April 15, 2013; The Hints Ignored

Waking up to the sound of my mom sizzling bacon in the kitchen, I slide out of my bunk bed. We just arrived to Florida the night before in our motorhome, after a grueling twenty-four-hour ride from Southborough, Massachusetts. Today was our first day to soak in the sun on the beach while playing pick-up games of volleyball or simply relaxing on the beach. Luckily, our campsite landed no further than ten feet away from the white sand and a seemingly endless ocean. After breakfast, my brother and dad went fishing while my sister and mom decided to unfold their beach chairs on the sand. I decided to venture by myself through the small campground on my bike, to observe other RVs and their occupants. At around half past four, we decided to have a late lunch on our site that consisted of hamburgers and fish. As we were eating, another camper who was in his mid-fifties, tall, and clearly in shape, stopped in to check on our meal.

“Hey guys, how are you this afternoon?”, he asked while observing our lunch.

“We are doing great! Unfortunately, it is going to rain soon so we most likely are going to head inside after we finish eating”, my dad replied.

“I see you guys are out of Mass, I hope you aren't planning on going home soon, are you?”

We continued to eat while my dad was conversing. I took note of the sky as dark blue clouds began to form above us.

“Yes actually, Southborough specifically, why shouldn't we go home?”

“I'm guessing you haven't seen the news as of recent?”

“No, what happened?” my dad replied, with a slight concern evident in his voice.

“Two bombs went off at the Boston Marathon today and the city is on lockdown in search of the suspects!”

Everyone's eyes turned to him in a heartbeat.

“You cannot be serious?” commented my dad.

At that instant, a slight drizzle began and we quickly cleared off the table from the remaining food, parted ways with the man who informed us of the news, and made our way into the motorhome. Everyone was still in shock as my brother pulled out a deck of cards from a cabinet and began shuffling. We all sat around the dining room table to play cards while a news report was playing on the TV with a live stream of the marathon’s finish line. The rain was progressively getting stronger as a crack of lightning struck. I then had a question to ask my parents and finally, after a few games of Black Jack, I decided to ask.

“How would it feel to be the parents of a bomber?”

Just as the words left my mouth, another powerful crack of lightning caused the power to go out, leaving us in the pitch black of the motorhome. I reach for the light switch to test if the generator had kicked in yet. But the wall was not where it was a second ago, my family was no longer in the room, I was no longer there.

***

To the unfamiliar sound of an alarm clock, I wake up and reach to snooze the alarm. But my body doesn't respond, almost as if paralyzed with no control over my arms. In a swift yet lazy swing, my hand slams the alarm shutting the irritating noise off. I go into a sudden panic, I know something is wrong. The body of which I still haven't identified slugs out of bed and begins to dress. Catching a glimpse of my body through the reflection of the window, I look to be in my mid to late fifties with short grey hair and a mustache, the man dressed in a fancy pair of dress pants along with a black shirt and a suit-like jacket. After completing a common morning routine similar to my own, the man walked to the kitchen and made himself breakfast before leaving his estate. While he sipped on a rather large cup of coffee, the man opened a newspaper with the headline written in some language that seemed familiar, yet unfamiliar. A large picture of another man, likely in his late teens, covered the front page. The face was also on the front headline of the news report my family and I was watching which felt like only hours ago. I could feel the man grip the paper tighter as if angry and unamused, he then crumpled the paper and tossed it aside in disgust. The man threw on a pair of reflective sunglasses, snagged a pair of keys from the table, and quickly ran to his car.  As he began towards the city, I try to read the signs in hope of understanding where I was. “рестораны впереди” read one sign. The configuration of the letters reminded me of when I was little and how my grandmother would teach my brother and I how to read Russian books. I could feel his hands begin to sweat and his mind lost in thought.

After a forty-five minute ride, he pulled into a parking lot and made his way inside. Greeting him at the door was a reporter sent by what had looked to be the Channel 4 News station. Another woman was already seated in front of the camera. She was short and wore a hijab on her head.

“Привет Анзор Царнаев, как ты сегодня?”, asked the reporter.

When the question was first asked, the words sounded like gibberish yet I knew the words. After carefully decoding what the interviewer had said I thought “Hello Anzor Tsarnaev, how are you today?” was what he had said. I finally figured out whose body I was in, Anzor Tsarnaev, but I could not quite figure exactly where I’ve heard the name before or why.

Anzor took a seat in front of the camera and across from the reporter who named himself as Andre. Anzor and the women beside him exchanged glances but did not speak. I could tell Anzor was familiar with the women but not for a good reason. After one of the camera members attached a microphone to Anzor’s shirt, Andre began the interview. I still have no idea what I am being interviewed for and why, but I could tell Anzor knew by the cold face he had on. No, he did not win the lottery nor did he save someone's life.

“We are here today with the parents of the alleged Boston Bombers to ask them about their sons and all that led to the terrible act of terrorism. How did your sons act before they left?”, the reporter asked.

All of what Andre had said previously to this question sounded like complete gibberish, but now I was completely in the head of Anzor. I could feel Anzor’s hands continue to sweat and the overall tension of the conversation. But more importantly, I now understand where I am and why.

“They were always kind and very nice”, Anzor replied.

Andre nodded his head and looked over to the women in search of another response. Yet the woman bowed her head as if conflicted and did not respond. He continued with the interview.

“After your son was caught on extreme sites by the FBI, why weren’t you alarmed?”

“I knew what he was doing, where he was going. I raised my children right.”

The woman beside Anzor finally broke her silence and pitched in to further answer the question.

“The agents investigated Tamerlan [name of son] only because he loved Islam”

The room suddenly became warmer, my head hot and filled with anger. I could fell Anzor’s pain as he answered questions about his son and the mention of Islam only poured fuel into the fire. Andre proceeded.

“As your family members reviewed the evidence by the police, they acknowledged that your sons were guilty. Why don't you agr-”

Anzor cutoff Andre’s question unable to control his anger as his hands formed fists. Yet, he kept his composure.

“The boys were set up! The police are to blame. Being cowards, they shot the boy dead!”

The woman next to Anzor, who I figured was his divorced wife, nodded her head in agreement with Anzor and pitched in to help address Andre’s question.

“They wanted to eliminate Tamerlan as a threat because he was in love with Islam!”

Her voice cracked just as the final words left her mouth. All of what Anzor and his wife answered were with great passion and honesty. Upon hearing their responses, anyone would sympathize for the loss of their sons. She removed the microphone from her shirt and left the room angry with tears forming in her eyes.

“I think this interview is complete”, Andre commented while signaling for the cameraman to stop the recording.

“It is hard for us to have this happen so suddenly. We care so much about them and we can't believe this is a reality”, Anzor noted.

Anzor rose from his seat and left the building. The thought of what his sons were accused of still did not click in his mind, it had to be a set up he continued to repeat in his mind. While on his way home, tears began to roll down his face. The mixed emotion of anger and worry led him to press on the gas pedal harder. Sixty-five, seventy-five, then ninety miles per hour Anzor raced down the highway. When an unexpected turn came about, Anzor wasn’t able to slow down in time.

***

I had returned to my body, still sitting at the dining room table playing cards while the rain poured. My mom picked up her head from her cards and began to speak.

“Well Andrew, I am not sure. Probably a mix-”

“You know, I think I have an idea,” I said while placing down a Jack and the ten of hearts.