In the ninth chapter of The Ocean at the End of the Lane<\/i>, the narrator finds a strange comfort in the Hempstocks. Intrigued? Then it’s time for Mark to read The Ocean at the End of the Lane<\/i>.<\/p>\n
Chapter IX<\/b><\/p>\n
“You’re only allowed to be there for one hour,” my mother said to me, holding on to the frame of the door, her eyes narrowed with concern. “One hour, and then I’ll be there to walk you back home.”<\/p>\n
Of course, mom, I said to her, eager to start walking. Only an hour.<\/p>\n
I turned away, possibly too quickly, and bounded down the driveway in a half-skip, half run. By the time I reached the Stoddard house, just ten houses down my street but on the opposite side, I reveled in the thrill I felt. For just one hour, my mother was letting me go to someone else’s house.<\/p>\n
I was fourteen years old, and I had never gone somewhere that wasn’t school alone. My mother was always protective of me, but by the time I was in middle school, her grip tightened. I soon learned to stop asking her if I could go to a friend’s house or if someone else could come over. I was not allowed to give my phone number to anyone. My mother did<\/i> have her reasons for this. I discovered years later that my biological mother had been trying to find me, my brother, and my younger sister. My mom didn’t want this, so she believed that if she hid us from everyone and everything, we’d never be found. But this threat became moot by the time I was ten or eleven, and so I never could understand the justification for why she continued to force me to live in a bubble.<\/p>\n
After a long, awkward conversation and an even worse phone call to Mrs. Stoddard, my mom agreed to let me spend one weekday afternoon at the Stoddard household. I was not allowed to eat anything; I couldn’t bring anything there or take anything back with me. I could not play video games, either. It was a limited test run, so to speak, and Christopher’s mom had to agree to a lot of ground rules in order for it to happen.<\/p>\n
So when I knocked on their door, I expected a reluctant, muted greeting. Instead, Mrs. Stoddard opened the door and immediately swallowed me in a hug, saying, “Oh, sweetie, we are so<\/i> glad you are here!”<\/p>\n
I didn’t pull away. I pushed my face into her torso a little harder than I ever had, and I heard Chris say, “Oh, come on, mom, let him go<\/i>.”<\/p>\n
She did, and Chris walked over and put a hand on my shoulder. I wasn’t used to this much touching, but I liked it. “What do you want to do?” he asked me.<\/p>\n
Before I could answer, he gasped and said, “Oh, I have<\/i> to show you the Les Paul my mom got me for Christmas last year. You remember, right? The black one.”<\/p>\n
I nodded my head excitedly and he dashed off to the room. Mrs. Stoddard smiled and placed a hand on my back, between my shoulder blades. I felt a warmness spread through me as I turned to face her. Her face confused me, though. Only half of her mouth was upturned in a smile; the other was pressed together, as if she was still deep in thought. You have a nice home, I said, hoping to break this moment.<\/p>\n
It seemed to work. “Oh, thank you! Yeah, we like it here. Would you like something to eat or drink?”<\/p>\n
Like the dutiful son, I refused. My mom said I couldn’t have anything, I told her.<\/p>\n
“Oh, she’s not gonna know, is she?” Mrs. Stoddard said, walking over to the fridge and shuffling a few things around before pulling out a Tupperware and removing the lid. “Cupcake?” she said, offering me one.<\/p>\n
Chris returned to the room then. “Oh, you’ll love her baking,” he said. “She’s such a good cook.”<\/p>\n
I took a cupcake from Mrs. Stoddard and then joined Chris in the living room as he sat down. “So, I was practicing the other day,” he began, “and I figured this part out. ” He began to play the opening riff from “Holy Wars” by Megadeth, the most recent record that he and I were obsessed with. I sat there, shoving a cupcake in my mouth, watching in awe as his fingers galloped through the triplets and muting. When I finished the cupcake, I delicately folded up the wrapper so as not to drop any crumbs on the pristine white carpet, and I asked Christopher if I could hold his guitar.<\/p>\n
I hadn’t started to play at that age, but it was a dream of mine. He proudly handed the Les Paul to me, and I strummed nonsense out. I noticed that Mrs. Stoddard was staring at me again, that same look on her face.<\/p>\n
I only realized years later that she felt sad for me.<\/p>\n
*<\/p>\n
I asked for a guitar that Christmas. It doesn’t even have to be an expensive one! I had insisted. Even a cheap $100 one would be fine.<\/p>\n
My mom scowled at me and said no. After a brief pause, though, she said quietly, “And you can’t go back to Christopher’s house.”<\/p>\n
*<\/p>\n
Thoughts<\/b><\/p>\n Part 1<\/p>\n\n