The warm comforting sound of the voice takes me completely by surprise. “Just take your time. May I?” Before I can answer, a cool hand presses against my forehead. The pain behind my eyes fades instantly, and a soothing warmth spreads through my body.
“Suddenly, she turned completely white, Dad,” Angel chirps. “Her eyes rolled back, and she fell. Weird, right? Are you going to help her?”
“We’ll have to see, Angel. You can’t force help on someone against their will, and this young lady seems to have quite a strong head on her shoulders.”
“A very painful head right now,” I mumble. “But your hand did help.”
“Yes, he’s good, isn’t he?” Angel quips.
“Let’s not make this a habit, though,” I mumble, trying to conceal my embarrassment with irony.
When I manage to open my eyes to narrow slits, my vision is still blurry because of the tears still running down my face, but when my eyes slowly adjust to the soft light of the candles, I see the slender, hand, that rested on my forehead only moments ago, every movement deliberate, subtle and refined. These are no average hands. These hands are magical.
“Dad, can she be my friend?”
“What a strange question, Angel. I don’t have anything to say about that, of course.”
Two fluorescent green eyes, set in a long aristocratic face covered with a web of ultra fine, almost invisible lines, come into focus, observing me like a biologist who has just discovered a bird he only knew from his books.
“Maxime, right?”
“Max,” I reply reflexively, though for once, I don’t mind being called by my full name. With a voice like his, he could call me Babette or Shirley, and I wouldn’t care.
“Of course. Max it is,” he acknowledges with only a hint of irony. “You live next door, right? How’s your father?” With a jolt, I snap back to reality.
“Why? Do you know him?” I stutter.
“I barely survived the avalanche of letters in which he threatened me with all kinds of lawsuits. So, maybe I know him just a little?”
Instantly, I feel sorry for him. Most people believe that if you truly love someone, you automatically embrace their flaws and imperfections. I’ve read the books. I’ve seen the movies. But those books and movies have never studied the endless list of shortcomings that make up my father. If they had, they’d understand why I never invite friends over to our house. It’s not because it’s a wreck, not because we’re poor, but because my father never fails to embarrass me. And yes, I know how politically incorrect and cold that sounds.
Most of the time, these conflicting emotions short-circuit my brain, making me angry. And then, I get angry at myself for being angry. And after that, I get angry that I’m angry for being angry, spiraling out of control until I just pretend not to care. The only problem is, I do care. And I do love him.
So, this unexpected question about my father's well being completely throws me off. Especially coming from a man who seems to be his exact opposite—calm, composed, and exuding limitless amounts of authority. A man you hope will like you, no matter what.
“Oh, yes... of course... my father... um... he’s... well... my father... not an easy man... he hates you... nothing personal... he would hate anyone living here... it's been too long, you know... since his legs... since my mother...” I ramble on, talking too much, too fast, and too incoherently. I start to stutter. Come on, Tinderstick, get a grip.
“He seems nice, though. Maybe I’ll invite him over for tea someday. When we have this place up and running, of course. Right now, it’s a mess.”
“Yes, a mess,” Angel agrees cheerfully.
Panic churns in my stomach. Invite my father for tea? It might be a well-intentioned idea, but it’s definitely a very bad one. “Better not! Trust me, it could cost you your head. I mean...”
“Ha-ha, we wouldn’t want that, would we? I’m quite attached to it.” He smiles at me, the rare bird he only knows from his books.
Most of the candles have burned out by now. The living room is almost completely shrouded in darkness, as there doesn’t seem to be any electric light. I look at the enormous number of boxes stacked up around me. Most are still sealed, but the few that are open seem to contain books, really old books, by the look of them, and nothing else.
“Uh… you must love reading?” I attempt to change the subject, turning red immediately. Stupid question. My neighbor graciously pretends not to notice.
“Reading is knowledge, Max. And for reading, you need real books. Because, believe it or not, you can’t find everything on the Internet, and what is available Online is, by definition, not interesting or valuable. ‘Knowledge is power’, as the saying goes, and what power can there be in knowledge that is accessible to everyone?”
“Dad, lessons are for school.”
“You’re right, Angel, although, I must say, there’s probably more wisdom found in comic books than in school books. Those comic book authors tap into a deeper spiritual source, so to speak. Some…” he trails off. “Sorry, Maxime, I mean Max. Angel is right, I’m preaching. Let’s have some tea. Some rituals are sacred, don’t you agree?” my neighbor smiles. “Tea after school may be the most sacred of all.”
As if on cue, Angel appears from behind a wall of boxes, miraculously balancing a teapot and three cups on a tiny tray, navigating cautiously between the last stacks of books. When she’s almost reached me, she looks up, smiles a radiant smile, loses concentration and trips, pouring the boiling hot contents of the teapot over me. Nailed to the ground, and with big open eyes, Angel looks at my steaming, soaking wet t-shirt.
Before I know it, my neighbour hovers over me, but he doesn’t touch me, or even try to help. He only looks at me with eyebrows raised and I understand immediately why.
“No worries...” I mutter apologetically. “I’ve always been, ur... heat-resistant. Runs in the family... Good genes.” It’s a pathetic defence. My skin should be shrivelling and blistering, peeling off even, but it’s not even red.
Anxiously, I look up at my neighbor, bracing myself for his reaction, but to my surprise, his face shows more excitement than shock.
“Remarkable, remarkable indeed! I’ve read about it, of course, but seeing it in real life... amazing. Has it always been like this?” I don’t answer.
“Dad, she doesn’t know.”
“I don’t think she does, Angel, but after this little incident, she might be a bit more open. Maybe with a little of your help?”
Angel looks at me with her big, bright eyes, and suddenly I realize that I’m not just a little tired but tired to the bone. Every fiber of my body is exhausted from carrying the burden of the secret I’ve kept for so long. Suddenly I feel the irresistible urge to open up and, to my own surprise, I start talking. And once I start, I can’t seem to stop.
I tell them about my father, who is so easy to hate and so difficult to love. About my gran, who is so easy to adore, yet so hard to keep secrets from. I confess how much I hate the isolation I live in, but also my natural inability to interact with others. How much I miss that connection, even if I don’t want to admit it. I talk and talk, without hesitation, until, with a shock, I realize what I’m actually doing.
I look up as if waking up from a trance. What time is it? I must go!
“Mister... Sir... Maybe it’s best if we keep this a secret? Me being here, I mean. I really like it, but if my father finds out, I’m... I mean, I’m toast. My father... well, let’s just say he would love nothing more than to impale you on a wooden stake, right through your heart... nothing personal, of course... I mean...” Stuttering and rambling, I scramble to my feet and stumble toward the door. “Thanks for, ur, your hands... everything. I mean...”
“It’s alright, Max. I won’t tell a soul, and you’re always welcome to come back and visit. Angel would love that, and who knows? You might learn something new too.”
Outside, I shake my head, trying to reset my mind. I need to get home, quickly, and without having to answer too many questions. Gran isn’t easily fooled, so I decide not to go back the way I came. Instead, I’ll take the long way around, giving her a chance for some plausible deniability. I hope that by approaching our house from the opposite direction, it will look like I’ve just been out for a stroll, like I often do when I’m angry.
“Alright, let’s do this,” I mumble to myself. “A girl’s gotta do what a girl’s gotta do.”