When I finally enter the kitchen, I first see Gran, standing at the kitchen sink. You can't miss her, impressively dressed in her enormous morning gown decorated with blinding sunflower motive. I feel for her. It can't be easy to live under one roof with two explosive personalities like my father and myself. Still, she never shows any sign of irritation or fatigue. Even on a day like this, when I’m doing my utmost best to sabotage our morning ritual, her mood is as sunny and stable as the weather in Greece.
Gran is my mother’s mother and effectively the person who raised me. Officially I’m brought up by my father of course, but whatever he does (or tries to do), is more like a trial-and-error-experiment with his own daughter as guinea pig.
'Don’t worry, Gran, she’s old enough now to climb down the stairs herself. Right Maxi? Come on, just one more step.'
Bam!!! Crash!!! Bang!!! And once again I had to leave the hospital with my head fully wrapped in an enormous amount of bandage.
That Gran rules our house has a good reason. Since my father ended up in a wheelchair over 14 years ago our house has disintegrated with accelerating speed and as we don't have money to hire a handyman or contractor, Gran repairs everything herself while simultaneously keeping the house clean. She does this with the unflinching stubborn determination that runs deep in our family. The result is that we live in the cleanest ruin of our village, an immaculate wreck.
Gran is my refuge and guardian angel. Countless times she has helped me to relax after a long, long day of being, well… me. Even my most dramatic trials and tribulations seem insignificant after she’s let her inexhaustible stream of ancient sayings and proverbs loose on them. I don’t care that I (or everyone else I know) has ever heard of any of them. The fact that she ensures me that they’re authentic, is all the proof I need because Gran telling a lie would be utterly inconceivable. Honesty is one of her principles. One of the sacred guidelines she lives by. “When you can’t look someone straight in the eye, you will start talking in circles, Tinderstick”.
Gran has also the quite disturbing ability to know exactly what I feel or think at any given moment, and that is awkward for a lot of reasons. Luckily, one of her other life-principles is that everybody deserves his or her secrets.
I know that Gran is a little weird and sometimes I even feel a bit embarrassed when I see her strolling through the aisles of the supermarket, talking to herself or a can of peaches in light syrup, but never for long. In the eyes of most people Gran is a friendly eccentric, a good-natured sorceress born in the wrong century, but in my eyes she’s a goddess. A goddess that I can’t hide anything from, but well… you can’t have everything.
Obviously, I also must have a mother, but as dad and Gran refuse to tell me anything, I know virtually nothing about her. Countless times I have searched the house from top to bottom, looking for the smallest sign of her existence with no result. Not a shred. The house seems meticulously and purposely purged from any proof that she has ever lived here. She has disappeared out of our lives for such a long time now that I’ve come to the inevitable conclusion that she must be dead. The wild variety of fantasies about how and why she died, have grown more epic each year. The core being, that she has heroically sacrificed herself to save her baby girl… me. When I was young, only Gran could give me some solace, softly rocking me in her arms, while muttering old sayings; It’s all-right pumpkin... life is not always just, but always fair... only happiness keeps score... eternity is only a sliver of a second and seconds will last a lifetime. Until she finally could pry my little cramped fingers free from her dress and I was able to climb down from her lap. I still miss her. Sometimes a little, sometimes a lot. Luckily these last episodes have grown considerably shorter over the years.
‘Hi pumpkin, good, you’re up already. It’s a special day today isn’t it? And watch out. Don’t trip over that box.’ She’s facing the window and I have no idea how she even knows that I was about to stumble over a cardboard box filled with secondhand cutlery that wasn’t there yesterday. I’ve stopped thinking about it a long time ago.
Behind her, at our third-hand kitchen table, in his fourth-hand wheelchair, sits my father’s laboriously ploughing through a bowl of oatmeal. My father… What can I say? He’s an inventor, or at least that’s what he has declared himself to be. Days and nights he sequesters himself in our giant barn that he has quite generously baptized “laboratory” in an unrelenting series of attempts to baffle the world. Not very successful up until now of course. No fame and glory (or fortune) for the Kwintens family just yet but that doesn’t stop him from trying with a growing determination.
According to Gran he must have been quite charismatic and popular when he was young. It’s hard to imaging. Now he’s a grumpy, mumbling man who makes it really hard to feel any connection with. Maybe it’s the wheelchair he ended up in about sixteen years ago, although I’ve never heard how that came about.
‘Sasbouttimetinderstick.’
‘Twelve miles, dad!’ He distorts his stuffed mouth in something what must be a smile. ‘Gooddailytrainingtinderstick...youwillthankmelater.’ I finally succeed in not taking the bait, take a seat, make myself a sandwich, and wrap myself in a rueful silence.
‘MAXIME!’
Not the fact that he raises his voice, but the fact that he calls me by my full name, makes me look up.
‘What?... Ow!’ From the points of my elbows, two tracks of fire run to a small inferno, right in the middle of the table. Pots of marmalade burst. Bread bags melt, containers of chocolate vermicelli are devoured in a sea of flames that almost reaches the ceiling. My father leans back, because of the heat, not because he’s shocked or impressed. He has seen this many times before. The fact that our home is filled with second-, third- and fourth-hand furniture, is not only because we’re poor. It’s predominantly because I keep destroying everything with my hot temper.
As always, I’m not able to stop it. I don’t even try. I’m too angry. The only thing stronger than my anger is the longing to become fire entirely. No flesh anymore, no blood, no pain. All-consuming fire, without guilt or regret...
SPLAAAAASSSSSSHHHHHH!
The fire doesn’t stand a chance. It hisses and sputters and dies. In the doorway Gran holds an enormous bath tub. We are all quiet. The only sound is the dripping of water.
I know that I should apologize or say... something... but instead, I shrug defiantly my shoulders, leg out the kitchen, pick up my bike from the ground and steer it into the grey chilly morning on my way to my new school. Twelve miles away.