Page 5 of I'll Look for You, Everywhere
I feel stupid for considering this the risky path. Stupid for not calling more often. How can life in Chivasso be regrettable if Anika is in it? My baby sister. My hand squeezes around the luggage handle. Guilt and regret sink into me, making my limbs feel sluggish.
An image flashes in my mind of a memory, hazy colours and hushed whispers and the sound of tearing fabric. I squeeze my eyes shut. What I really want is to show her that I am not him, that in adulthood, I will not become him.
She looks back at me, her smile big and proud. I’m not good enough to deserve this. But I look at her, realize my face mirrors hers, and immediately look ahead, suppressing my smile.
‘Fuck off,’ I laugh.
When I’ve caught up to her, her hands are on her hips with disapproval. ‘Your accent has disappeared.’ She tilts her head and laughs silently, eyes light with amusement.
I pause our walk. ‘Tell that to everyone at university who can’t understand anything I fucking say.’
‘Alright, va bene, still a Scotsman.’ Anika throws her hands up in protest. Scottish, Italian, thrust into Ivy League America.
We pass through the sliding doors of Malpensa Airport, and the windless Italian heat overwhelms me. Looking around, feeling the gold and seductive air, a wave of sadness hits me. Home.
‘I’m just saying, I’m noticing a little American in that Scottish, Theo! And your hair! Che cazzo! It’s almost as long as mine! Is this why you’re back? Yale couldn’t get you a job with that hair?’ Her arms are waving everywhere, and her cheeks are red with excitement.
‘I’ve been in New York, Anika. Long hair is very in,’ I say, but unconsciously tuck my hair behind my ear, which I hadn’t realized fell at my chin until just now.
‘Oh, how could I forget! From that one five-minute phone call you made telling us that you were moving to New York fucking City.’ Us, again. She’s always done this. Attached her feelings to theirs.
‘Tornerò su quell’aereo se non smetti di parlare, Anika!’ I’m going to go back to that airport if you don’t stop talking! I bite, getting my Italian over with. The words feel rusty in my mouth. I wait for her to poke fun. My vowels are too long; my infliction is a beat off.
On cue, she rolls her eyes. ‘I will honest to god murder you if you so much as take a step towards that airport, Theo! There’s no going back now.’
‘Fine,’ I say with a smile. Seeing my sister, it becomes excruciatingly clear that I can’t turn my back on her now. It was never her I wanted to leave. She knows that, of course. But I try not to think of that now.
I follow her into the parking garage; the shade gives momentary relief from the unforgiving heat.
‘Also, Theo, maybe it’s best if you stick to English,’ she laughs. ‘I mean, Jesus, that was like nails on a chalkboard.’ Her face scrunches up in disgust. ‘Got to work on that, Theo! We speak Italiana with an English accent! English!’ She imitates the elegant accent, winking at me. Anika was only three when we moved to Chivasso, so the only detectable Scottish thing about her is how thrawn she gets in the morning.
‘Come, questo!’ Like this!
‘You realize, in the two minutes since I have landed, that you have insulted my hair, education, and accent?’ I raise my eyebrow at her, teasing my loud-mouthed and forever opinionated sister.
She looks at me, and I expect a witty comeback, but she just stares, and her eyes, without warning, fill with sincere but unplaceable emotion. She is silent for a moment.
‘Why now, Theo?’ she whispers. ‘Why didn’t you ever come back home?’
I swallow, and my tongue is heavy with an unanswerable response, hands suddenly weak as I retract the handle of my suitcase and open the car trunk, taking my time to place it inside the carpeted interior. Taking my time to think of something to say.
‘I was at school.’ My voice comes out annoyed, as if her asking me why I haven’t been home in seven years is somehow a nuisance. It is a lame excuse, and I know she can see right through me.
Liar, liar, liar. It’s written in the furrow of my brow; you can hear it in my inhale.
‘But I’m home now,’ I add, hoping this will be enough for her.
I shut the trunk, shove my hands in my pockets, squeeze them into tight fists, and walk to the passenger side.
Knowing I won’t say any more, she looks at me for one moment longer, sighs again, and nods her head. Accepting for now, for now, that I won’t talk.
Despite our four-year age difference, when we were young, Anika was determined to join me every time I left the house. My protests were always theatrical, conjuring up excuses I had watched older brothers on TV say to their little sisters. Never understanding why I wouldn’t want to have her near. Always happy she even wanted to stay.
Even my secrets could never just be my secrets; they were always ours. Except for one.
My leaving was the first betrayal. I know it hurt her, severed a piece of that bond we once shared. It was the first time she didn’t follow me.
But in all these years, she has never been angry, never blamed me for leaving. Part of her knows why I went, so she lets me get away with lies, but I think the other half will always wonder.
