Your earliest childhood memory? Your favorite childhood pet? Worst teacher and why? Sunsets or sunrises? Supercars or sports?
My earliest childhood memory was a trip to the Muir Woods National Monument with my parents and brother. Noah carried me on his shoulders, and when pointing out a running animal, I leaned too far forward. We both tumbled onto the other side of the pathway barrier, me cocooned against his chest. Luckily, he didn’t get hurt, but I decided it was the perfect time to play hide-and-seek behind the trees while he was distracted. My parents weren’t amused. It was the first time Noah scolded me, yet I can’t help but smile when I think about it.
Favorite pet: Brownie. He was a cocker spaniel that always stuck to me like glue.
Worst teacher: Mr. Jenkins, fifth-grade teacher. The guy always had it out for me.
Sunsets. I like the colors better.
Sports. They’re cheaper than a car, don’t need to be replaced after a few years, good for the body and mind, and have a wide variety.
Until next time.
P.S. Massimo’s been hanging around the house more. It might be a good idea for Tore to hold business elsewhere. Boyan and Lou don’t need that kind of machismo around. Spread the hint, please.
UNRAVEL
I’ve looked at this mystery every which way, and nothing seems to fit. Explain it to me, please.
It’s time to put our hundred-questions game to bed. I’m sure we’re both tired of coming up with questions after the last few months of this. There’s just one question left I need you to answer. Nothing more. Nothing less. After that, it’s done. I think it’s the one question that’ll help me understand you more than all the others.
Ready? Here it goes.
What happened to you for you to have spared me the day your beloved car went up in flames?
Don’t try to play this off or shut down on me. Please. I think we’ve become decent friends in the last few years. Definitely more than acquaintances. There’s a bond here between us, something that sticks. Don’t go denying it. I’ve chosen to forgive you, but I still want to understand you. Please.
Ainsley,
This story is not a pleasant one. It is not something I like to look back on. It is not something I will ever forget or forgive myself for. It is not a truth I have ever confessed to anyone before. Maybe that is what makes it all the more appropriate to confess to you: another victim of circumstance.
You know Persetta and I don’t share a father. Before her, I had a brother. Giorgi was not a half-brother. He looked like Elio, down to his brown eyes and cleft chin, and I think he was the catalyst from conception to his death for everything that followed.
I was six when he was born, but what I remember of him is vague. I remember my mother’s depression before and after his birth. From what I discovered over the years, my brother was forced on her.
After he was born, she refused to hold him, refused to eat, and refused to come out of her room. She almost overdosed one night after another fight with my father.
Giorgi was a good baby. He barely ever cried. He smiled often, and I liked playing with him. Nannies came and went. I don’t remember any of them lasting long.
One day, no nanny showed up. One thing I remember vividly that day was the way diarrhea exploded out of Giorgi’s diaper and up his back and neck. Elio had been holding him and got it all over his hands.
I remember Elio yelling, Giorgi’s crying, and my disgust. Elio tried to pass me Giorgi. He wanted me to clean him up. I refused. I think I told him it was too gross and messy and that it was time for my snack. I remember him stomping up the stairs and into the bathroom. I remember the sound of water beingpulled through the water pipes. I don’t remember what snack was worth more than Giorgi’s life. I don’t remember why I went upstairs after that. But I remember finding Elio in his office on the phone.
Before that day, he was a father to me. We used to play catch. We laughed together. We used to watch some cartoons together, and he took me to basketball games and tennis matches. After that day, we never did any of those things again.
I remember him looking up at me from his desk, whatever he was saying on the phone dying on his lips. I remember how he stared and frowned. I remember the way his eyes suddenly widened. I remember the way he ran out of the room to the bathroom. I remember his yell.
By then, it was too late. Giorgi was gone. The death certificate has his death ruled as SIDS.
I don’t know how much guilt weighed Elio down, but I have carried mine for twenty-five years. Giorgi should have lived. He deserved a chance to grow up, and my selfishness took that from him. I swore to myself I would never be the reason another kid died again. As I grew up under Elio’s physical abuse, I changed that to include no physical harm to a child.
That is the extent of it. Has this story given you the understanding you wanted? Do you absolve me of my crime with a few Hail Marys? Or has it made you realize I have always been the villain you thought I was?
Sincerely,
Renzo Iannelli
Renzo,
