“Just take your time.” The warm comforting sound of the voice takes me completely by surprise. “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 chirps again.
“Let’s not make this a habit, though,” I mumble, trying to conceal my embarrassment with irony.
When I finally manage to open my eyes to narrow slits, tears run down my face as even the faint light from the candles proves to be too much. I vaguely discern the hand that had rested on my forehead just moments ago, now retracting slowly. Every movement, refined and elegant. Nothing like my father’s hands, which just slap me way too enthusiastically on my shoulder to emphasize a joke or rub my back way too roughly when he clumsily tries to console me. These hands are nothing like that. 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.” I open my eyes a bit wider. The pain is almost gone. Two fluorescent green eyes, set in a long aristocratic face covered with a web of ultra fine lines, come into focus, observing me like a biologist who has just discovered a bird he only knew from 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 a hint of benevolence. “You live next door, right? How’s your father?” With a jolt, I snap back to reality.
“Why? Do you know him?”
“Well...” he replies with the slightest hint of irony. “I barely survived his avalanche of letters and lawsuit threats over the past year. So, maybe I know him just a little?”
Instantly, I feel sorry for him. Most people believe that if you truly love someone, you also 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 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 on yourself.
“He seems nice, though. Maybe I’ll invite him over for tea someday,” my neighbor smiles. “When we have this place up and running, of course. Right now, it’s a mess.”
“Yes, a mess,” Angel agrees cheerfully.
Invite my father for tea? Panic churns in my stomach at the thought. 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, like a rare bird he’s only seen in books.
Most of the candles have burned out by now. The living room is nearly dark as there doesn’t seem to be any electric light. Apart from a large, Louis XIV-something-style oak table and two chairs, the room is packed with boxes. Most are still sealed, but the few that are open contain books—really old books, by the look of them—and nothing else.
“Uh… you must love reading?” I attempt to change the subject, blushing immediately. Stupid question. My neighbor graciously pretends not to notice.
“Reading is knowledge, Max. And for reading, you need books—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 in comic books than in school books. Those comic book authors tap into a completely different 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.”
Suddenly, Angel appears from behind a wall of boxes, miraculously balancing a teapot and three cups on a tiny tray.
“Some rituals are sacred, don’t you agree?” smiles my neighbor. “Tea after school may be the most sacred of all. I always did it with my late mother.”
Angel navigates cautiously between the last stacks of boxes, looks up, smiles a radiant smile, and trips over a book, pouring the steaming hot content of the teapot over me. Nailed to the ground, and with big open eyes, Angel looks at my soaking wet t-shirt and before I know it, my neighbor hovers over me. He doesn’t touch me, or even tries to help, he only looks at me with eyebrows raised. I understand immediately why.
“No worries...” I mutter apologetically. “I’ve always been, eh... heat-resistant, you know. Runs in the family. Good genes.” It’s a pathetic defense. My skin should be shriveling and blistering, 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 feel the weight of the enormous secret I’ve kept for so long. Suddenly, I’m not just a little tired—I’m tired to the bone. Every fiber of my body is exhausted from carrying such a heavy burden. Maybe it’s because of that, maybe because of Angel’s eyes, or maybe it’s my neighbor, who seems to understand me better than anyone else, but I feel an irresistible urge to open up. To my own surprise, I begin to talk. 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, and how much I miss that connection, even if I don’t want to admit it. I talk and talk about the most personal things, without hesitation, until, with a shock, I realize what I’m actually doing. I look up as if waking up from a trance. It’s pitch dark outside. How long have I been talking? I must go.
“Mr. Dusk. Maybe it’s best if we keep this a secret? Me being here, I mean. I really like it here, 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 with 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, uh, 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, the fresh air helps restore some common sense. I shake my head, as if trying to reset my mind and rebuild the mental defenses that had mysteriously vanished. My first few steps are a bit wobbly, but with each one, I regain more confidence. 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—through the hole in the fence. Instead, I’ll take the long way around, giving her 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.”