be a reason why someone went to all the trouble of hiding this
room, and Ben was well aware things did not always appear as they
seemed.

The room was
about the size of the adjacent bedrooms in the basement. The one
distinct difference, aside from it being hidden, was it was
completely furnished. It looked like a philosopher’s office.
Bookshelves lined two opposing walls, a dark brown leather sofa
rested snugly up against the north wall, and a large wooden desk
was placed in the centre of the south wall. Ben slowly walked
around the room, taking notice of the book titles.

Although the
books were not hidden treasures, they did provide him some comfort.
Ben had been an avid collector of books, and since all his books
were destroyed in the fire, he was overjoyed to be able to restart
his collection.

As Ben neared
the desk, he noticed a strange looking gadget on top of a stack of
papers. It was metallic and had strange markings on it. He picked
up the object and studied it for a moment, but could not determine
what it was. He set it back down and took a seat in the large
leather chair. Leaning back, Ben swivelled around taking full view
of the secret room.

What is
this place?
he asked himself.

On the table,
beneath the gadget, was a stack of papers. The cover page was blank
and made no reference to the author’s name or title. Ben picked up
the stack and flipped to the first page. As he began reading, the
narrative told the tale of a young mother named Anne, and her
baby:

Anne was
sixteen, still attending high school, and trying to balance the
stress of adolescence and motherhood. The weight of this hardship
was overwhelming for her. Although she was trying her best, she was
ill-equipped to handle the workload. During the day, she would drop
her baby off at a neighbour’s house while she attended school.
Being so physically exhausted all the time, Anne found it difficult
to focus and often fell asleep during class. As expected, she was
failing nearly every course.

The school
sympathized with her and gave her all sorts of breaks. They kept
the passing grade at 50%, but drastically reduced her workload.
Even then, she failed to maintain a passing average. The school
tried a number of options, including assigning make-up exams and
making appointments with counsellors, but it was no use. She had
missed too many classes and could not get caught up. With great
reluctance, the school had no choice but to hold her back a year.
Adding to her woes, her life at home was filled with strife.

Her parents
were no longer together and she lived with her dad, Charlie, who
worked for the Canadian postal service as a package handler. He
hated the job, but at his age, he had no marketable skill sets. He
was, in effect, forced into a life of servitude. Every day, he
trudged into work and sorted packages in a stuffy warehouse. His
physical health was declining concurrently with his mental health.
At the end of the work day, he would come home, grab a beer, sit in
his favourite chair, and watch TV. Some nights his migraines were
so bad he just went to bed. Needless to say, he did not offer much
guidance or support for his daughter.

One day, Anne
left school early to come home. She was upset and frustrated with
her life. Without saying a word to anyone, she packed a bag and
left town — leaving her child behind. It was the mark of yet
another poor decision. However, as she explained in the note she
had left, she just wanted to escape her current situation and start
fresh. She urged her father not to come looking for her and vowed
to one day return. She never did.

Ben became
more engrossed in the story, which went on to describe the
challenges Anne’s father had with his health. As for the baby, it
was put in a foster care facility and never saw his mother or
grandfather again.

Still reading
the manuscript, Ben rose from the chair and stretched out on the
couch. The story shifted from the point of view of the mother to
the young boy in foster care.

Without proper
family support, the boy became withdrawn. He remained mostly to
himself through his early years and rarely did he make friends or
interact with others. Despite being shy and reserved compared to
other children his age, he displayed artistic talent well beyond
his years. His teachers would often praise him by saying, “Ben you
are very creative.”

Ben’s heart
nearly skipped a beat when he read the line. The story had obvious
parallels between his life, but never once did he think it was
about him. Since he did not remember many of the early details of
his life, he had not made the connection.

This has to
be a coincidence
, Ben thought as he scooted to the edge of his
seat.

Once he
actually thought about it, the full picture came into scope.
Charles must be referring to Charles Gringer — my grandfather.

Being
completely enthralled with the text, Ben continued to read. He
breezed through the next nine chapters, which contained incredibly
detailed accounts of his childhood. Throughout the chapters, there
were several points where the story described events he actually
remembered. Any previous doubt had been eliminated; he now knew
this was the story of his life. As to where it came from and who
wrote it, that was a mystery that had yet to be solved. The strange
thing about it though, was the narrative was written in the third
person, almost as if it were written by the hand of God or some
all-seeing observer.

He spent the
next few hours flipping through the pages at a rapid pace. He was
learning so much about himself — where some of his behavioural
patterns came from, his commitment issues, and his insecurities. He
realized he had the unique advantage of having nearly every detail
of his life documented and laid out for him to analyze. Presented
in such a manner, it was easy for him to recognize the error of his
ways.

