Childhood Home
Ivo and Isabel had no childhood home to speak of, so frequently did they move. Their peripatetic existence saw them in the Middle East, China, Brazil and Alaska. Their father was a geologist working for the oil industry, their mother merely his very unhappy spouse. Isabel said it had all the right ingredients for a miserable childhood but Ivo had somehow made it magical. He told her they were alien explorers, charged with the task of exploring the terrain. He drew elaborate maps of every place they went, noting the clothing of the inhabitants, the climate, the food, the housing, even the wildlife. He sensed his mother apathy – weakness – and assumed his imperious manner at a very early age. He would fix Isabel's meals when their mother was too depressed to get out of bed, supervise her baths and put her to bed. This was nothing short of remarkable given that they were twins and Isabel was actually older by forty-nine minutes. But such was Ivo's character. He was born to shepherd others and cut his teeth on his own sister.
After my mother died and I said that I supposed we would have to sell the house, Ivo surprised me.
"But it's your childhood home," he said quietly.
"If you can call it that," I replied. "I have no happy memories here."
"But you have so many memories! And how you view them over time will change. To lose this is to lose a part of yourself, who and what you are."
"It isn't like you have a childhood home!" I laughed, thinking him silly for being sentimental.
"I know," he said sadly, "I am so very envious of you."
That was the first hint I had that his strength was summoned rather than inherent, that he had faced things from which he would much rather have hid given the choice.
We kept the house.