Gran gets up from the cold tile floor. Her tears have finally stopped. “If your head is full of water, better teach your brains to swim,” she sighs. And although the saying puts a shadow of a smile on her face, it can’t deflect from the fact that she’s shocked by the fact that she did. She hasn’t cried since the day she lost her little brother. Killed by a bullet in a food storehouse in the final days of the war. The night when her attempt to save her family from starvation backfired so dramatically that everything spiraled out of control with devastating results. She never saw her brother again, buried under tons of crates, sacks and supplies.
She had run away in a haze of panic, rushed on by the fast growing noise of cars, army trucks, sirens and countless running soldiers closing in. She has tried to convince herself ever since, that she had done so because of her mother. Because her mother wouldn’t be able to handle the loss of two children instead of one. Deep down however, she knows that it had been raw fear and unadulterated cowardice.
She had been so deeply ashamed of herself that she had quietly slipped back into bed without waking anyone up. Afterward, she kept waiting for the right moment to tell her mother, but with each passing day, it became harder, until telling her was no longer an option.
The effects of her actions turned out to be even more disastrous than she had feared. She had tried to save her family, but instead, she destroyed it. Her already feeble-minded mother collapsed completely, barely responding to her anymore. The only thing that kept her from doing the same was the realization that she alone could keep her mother alive. Though she did so with unwavering determination, it did nothing to ease her guilt. The fact that, the day after her disastrous actions, food packages began floating down—suspended from large, angelic white parachutes dropped by massive airplanes, marking the end of the war—barely registered with her.
Not long after, she vowed never to use her 'gift' again. Though it was more difficult than she had anticipated, she succeeded in training herself to suppress her ability to hear other people's thoughts.
Of all her principles, this became the most sacred of all: everyone deserves their privacy. Occasionally, a few thoughts would slip through the cracks of her mental barrier, but she managed to keep it to a minimum and when others complimented her on her keen psychological insight, she deflected lightheartedly, by saying she was simply a good "judge of character," followed up with some obscure proverb. Most of the time, that did the trick.
Since that disastrous night, she had been a pillar and anchor for her family and those closest to her, however hard it was. When her mother slipped into a vegetative state, hardly speaking or moving anymore. When her father never returned from the labor camps. When her own daughter disappeared just after her grandchild was born. When her son-in-law—whom she loved as her own—ended up in a wheelchair. Unwavering. Not a single tear.
But tonight, the tears she had suppressed all these decades of unwavering strength, must have built up enough pressure to burst through her barrier of invincibility... with devastating force.
She remembers making tea to calm Max, but when she saw the steam curling up from the kettle, her knees buckled, and she sank to the floor. It seemed the tears would never stop. Of course, they did—like everything does, eventually.
Leaning against the kitchen counter, trying to relax her stiff limbs while trying to rub some warmth into them, only one question occupies her mind: Where is Max?
Vaguely, she remembers her storming out of the kitchen, all fired up—which was a problem. When Max gets fired up, she becomes reckless and self-destructive, posing a danger to herself and those around her. She needs to find her before it’s too late. But even before she can take a step toward the door, she hears something... inside her head. The emotions must have heightened her senses beyond what she thought possible because, despite decades of training to block out other people’s thoughts, she hears the voice loud and clear. Someone is coming around the house.
She isn’t afraid or nervous. On the contrary, she’s angry, and she welcomes the feeling like an old friend. She’s done with the tears and grief. Anger is the practical side of grief—the side that’s ready to act. And she’s so ready to act.
She switches off the lights, sits down at the table, and waits. The voice in her head grows louder and louder, and though it’s a girl’s voice, it’s crude and coarse. "Where are you, you little rat? Come here... so I can snap your neck."