Morning came
and Ben woke up still clutching some of the pages of the unbound
manuscript, while the rest lay scattered on the floor. He rubbed
his eyes and wiped the drool from the corners of his mouth. Unsure
what time it was or how long he had dozed off, Ben rose from the
couch and reassembled the manuscript.

Ben exited the
room and walked back down the long winding corridor and through the
fireplace. On his way upstairs, he saw sunlight pouring through the
windows and he could not help but smile. He felt unusually
invigorated. It was the first time in a long time that he actually
looked forward to his day. Now having been fully charged, Ben was
excited to explore the events contained in the secret manuscript.
Unfortunately for Kyle, he was at school and would not get to share
the joy of Ben’s discovery.

Ben set the
manuscript on the kitchen table and opened the refrigerator. The
fridge was nearly empty aside from a half empty carton of milk, a
two-litre of pop, and a box of pizza. Ben lifted the lid to the
pizza box and saw there were only two slices left. He glanced at
the time on the microwave — it was just after ten o’clock. He
grabbed the milk instead and decided on the more sensible breakfast
option — a bowl of cereal. In addition to inheriting the house, Ben
had also acquired Mr. Gringer’s dishes and cutlery. After opening a
few cupboards and drawers, he eventually found what he needed and
sat back down at the table to read the manuscript while he ate his
breakfast.

As he
continued on, he came to a part in the story he had almost
forgotten. It described a situation where he was getting bullied
and Kyle had come to his rescue.

Ben curled up
on the ground in a turtle position, protecting his head from the
repeated blows. The commotion caught Kyle’s attention, but he did
not react right away. Off to the side of the scuffle was another
bully going through the contents of a distinct red backpack. This
was when Kyle knew the victim of the attack was his brother,
Ben.

Kyle rushed
into action and lunged at the group of kids — shoving two of the
boys and punching a third one in the mouth. The group of boys
spread out unsure whether to stay and fight, or just leave. Kyle
stood his ground and eventually the boys decided not to continue
the fight. Once they left, Kyle grabbed Ben by the arm and helped
him to his feet....

A few chapters
later, there was yet another account of Kyle’s heroism. Again,
Ben’s recollection of the event had almost completely vanished. The
memories were so vague that it was hard to know with any degree of
accuracy how much of it was factual. As he continued to read, parts
of it slowly started to come back, but he could not remember how
exactly the story turned out. In addition to it being a long time
ago, Ben had done his best to put his past behind him.

The next
morning Ben and Kyle woke up at 7:00 a.m. to do their morning
chores. The first thing they had to do was feed the animals. They
went into the stable and started shovelling hay into the horse
stalls. Next to be fed were the pigs.

They went back
to the barn to get the slop buckets. That’s when Ben noticed the
padlock on Bob Wibley’s garage was unlocked. This was unusual since
it had always been locked in the past. There were no windows to
peer into, and there were explicit instructions to never go near
the garage. Naturally, a healthy curiosity brewed as to what Wibley
stored in there. With a hurried pace, Ben walked toward the garage
to see what was inside.

Kyle, being
the more sensible of the two, stayed back and urged Ben not to act
on his curiosity. He knew the only thing to come from it was likely
to be trouble.

“
Ben, come
on, quit messing around,” Kyle shouted in a hushed manner.

Ignoring
Kyle’s advice, Ben unlatched the lock, opened the large wooden
door, and disappeared into the mysterious garage. Once inside,
Ben’s heart raced as he snuck around in the dark. The only light
came from a tiny sliver through the doorway. When his eyes adjusted
to the darkness, he realized what was concealed in the off-limits
garage.

Ben was
staring at a custom-fitted dust cover draped over some kind of
automobile. Based on the outline of the car, Ben had an idea of
what model it was. Still, he could not help but look. Reaching
down, Ben grabbed the cover from the bottom and flipped it up over
the hood. He almost gasped when he saw the shiny chrome and
pristine red paint. Even though he was just fourteen years old, he
had a deep appreciation for American muscle cars. He walked the
length of the car with the cover still in hand. With each step, a
little more of the car was revealed. Once he reached the end, he
tossed the cover onto the dusty floor. He was now staring at a
mint-condition, 1967 Ford Mustang convertible. He had never seen
Wibley drive it nor had he ever heard him talk about it. For a
brief moment, Ben actually had a little respect for his foster
father.

The car had
momentarily hypnotized Ben, causing a distortion in his moral
judgement. Placing one hand on the front seat, and the other on the
windshield, he jumped inside the vehicle — muddy boots and all. He
slid into the vintage leather seat and immediately gripped the
steering wheel. The ’67 Mustang was one of Ben’s favourite cars. He
had never sat in such a nice car before, and doubted whether he
would ever get the chance again. He took full advantage of the
opportunity. After cranking the steering wheel a few times and
playing with the knobs, the excitement of pretending to drive was
fast wearing off.