Being Henry David - By Cal Armistead Page 0,50

with the exception maybe of Cameron, it’s full of really nice people. It occurs to me I haven’t felt the beast attack my insides for days. Not since waking up at Thomas’s place last week. To me, that’s huge.

Thoreau wrote that we should suck the marrow out of life. Okay, so this may not be the life I started with. But it’s a good one at the moment, so why not go ahead and seize the day?

For about an hour, I hum to myself, re-shelving books in the nonfiction stacks at the library. But then I have to bring a cart of books into the Thoreau room and I stop short outside the room, where the head and shoulders statue of Henry David sits on a pedestal. My heart sinks in my chest.

Thoreau’s statue-blank eyes aren’t saying anything to me about sucking the marrow out of life or seizing the day. What they’re saying instead, is: what the hell are you doing, Hank, allowing yourself to settle into a life where you don’t belong? Have you gotten so unbelievably selfish that you’ve forgotten all about your sister?

Trying to ignore a sick feeling spreading in the pit of my stomach, I finish up the shelving and then sit my butt back down at the library computer. I don’t want to look through the Missing and Exploited Children database anymore, and I hate that I can’t live a normal, everyday life and just be happy. But I have no choice. I have to keep searching for the truth. Not for my sake anymore, but my sister’s. And if someone has come to Concord looking for me, I might not have a lot of time.

Picking up where I left off, I look at every single kid in the database who vanished from Delaware. Then Florida, Georgia, Hawaii. So many faces, so many missing kids, so many broken families. The faces all seem to blur together. But I continue, on to Idaho. Then Illinois.

Illinois.

That’s when it happens. That’s when I see the face. My face.

It’s me, but somehow it’s not me. Same face, same hair, but I’m smiling, confident. A high school picture. High school kid who looks secure in his existence. A guy who seems to know exactly who he is. Or was. A guy named Daniel Henderson. My heart seizes up in my chest.

Daniel Henderson. I say the name to myself, whispering it out loud in the library.

Daniel Henderson, the listing says. From Naperville, Illinois.

So this is me. My real name. I think back to the image I had of my dad, calling my name in Walden Woods. The name I couldn’t quite hear him calling was Danny. Yes, that sounds right. I am Danny Henderson from Naperville, Illinois. It says my birth date is May 12, which means I’ll turn eighteen in just a few weeks. I must be a senior in high school. Will I miss my own graduation? Was I going to college?

I hold on to the edge of the table, not breathing. Bracing myself, I wait for all of Danny Henderson’s memories to come rushing back into me, filling every empty space inside with life and memory and realization.

But nothing comes. I can’t believe it. Nothing comes.

I’m not Hank, but Danny. So why do I still feel like Hank?

I look over at Thomas, where he sits at his desk, entering information into his computer. I’m not ready to tell Thomas. I need to take time with this, need to get a grip. Where the hell is Naperville, Illinois? Will I remember, if I research the town where Danny Henderson lived?

I take a break, wander around the room, and stretch my legs. My heart is pounding against my ribs like I’m going to have a coronary. Can’t take too much of this all at once. Can’t seem to absorb it. I go down to the candy machine. Buy M&Ms. Make myself eat them slowly, one at a time, by color. Red, blue, yellow, green. Then I return to the computer and sit down.

Search: Naperville, Illinois.

There’s a website for the town. I look at pictures of the downtown area. There’s a riverwalk. It’s a big town with four high schools, one of them mine. But which one? Pretty houses in the suburbs, sort of like Concord. Danny Henderson lived in this nice suburban town, about forty minutes west of Chicago. Maybe I rooted for the Bulls. The Bears. The White Sox or the Cubs? My gut says Cubs, but I