The kitchen door slams against the wall with devastating force. A massive silhouette fills the doorway. A giant hand gropes along the doorframe. The light explodes into the kitchen. Gran can’t help but notice that each finger is meticulously embellished with fluorescent pink nail polish, so bright it hurts the eyes. Two ridiculously small pigtails stick out from the sides of her head. She can’t be older than seventeen, but the girl is so big and grotesque that Gran struggles to stop staring.
Only after she has slammed the door shut behind her does she notice the old woman sitting at the kitchen table, with her eyes still bloodshot and her cheeks tear-streaked.
“There you are!” she booms, as if addressing a hall full of miners.
“Well, it is my kitchen,” Gran replies softly.
"Good. Saves time. Where’s that little rat? Hiding under her bed?"
“No, she’s gone, just like her father. You’ll have to make do with me. You go to the same school as Max, don’t you…”
“Shut it. I didn’t come all this way to chat with a drooling, senile old hag. I’ve got a job to do, so stop lying and tell me where she is.”
“Is this how your parents raised you, dear? The calm in Gran’s voice should have made Betty suspicious, at least a little. But it doesn’t. She doesn’t perceive any threat from the frail old woman.
“Keep my parents out of this, old hag. They taught me plenty, especially how to break puny people like you in half. ‘Snap’. Man, I hate old people.” Her voice carries the threatening undertone of inevitability.
"My parents taught me something different. They taught me never to lie, Lillian. That's your name, isn't it?" Betty looks up in surprise. How does this old woman know her real name? "Telling the truth has become one of my core principles." Although Gran’s voice is warm and friendly, her words, which would normally defuse any tense situation, seem to pour only more gasoline on Betty’s already blazing fire of hate and destruction.
“Don’t talk to me like I’m a child! I’m not! I haven’t been since I taught my parents a lesson they would never forget. The first time they realized how strong I really am.”
“Strong, Betty? How strong is that?”
“Strong enough to push down this wall and bring the house down on you, you old cow. Strong enough to tear you apart with my bare hands.”
Without warning, she takes two big steps toward the kitchen table, her pigtails bouncing cheerfully at the sides of her head. Only now does Gran notice the blue eyeshadow and the thick layer of rouge crudely smeared across the cheeks. She almost feels sorry for the girl—so eager to be a woman, yet with so little talent for it.
Effortlessly Betty lifts the kitchen table high above her head, apparently planning to crush Gran with it, reconsiders, throws the table to the side, and takes one more step forward, her thoughts ringing loud and clear in Gran’s mind.
“Bare hands... people like you shouldn’t live this long... I will do the world a favor.’ She’s so close now that Gran can smell her – toothpaste and bubble gum – while two shovel sized hands reach for her neck. A smile curls the thin red painted lips and then... she stops in her tracks.
“No... get out of my head... you... you... witch.” The giant hands now reach for her own head. “No!!! That's none of your business! Stay away from me…” The girl, slowly, sinks to her knees.
Gran finds no pleasure in doing this—it’s an act of self-defense. Her only goal is to render the girl harmless, and, shockingly enough, it proves no more difficult than peeling potatoes or washing dishes.
But then, with the girl cursing and groaning before her, everything around them begins to crumble. The sink, the table, the chairs—everything, except the chair she sits on—disintegrates into dust, leaving her surrounded by pure emptiness. She clings to the chair as if it were a lifebuoy, struggling to stay calm.
It feels like ages before things begin to rebuild. But before she can exhale in relief, she realizes to her horror that she’s now sitting at a table in an entirely different kitchen. This has never happened before. She knows she has always held back—but now, fueled by grief and anger, those restrictions seem to have completely disappeared.
Only after confirming she's alone does she regain control of her breathing. This other is dark and silent, but then she hears muffled voices somewhere else in the house. She knows she has to leave before someone finds her. But when she pushes herself up, the table bends under the pressure of her hand, as if it's made of rubber instead of wood. And that’s only the beginning. The entire kitchen begins to warp along with the table. Colors blend, objects morph into one another, and the whole room spins in a dizzying, disorienting blur. Then, just as abruptly, it all stops.
