A Riddle

Let's not waste time with formalities. My name is Avery and that's all there is to know. Some people have attempted to figure me out through my writing. Not once have they succeeded. So, whoever you are, dare to try? Here's a very rough draft of my prologue. I wish you the best of luck.

Prologue

I rocked lethargically back and forth on the couch. A ragged blue circle flawed the dull wall across from me. The imperfection had been created by my brother, Sean, at the enthusiastic age of five years old. Not much older than a toddler, I watched from my crib as he extracted a turquoise color from his 64-pack of crayons and flashed it at me, a giggle escaping his ice cream-stained lips. I studied him with fervent curiosity as he raised the crayon to his temporary canvas and produced the best circle a child his age could muster. He glanced back at me with self-approval silhouetted in his dark eyes. Approaching me, he touched my matted hair through the wooden bars and whispered, “Hearts can break but circles go on forever,” his naiveness masqueraded by youthful confidence.

When my mom discovered the sorry excuse for a drawing, she dipped her head back and roared with laughter. Her gold bracelets jangled to her elbow as she used a French manicured hand to dry her eyes.

“This is a masterpiece, Sean!” she proclaimed and spent an entire dinner arguing with our father to have it remain a permanent decoration. My mother won. She always did.

Two years later, she announced that she was in need of adventure, that she was aging rapidly and had to indulge in the world before the creases on her face clouded her vision. Her freckled skin shone with anticipation, eyes already absent as she smudged our cheeks with dark red lipstick as temporary as she herself had been. With a final distracted wave, she was gone.

My father burrowed into a malicious obsession with the woman that had once dominated his approach at life. Alone again, he was unbalanced and awkward. He would wander into the shadows of each room grasping an emerald rosary with one hand, as if it were the only thing keeping him tethered to the hardwood floor. Under his breath, he recited prayers to Saint Anthony, the patron of lost items, pleading to be aided in finding an object he could associate with his former lover, anything to jag a forgotten memory or trailed thought.

He returned from his job as a manager of a local restaurant called Fauna’s Diner one evening a couple months later, a Round Table box in one hand and a Victoria Secret shopping bag in the other. He tossed the pizza onto our granite counter, barely acknowledging the fact that we were watching Arthur on a school night, and proceeded to march up the stairs.

“Dad,” Sean hissed, raising his body from the couch, “You forgot to pick me up from soccer practice. Cameron’s mom had to drive me home!”

“I’m busy, Sean, pizza’s on the table,” my father muttered dismissively. His gaze lingered for a moment on a photograph of my mom positioned behind Sean. The picture had been taken at the park. Having just made it down the pink plastic slide, my mother cupped me in her arms, laughing whole-heartedly as if she desired nothing more than to own the title of “mother”. My father turned his head and methodically climbed the stairs before retreating into his bedroom.

Sean extracted two plates from the wooden cupboards in the kitchen, not bothering to silence the scrapes or clanks. As he gathered utensils, I crawled up the stairs holding my breath in fear of dissolving the tranquility. I reached the last step and paused cautiously, waiting to be discovered. When I was certain there was no movement headed in my direction, I peered inside my dad’s door.

He had unpacked the bag and was now pulling out a lingerie nightgown from one of the boxes. I recognized it immediately; the faded violet attire was one of my mother’s favorite articles of clothing. She would glide throughout the house, twirling and giggling and shrieking, “I’m a princess! I’m a princess! Are you my Prince Charming?” My father would kiss her on the cheek and they’d ballroom dance across the living room until it was my bedtime, until I evaporated the magic.

As I stared, he pulled out perfume covered with lacy calligraphy. Carefully picking it up, he sprayed it once at the nightgown. He raised the smooth cloth to his face, breathing in my mother’s aroma and her presence. He began to sob uncontrollably into the gown.

“Lillian, oh Lillian.” His words were muffled and yet completely coherent. I stayed there regarding the scene as if the trance my father was in were contagious until Sean took my hand and silently pulled me down to dinner.

My father spent almost all his spare time staring at my brother’s creation, tracing the line with his eyes, memorizing every stroke. If he could mirror the shape onto a blank piece of paper, he would remember. Maybe the taste of the watery macaroni and cheese during that last dinner or maybe even a hurried glance from across the table. It seemed almost ironic that in the same way my dad had used the circle to recollect his wife, so was I now to recall someone else entirely.