Alexander:
There was a car in the driveway, but I hauled out a couple of old bicycles that evening. “Come on,” I said, grinning at the stupefied expression on her face. “Let’s go grab a glass of wine in the village.”
“On a cycle?” she asked, sounding surprised. “I thought you’d take the Ferrari out.”
I shot her a look and she had the grace to look embarrassed. “I wandered through the place exploring this afternoon when you had to take those phone calls,” she said. “I’m sorry. I thought you said you didn’t have a Ferrari when I asked you about your keychain.”
“That’s not what I said,” I corrected her. “I said it was a long story.” I would have preferred it entirely, but her question had inadvertently brought the memories back…
***
It is a year after the suicide attempt. My aunt has concealed the news from my father. I haven’t been to visit him since the day she revealed the truth. I can’t. What can I possibly say?
He doesn’t know that everything has changed.
Every year, though he’s never visited, the gifts have been lavish on my birthday. When I was younger, I had hoped for his attention instead. Now, the idea of seeing him abhors me.
Eighteen is a milestone birthday. In France, it also the age when one can officially drive, so my father sends me a Ferrari. A top-of-the-line race car for a teenager.
Last year, I would have been thrilled with his present. I am a teenager, after all. However, this year, the car holds no appeal. I just want to escape and forget.
He thinks he can buy me. This car, just like every other present in the past, is meant to buy my loyalty. It is the first time I realize the value of money and the advantages it can bring.
Six months later, the official paperwork to change my name is completed. My father gets the message. He phones me and I can feel his rage pour out in waves through the line. “Do you think it’s that easy to make your way through the world? I will disown you.”
At those words that cut me loose, my heart gladdens for the first time since my aunt has told me the truth. “Do what you will,” I reply. My voice is indifferent. He doesn’t know that his money is irrevocably tainted. I will never touch it.
I leave Provence after that conversation, but not to college, like I had originally planned. In the last year, another plan has been made. To combat the horrors of my father, I must steep myself in violence.
I become a soldier-for-hire. When I’m not working, I’m at the target range or at the gym. Learning skills and building strength.
I start playing the stock market. I make money. I’m aggressive and reckless and above all, I’m lucky. I make more money. The first million is difficult. The next few are not. It is, after all, quite easy for the rich to become richer.
The car stays locked up in the garage in Provence.
The years pass. My fortunes rise and my father’s fortunes fall. My aunt dies. Through all of it, the car sits and gathers dust. I never once insert the key into the ignition. I will never drive it.
***
“I don’t use the car,” I replied. “I have some unpleasant memories associated with it that I’d prefer to forget.”
She didn’t look satisfied with that answer and uncharacteristically, I elaborated. “My father bought it for me when I turned eighteen,” I clarified. “It wasn’t a gift as much as an attempt to buy love.”
“It must have been nice to be rich,” she responded wistfully. “When I turned sixteen, my mother gave me a hundred bucks. I took that money and my savings from four years of odd-jobs and I bought a beat-up Taurus. That thing was a death-trap. You could see the road underneath because bits of the floor had rusted through. I could have used a Ferrari.”
“Is that what you believe?” I asked her. “Do you think money buys you some kind of protection from harm?”
“I do,” she said, her jaw set in a stubborn tilt. “Alicia needs money to live, remember?”
I ignored the fake cover story. “I know it seems that way to you,” I responded. “But money is a tool. It can be used for good, but it can also be used to control a person. My father wanted me to fall into line, so he sent the car.” I shrugged. “It didn’t work.”
“How much is it worth?”
“I have no idea,” I replied.
“And it’s just sitting there? You should sell it and donate the money to a charity.”
I looked at her, embarrassed. “You know, I’ve never once thought of that?” Inwardly, I smiled. The gesture of generosity would drive my father insane. “What cause would you support, cherie?”
She had a sad look in her eyes. “Can you give it to a domestic violence shelter?”
That seems fitting. He had caused so much pain, and would serve as a tiny measure of atonement. Yet so much still remained to be done. “I will,” I promised her.
Chapter 10