Sergio (Benedetti Brothers 3)

She didn’t realize she was crying until I wiped away a tear. It’s the strangest feeling, I have no word for it and I don’t want to forget that, not ever. Memory is so fucking fragile.

When I finish with the eyes, I sit back and look at my work. I breathe from high in my chest, I’ve been holding my breath and didn’t realize it. My hand reaches to find my glass but it’s empty, so I drag my gaze away, stand to reach for the bottle, refill, splashing a few drops onto the family tree. I wipe them away with my sleeve and drink the burning liquid in one swallow. I wish it numbed me like it used to, but it takes a lot these days.

I push the sketch aside and look back at my box on the family tree, look at the line I started to draw to add a box, to link it to mine, and for one moment, I let myself imagine. I let myself dream the impossible.

And then I sit and I make myself remember.

Make myself count.

Make myself say aloud the name of every person here where a date had to be written in. Something that wouldn’t be erased again. A box. A life. Another, different, sort of box. I count each one.

I do this every time I take this sheet out. Every time I feel sorry for myself because I have no right to. I’m not a good person. Salvatore, he has a conscience. I know his struggle. Dominic, not so much. He’s a mean son of a bitch. But so am I. The only difference between my little brother and me is that I’m going to get everything I want and he’s going to get nothing. That’s my saving grace.

Although I’m not sure the word grace should be uttered by someone like me.

I sit. I run my thumb softly over the edge of Natalie’s eye. Smudge it. I smear charcoal across the sheet of paper, like I smeared the teardrop across her cheek earlier.

I reach in my pocket for my cell phone and maybe I am a little drunk when my brother’s groggy voice comes on the line and I look at the time. It’s almost four in the morning.

“Sergio?” Salvatore asks, then with more urgency, “Is everything okay?” He must just realize the time.

“Yeah. Yeah, it’s fine.”

Pause. “You sure?”

I grunt. I can’t drag my eyes from hers as I reach for the bottle and drink straight from it.

“Sergio. What the fuck? It’s four in the morning.”

“Listen.” I don’t recognize my own voice, it’s so low. So quiet. So broken.

He hears it too, I know from the emptiness in the line. “I’m listening,” he finally says.

“There’s a girl,” I start.

“A girl?”

“If anything happens to me, you’ll have to make sure she’s okay.”

“What the fuck are you talking about? Nothing’s going to happen to you.”

“Just listen.”

“Are you fucking drunk?”

“No. Yeah. Maybe a little. Doesn’t matter.” I smear charcoal on my fingertip. Smear it to Natalie’s temple, create a shadow.

“Where are you?” he asks.

“Home.”

“Alone?”

“Yeah. Alone.”

“You need me to come over?”

“No, I’m fine. I just need you to shut the fuck up and listen now.”

“Okay. Tell me about the girl.”

I close my eyes, give my head a shake. What am I going to tell him? What can I say that will make any sense?

“Just make sure she’s okay.” Fuck. I’m definitely drunk.

“I’m coming over. You can make me fucking breakfast because it’s not even the ass crack of dawn.”

I chuckle. “No, it’s fine. Salvatore, it’s fine. I’m okay.” I take a deep, sobering breath.

“Then tell me about the girl. What’s her name?”

“Natalie. Natalie Gregorian.”

He repeats the name, then chuckles. “Dad’s going to give you shit she’s not Italian.”

“Yeah, well, fuck that.”

“How long have you known her?”

“A couple of days.”

He laughs. “She got you good, huh?”

“I like her, that’s all. Just if anything happens—”

“Nothing’s going to fucking happen to you so shut the fuck up. Don’t be a goddamned ass.”

I smile.

“Natalie Gregorian,” he says seriously, and I know that’s his way of telling me yes, he’ll make sure she’s okay if anything happens to me. “Why don’t you get some sleep now, brother.”

“Yeah.” I get to my feet. “Listen, sorry I woke you. I know you need your beauty rest.”

“Fuck you.”

“Hey, the stuff with mom—”

“She’s getting another opinion. Dad’s calling in some specialist from Germany.”

“Of course, he is.” He’s desperate. “It’s shitty.”

“Yeah it’s fucking shitty. Listen, you can’t think about it. You need to go have some fun. Take Natalie away for a weekend or something. Somewhere hot and sunny. You can’t always be in this shit, you know? Not you, Sergio. You need a fucking break.”

I know what he means, why he’s saying this. I’ve got the family graveyard laid out in front of me. Drawn over years. This darkness, it’s a part of me. And it’s not that it belongs to me. No. I belong to it. Always have.