“Hey, dad... eh... already out of bed?”
“Still.”
“Huh?”
‘Still out of bed.’
“Ow... couldn’t sleep?”
“Something like that Max, something like that…”
Now I know I'm officially in trouble. My father only calls me by my real name when he's angry. Or 'disappointed', as he likes to call it himself. It can be worse still. I'll be in real trouble when he starts calling me Maxime.
"And you? Did you sleep well, Maxime?" Shit! I'm fucked.
"Went out for a bit of fresh air. Clear my head. Bad dreams."
"Not too fresh, I gather?" Only now I realize that I'm only fooling myself. My father may be confined to a wheelchair, but he's not crazy. Here I stand in the dead of night, stinking of rotten garbage and with lumps of vomit still in my hair and it can't be a coincidence that precisely this night of all nights, he's waiting for me. He must have noticed me leaving or something. Probably he has been sitting here in the dark kitchen from the moment I left, practicing the right tone of voice he will never find, for the speech he wanted to give me after I returned. A speech that wouldn't matter, because I would close down like an oyster from the first word he spoke. Disappointed, enraged, shocked or beaten, my father's speeches haven't had any effect on me for a long time. What does get to me, however, is the everyday silence, the enormous distance between us, the total lack of connection.
"Listen, Dad. I know I belong in bed. I need my rest. I know it's dangerous to go out at night. I know you think that I'm too reckless and I…" Normally my father would just start talking over me, louder and louder, in a fruitless attempt to drown out my indignations, but now... he doesn't. He only raises his hand. I stop mid-sentence, if only out of pure surprise.
"Max, this moment is long overdue…" Ow, please no, I think, not a what-is-my-little-girl-growing-up-fast moment. Not from him. "... and now it’s finally time, it still feels too early."
I must really concentrate to understand what he's saying, not because he mumbles as usual; on the contrary, he articulates uncharacteristically clearly but also speaks very softly. His eyes look straight into mine, and for the first time in a long while, I can see the color of his eyes. Green. Another thing we don't have in common.
"Yes, Dad. Little girls grow up, but this isn't the moment for sexual education or something else embarrassing." Normally a flippant remark like this would be enough to make him lose his temper. Actually, I count on it. My father's anger is my fail-safe, my emergency exit. I play my father's temper like a virtuoso pianist plays his instrument. I brace myself for the confrontation, but his usual response doesn't come. Instead... he starts laughing, louder and louder until he almost falls out of his chair.
"Max, darling, you are so much like me."
"Darling?" I think confused. "What's happening here?" And for the first time since ever, I'm at a loss for words. No witty comeback, no provocative remark, nothing.
"I know you must be mad at me. As you will have found out by now, your mother... well... I'm so sorry that you had to grow up without her and that you had to hear so many lies, but the risks were just too big—for her, for you, for all of us, and she asked me. I have never been able to deny her anything."
Who is this man, sitting here in the middle of the night, looking at me so lovingly? I ask myself desperately. Where's my gruff, grumpy, explosive father, who curses at the whole world from his wheelchair when he's not inventing useless gadgets that no one needs? And he is still not done.
"There has been no one I've loved more than your mother, you know. Vibrant, good-humored, smart, sly even, adventurous, and very pretty, of course. Just like you." He smiles again, sensing my resistance.
"Don't be afraid. I will not bore you with our love story. There are more pressing things to discuss, as you are ear-deep in well… shit, as they say." His eyes wander off to the lumps of sick in my hair. "Breaking into school has its consequences."
This last remark suggests, a bit too obviously, that he knows what has happened tonight. Is that what caused this complete personality change? Is that why he's suddenly so clear-headed and focused? Of course, I want to know answers to all these questions, but there's only one question I want answered most of all:
"If you are so sure of your everlasting fairytale love... WHERE IS SHE NOW, Dad? Why is she not here? How can I even be certain that you're telling the truth after all the lies? How do I know that this is not all some romanticized bullshit to soothe your conscience, DAD?!"
My father’s expression shows no emotion but his voice is painfully empathic as if he really understands what I’m feeling. It’s almost unbearable. Not now. Not after all this time. I don’t want to discover after all these years that my father’s uncouth grumpiness has only been an act.
"I said that I loved her, Tinderstick, not that we would play happy family for the rest of our lives. Maybe we thought we would, but from your conception on..." I flinch and try not to blush. "... something had been put in motion that would change our whole life. Something we had no control over, and your mother, well... your mother can't stand other people controlling her life. That same night she left. Furious, merciless, magnificent. It was a sight to behold." He’s silent for a moment. I’m too confused to interrupt.
"After that… not a trace, until she suddenly appeared in this same kitchen months later, her belly already bigger and rounder, not to come back and live with us, but to make plans for the future—your future, and then she was gone again.
Six months later, she appeared in this kitchen again, only to push a small, black, charred linen bundle into my arms, from which happy prattling sounds emitted—you were so small and tiny still. Before we could stop her, she was gone again, now for good... or so I thought." he stops for a moment. "There was a third time that I saw her and... well... the third time..." His hands move involuntarily to his legs. "... the third time, I ended up in this wheelchair."
This night just doesn't stop. I did break into a highly guarded school, I've been hiding in a dumpster full of rotting food, woke up in my own vomit, have been hanging in a black void where I spoke with some smudgy dwarf, escaped a patrol with watchdogs, and now my father confesses not only that he lied about my mother being dead, but also that she’s the cause that he’s paralyzed. It's enough. I've had it. I don't want to hear anymore. My father, however, despite my obvious disgust, goes on.
"Our attempt to protect you by raising you as normally as possible has backfired completely, Tinderstick. With all the best intentions, we burdened you with a gigantic disadvantage—one that may have fatal consequences. So everything I'm going to tell you now is of life-saving importance.
First, although it will be extremely difficult for someone like you, it's important to accept help even if there are only a few you can trust: your friends... probably, Williams certainly, the vice-principle and of course, Balthazar." Balthazar? Is he even real?
"I've seen this before, you know. Your mother..." My head is pounding now. "...looked exactly the same after her first encounter..." I seek support from the table. "...although I don't remember if she also threw up." My knees give way. Slowly, I sink to the cold tile floor. "Gran and I tried everything to prevent you from going to that school, but after that farmhouse incident this summer, it was unavoidable. The vice-principal herself got involved, and that was the end of it. I have never seen Gran so worried."
He sighs. "That was only half a year ago, and look at you now." He moves his arm up and down like a ringmaster presenting an exotic animal. I'm painfully aware of the overtly proud undertones in his voice, which affect me more than I thought possible.
"You are hardcore, Max, I give you that. We didn't even go this far during our time in school. I got away with everything I did there just by being boyishly likable, and your mother was just too smart to get caught. Although you never had our talents, you have others. You just don't give up. You plough on, regardless of what happens or what's thrown at you, and that's what you need right now: to keep going, because things are getting out of control."
He looks at me as he has never done before. A mixture of pride and sorrow. "After tonight, it's clear that you are at the epicenter of this all, whether you like it or not. You are the one they want to take off the board, with violence if necessary. So listen carefully; what I'm about to tell you may save your life. Kwant has—" I hold my breath and look at the father that I don't know at all, completely lucid and coherent. A father I don't have to despise or hate. Where has this father been all these years? He takes a deep breath, closes his eyes, and then suddenly I realize something is wrong. Instead of speaking, his upper body moves forward. Slowly at first, but gradually faster. I sit on the kitchen floor, unable to move, while my father tilts out of his chair and his head hits the floor with a dull, sickening thud.