Three weeks with my brother - Nicholas Sparks [52]
“That’s why they took my report card down from the fridge, right?”
“They didn’t do that.”
“Yes they did.”
“Really?”
“Really.”
“I don’t remember that.”
“You wouldn’t.”
He laughed. “Isn’t it funny the way memory works? We remember different things, but especially when they scarred us—you know, the kinds of events that people lie on the couch and talk to their therapists about. I remember once I asked for a stereo and headphones for Christmas. Not a big one—just one for my room, you know? I must have been about twelve or so, and I begged for that thing. I must have hounded mom for months about it, and on Christmas morning, I remember going out there and seeing it under the tree: headphones and the stereo. There was a card that said, ‘to Micah.’ I was so excited—it was the best gift I ever got. Then mom comes out and when I thanked her, she started saying, no, no, no. ‘Just the headphones are yours. The stereo is for the family.’ I was crushed. I mean, it’s the only thing I wanted. And besides, what good are headphones without a stereo? It’s like getting a single shoe.”
“Our parents were crazy sometimes, weren’t they?”
“Sometimes? Yeah. You could say that.”
I sat in silence for a few moments, musing on the past. Gradually, people began leaving the summit; the tour had a schedule to maintain. “Come on,” I finally said. “Let’s get going. We’ve got to see some more statues.”
When I looked at Micah, he seemed oddly contemplative. I suddenly knew he was thinking about the past as well. His eyes were focused on the horizon.
“No. Let’s wait here for a couple more minutes,” he said quietly. “Then we’ll go.”
I looked toward the horizon, following my brother’s gaze. “Okay.”
After descending the volcano, we journeyed to the single most photographed spot on Easter Island.
Giant statues of the Moai—about twenty or so—stand together in a straight line along the coast. Until a few years ago, all had been toppled over, some broken into pieces. The archaeologists who joined us as guides had helped not only to repair them, but position them upright once more.
These, I thought, were the statues that Jakob Roggeveen, a Dutch admiral, must have seen when he became the first European to discover the island on Easter Sunday, 1722. Legend has it that his first thought was that the island was inhabited by giants. Only when he drew nearer to shore did he realize that men of normal size were working among the statues.
The statues, however, hadn’t been completely restored. Originally, we learned, all the statues on the island had eyes. Carved from wood, they were painted with pupils, but had eventually decayed, leaving nothing but the sockets and giving the statues a skeletal appearance.
“Why do you think they aren’t going to put eyes in again?” Micah asked me. “They stood them upright, so it’s not as if they believe the statues shouldn’t be disturbed.”
“I have no idea. Maybe they think it would give tourists like us the willies.”
Micah stared toward the statues. “I wouldn’t get the willies.”
“Neither would I.”
He paused. “I think they’d look better with eyes.”
“Me, too.”
“Maybe we should start a movement. Call it, ‘Eyeballs for Statues.’”
“It has a nice ring to it. Go for it.”
He continued to stare. “I really do think they’d look better, don’t you?”
Standing next to Micah, I realized that there were times when we talked not because we needed to communicate anything important, but simply because we each drew comfort from the other’s voice.
After taking photographs, we got back in our van and headed to Anakena, a cove fronted by a white-sand beach that was dotted with one of the few remaining groves of palm trees. For the first time, we saw a part of the island that looked tropical; an ancient Moai seemed to be standing guard at the head of the beach, watching over the bathers.
After a barbecue on the beach, Micah and I and a few others went for a swim. By then, our group had begun breaking into cliques. Some folks were adventurous and wanted to experience everything they could; others seemed to view the