She’s in a living room now, probably in the same house, but there’s no way to be sure. The furniture looks old-fashioned, clean and respectable, in an middle-class sort of way. White gauze curtains and heavy velvet drapes are drawn halfway shut. Succulents and begonias are neatly arranged on the windowsill, and a Persian carpet-like tablecloth covers the table. Two people sit on the leather couch, but before Gran can get a better look, the door opens behind her.
Reflexively, she steps aside and turns to apologize, but to her astonishment, the scrawny, middle-aged man holding a tea tray walks right through her. She freezes. This isn’t real. It’s all an illusion, or—perhaps more unsettling—she must be inside Lilian’s... Betty’s mind. This is a memory. Despite having trained her whole life to prevent something like this from happening, now, she couldn’t care less. Her granddaughter and son-in-law are more important than a lofty, self-imposed principle.
The woman on the couch looks almost as small and fragile as her husband. Together, they form a striking contrast with the girl, who can’t be much older than eleven, though it’s hard to tell. She’s at least a head taller and three times broader than the man holding the now violently trembling tea tray. The girl is bent over, resting her head on her knees, as if in pain. The woman beside her places a delicate hand on her enormous arm in a gentle attempt to comfort her.
"Oh, my love, let them say what they want. What do they know? You are beautiful. You really are..." Her voice is so soft and compassionate that, for a moment, Gran thinks she’s ended up in the wrong mind. But the moment doesn’t last.
"Beautiful? I’m a monster, Mom! I’m hideous. I’m a FREAK!"
“No, darling. They only want to pull you down to their level. You have so much that they don’t.”
“Mom, look at me!” Tears are streaming down her face, and her voice is breaking.
“But I am looking at you, dear.”
“No, really look at me... Look at yourself... See the difference...” Her voice grows more intense. The man in front of the couch shrinks even further.
“You... you both... you're not so... gigantic. You're normal. I want to be normal too. I want to wear dresses... from a store... I want to go shopping... I want...” Suddenly, she shoots up, accidentally knocking her mother off the couch and sending her crashing into a cupboard, but, even while sitting on the floor, her mother continues talking.
"Please, my love, sit down. We—"
"No! I won’t sit down. I’m leaving. Now!"
The girl storms straight through Gran, slamming the door behind her with such force that half the frame tears away from the wall. Several things crash in the hallway before the front door slams shut with a deafening bang, and then everything falls silent.
Gran watches, not only with growing despair but also with a deepening sense of compassion. The woman sinks to the floor, whimpering in pain. Her tiny husband awkwardly hovers around her, clearly unsure of what to do.
"I’ll call the cops," he says suddenly, with a small voice.
"No, Charles. She’ll come back. Nothing will happen to her."
"No... yes... I know. I was actually thinking about all the other people... she’s dangerous... maybe they could lock her up for a night..."
Now Gran is truly shocked. She looks at the mother, determined to protect her daughter, and the father, so afraid of her that he’s considering having her locked away. She wants to help, to offer advice, but then realizes this isn't happening now—it's just a memory. On top of that, she's invisible to them. No, her priority is Max, she needs to find her.
First, she must escape the girl’s mind... She concentrates. Nothing happens. Cold sweat breaks out on her skin. She concentrates again, and then, to her relief, the world begins to spin again, and before she knows it, she’s back in her own kitchen.
On the cold tile floor in front of her, the giant girl with desperate fluorescent pink nail polish and absurd tiny pigtails sits on her knees, staring blankly out of her eyes, muttering unintelligibly.
“So,” Gran mumbles, “that wasn’t too difficult, was it? A bit of respect for an old woman.” But her anger is already tinged with pity as she continues. “I can’t help you, dear, I really can’t. I have to save my own child.”
She rises from her chair, carefully straightens her dress, shuffles slowly to the door, and when she steps outside does she hear the sound of a car turning onto the path leading to their house.