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bottom of the drawer, once, then again. The wood gives, and I smile at the destruction before me, the pile of splintered wood and debris. It feels good.
    I dig through the fragments of wood and come upon a small oil painting, about four inches by six inches. The paint is peeling around the edges, revealing a yellowish canvas underneath. Two boys sit in the upper corner of the painting, so far away that they’re barely discernable. One is tall and awkward, with rivers of blond hair spilling over his shoulders. The other is rounder with a head full of dark, curly hair. They sit by a lake, the sky swirling above them, as if it’s about to rain. Onthe right side of the painting, a girl stands barefoot, gazing out at the viewer, only she doesn’t have eyes, just empty sockets. There’s something beautiful and delicate about her expression, yet haunting at the same time, and I just keep looking at the girl, imagining that she’ll say something if I stare long enough.

    May 11, 1994
    Age Sixteen

    C harles! Dinner’s ready!” Charles’s mother calls out from the dining room. She enters carrying a large pot of spaghetti and a salad made with iceberg lettuce and blue cheese dressing. She wears a gingham dress with a frilled apron pulled around the front, beige high heels. Ringlets frame her round face and her eyes move back and forth across the room, taking in everything at the same time.
    Charles’s father sits at the end of a long oak table, tamping his pipe. His shirtsleeves are rolled up to just below his elbows, and the hair at his temples is beginning to gray. A Count Basie record plays in the background, and when the pin slips, Charles’s father shakes his head, rising to flip the record to the other side. A bookshelf filled with leather-bound classics stands against one wall, The Iliad and Moby Dick and A Tale of Two Cities. On the adjacent wall is a painting of the family sitting in a studio with emerald-green drapes hanging behind them. In the painting, the father’s expression is stern. The mother purses her lips together, holding a baby bundled in her arms.
    Charles trips into the dining room, his limbs awkwardly long and gangly. He wears a sweatshirt and sneakers, a pair of bulky headphones around his neck. He’s older now and although he’s not nearly as tall as his father, he’s no longer a child either. His hair has darkened slightly and comes down past his shoulders. The edges of his jaw are covered with acne. And yet he has become handsome, in an academic sort of way. He pushes his glasses up with one hand as he holds his place in a scientific textbook with the other. His nose remains in his book as he sits down.
    “Charles, not at the table,” his mother says, and Charles places the textbook under his seat. “Thanks, sweetheart.”
    Charles’s mother and father sit at one end of the table, Charles at the other. As they pass the spaghetti, Charles’s father takes a final puff from his pipe, then sets it down. Charles’s mother squeezes her husband’s shoulder. His eyes are milky blue, clouded and glossed over, and his right hand shakes as he brings a bite of spaghetti to his mouth. The spaghetti noodles topple off the fork and into his lap. Charles’s mother discreetly wipes them away and plants a kiss on her husband’s cheek.
    “You know, I read in the news today that South Africa just swore in their first black president. Nelson Mandela. Isn’t that something?” Charles’ mother tries. His father shrugs and picks at his teeth.
    “Well, how was work then?” she asks.
    “It was all right. You know, work.”
    “Any new studies?”
    “I spent the day washing all of the lab equipment. The beakers are very clean now. Very, very clean.”
    “It can only get better, right?”
    Charles’ father turns stiffly to his wife. “How was your day, darling?”
    “Hectic. Went to the market. Ran errands. Oh! And as I was walking home, I bumped into Julie’s mother.”
    “I don’t know who