| 0 | BEGINNINGS

“Time will heal all wounds,” so said the Tibetan Goddess to her people. She protected those who have been overcome by their greatest fear, even fear itself. Where there’s sorrow, her arms would cast away the shadows. Every wish shall be honored for all to live in harmony.

They said some beginnings have an end, but an ending became a new beginning. Protect what is precious to you, even when you’re pessimistic about life’s challenges. A new beginning was coming, and it might be closer than you realized—trust it.

* * *

— Ray —

I lied to my Dad again.

  It so easily slipped from my mouth. I’d get back from school and my parents asked, “How was your day?” I’d say, “Fine.” When people tell us we’re fine, it didn’t necessarily mean we were. We hid most feelings every day, I’m no exception. At school, in the halls, I would roll my shoulders back to cover up my prickling guilt, and swagger, avoiding Michael’s amber stare, scrutinizing me. Steven would keep laughing, cluelessly unaware.  Inside me, there wasn’t any indication of a palpitating drum breaking my breath—the kind which swims in your mind and you get lighter in weight. I wasn’t there, yet part of me wanted to be there.

  Most weekends my parents chatted lively in the kitchen. Mom would hum as she scrubbed the old grease from the dishes in the sink. Dad flirted with her, puckering his lips to smooch. I’d sink myself into a book and slouch on a chair, completely blocking out there mumbling and smooching. The crushing of ice filling Dad’s thermos to the brim and a bit of water would come about. This morning my parents were looking hard at my hand. Mom fidgeted in place, fiddling her fingers, and Dad was reading the newspaper backward; turning each page and humming. He almost convinced me he was reading vigorously until I remembered he was reading it upside down. I placed the box on the coffee table and tugged off the black silk ribbon. Dad squinted and pursed his lips, closing in on his newspaper, and tried to keep a collected face, but going by his bushy legs shaking—he wasn’t fooling anyone. At the corner of the kitchen, Mom straightened her stance. We glanced at each other, but she quickly started off and pointed out the new linen curtains she purchased online, even though they had enough dust mites to cover up the last few months spent not cleaning the house and the color was fading from a dark blue to a pale grey. My brow raised inquisitively and I caught myself whiffing at the smell of coffee—the black-plastic box groaned puffs of steam, dampening the top cabinets—a dark caramel stream poured into our Mr. Coffee carafe. I licked my lips wanting to savor its bitter rich taste. A good bit of milk would make it even better.

  “That’s good,” Dad said, pulling me back to how I slept.

  Well, if I took into account how I woke up without dying of a heart attack or from shock, maybe I’d consider it progress. Still, no two dreams were alike, and this dream didn’t give me the impression it wasn’t real. Dad nodded and mumbled about some politician scorching money off a shell company again—not minding for any plausible moment—he was still reading his newspaper backward.

  “Dad isn’t it hard to read the newspaper like this?” I asked.

  I stretched my neck, amused at Mom who covered her lips, chuckling when Dad stiffly turned the newspaper and scratched his throat.

  “I-I knew that I was testing you.” Dad stuttered at first.

  He shuffled on the couch, sputtering excuses about not having his reading glasses, which so happened to be right on top of his head. Mom rolled her eyes, and couldn’t continue watching Dad when he moved to his side and groaned as he pushed the couch all the way to the front window. Any moment now, he might figure out his search was useless.

  “Pepe?” Mom said in a soft and tender tone to him, tapping her finger on the top of her head.

  “What?” Dad asked her.

  He straightened his back and rubbed on top. The glasses clinked on the floor and he gawked and rolled his eyes as he scratched his nose. I bent down and helped him put them on, patting his shoulder.

  “Thank you,” Dad said, and went to sit back until he remembered pushing the couch towards the window.

  Things got quiet. I tarried on the single chair in the living room, sunk into its plush comfort, and pulled the fluffy-knitted strands of a decorative cushion. My mind went back to the box, its black corner edges made my skin crawl. Right before I snatched it: ready to open it, uncover its mystery, and know what the whole fuss was about—it ticked. The sound of Mom pouring coffee, Dad clicking the remote stopped. I grabbed the box, pressed my ear against its cardboard weight.

  Tick!

  It was ticking! I wasn’t imagining it. Beside me, my parents couldn’t help but look over at me. Mom had lounged next to Dad, nodding at me, and holding onto Dad’s reaching hand out to her. I narrowed at the box, pulled, and tossed the lid somewhere I didn’t care to notice. Dad flashed his bright teeth and Mom beamed while patting Dad’s thigh fast. Inside lay a folded note with my name, Rayel Tristani in a gold-bold-serif, resting on a layer of metallic-shaped rose petals and feathers. I hummed at the trace of a light scent of mint and cardamom on the parchment note. My fingers combed to my curls—a flash of the man’s half shadowed face had me pressing my heavy heart. I flipped the note, it read:

  “Dear Nephew Rayel,

  I’m alive!

  No kidding.

  “In this box, I’ve enclosed a trinket left to you by your late Grandfather Gabriel Tristani. He’d left specific instructions about delivering this object to you when you would turn eighteen. Now, I know it’s been years since you’ve heard of me, and I’ve become quite a stranger, a ghost to be more precise in your life, but work has led me to be absent. You’re a man now and I’m sure you’ve been thinking of applying to different colleges. Your father told me, don’t be too surprised. I may not be present, but I keep myself updated.

  I displayed a wide grin at Dad who scuffed, “You’re my kid, of course, I’m going to talk about you.”

  Mom giggled amused, “I’ve always liked your brother.” Her light olive gleaming eyes softened at the corners.

  “Enough about him, let’s read the rest.” Dad groaned over Mom’s flushed face.

  My uncle sounded nothing like Dad. I pictured him to be very posh-like: wearing a vest, a jumper, pushing his glasses up to the bridge of his nose, and bracing a soft, yet smart smile. The box held a number of intricate details, something I too like to dabble with. Mom leaned closer, practically gluing herself beside me, laying her pale cheek on my shoulder. I mirrored her and read what it said:

  “I’ve requested your father and your adoring mother to take you in for a year before you start college. I’d like for you to live with me, Rayel, stay at my home in Venice for a year.

  P.S. Inside you’ll find your boarding pass, should you decide to live in Venice. Make sure to keep the trinket along with the special card on you always, you might need it.”