“The new neighbors have really settled in now. Truckloads of boxes were carried into the house this morning.” Gran seems to be speaking more to herself than to me, staring absentmindedly out of the kitchen window. “Your father hasn’t left the barn all day. I hope he eats something.” I focus on the cup of tea in front of me. Steam curls upward before dissolving into the air; the clock ticks, and the plumbing creaks. “Well.” She sighs again. “The world keeps turning in the same direction, no matter what we think of it.” Her face is marked with worry, though she tries to hide it.
I feel the urge to say something comforting but struggle to find the right words.
“Dad should be a bit less obsessed and a bit more pragmatic, Gran. Waging war against the whole world will only make him feel more miserable.” And me too, I think—but don’t say that out loud.
“People are more than what they appear to be, Tinderstick; don’t look with your eyes alone.” Ouch. Two proverbs! She must be extremely worried.
Unease starts to itch under my skin. Guilt gnaws at my conscience. With good reason, as I still haven’t told her that I’ve gotten to know our new neighbors pretty well by now over these last weeks, More and more I’ve escaped the suffocating atmosphere of our home, finding refuge with Angel and her father. They have become my sanctuary. It still surprises me how effortlessly I share my private feelings with them—more so than I ever have with anyone before. Even more than with Gran, and certainly more than with my father. To my surprise, being honest, open, and vulnerable turns out to be unexpectedly fulfilling.
Apart from talking, we don’t do anything special. We play board games, or I listen to my neighbor speak. It’s remarkable how much that man knows about almost everything. Sometimes he plays classical music for me on an old turntable. I hate classical music, but he describes it so vividly that I end up listening anyway.
My conversations with Gran, however, have become increasingly and uncharacteristically short. Unlike before, I only share superficial things: homework, teachers, classroom gossip. Normal teenage stuff, but nothing more. Nothing about talents, vice-principals turning things into ice, or impossible assignments. The fact that my mother is still alive—and neither she nor my father has found the courage to tell me—stands between us like a brick wall. I want it to be different, but it isn’t.
Of course, Gran is aware of my visits to the neighbor—she notices everything—but, as so often, she chooses not to mention it. I realize it must be extremely painful for her. Especially at moments like this, when we sit opposite each other with a cup of cold tea in our hands, struggling to connect, I know how much she must miss the granddaughter she had only half a year ago. I miss her too. It really hurts to see her like this, but I have no choice. There’s only one thing I want to ask her: Why didn’t you tell me that my mother is still alive? And I’m not sure if I’m ready to hear the answer yet.
She looks lonely and vulnerable, sitting there on her rickety old kitchen chair, upright and immaculate. The sickening feeling of alienation becomes unbearable. I get up so abruptly that I almost knock my chair over.
"Sorry, Gran. Eh... I'll go upstairs. Read something." Gran snaps out of her thoughts.
"Of course, Tinderstick. Books are food for the soul."
"Sure," I mumble as I give her a fleeting kiss and hurry to the kitchen door. When I look back one last time, Gran hasn’t moved an inch. Her tea must be ice-cold by now. Suddenly, she looks up.
"Max... I love you. You know that, right?" Before I can answer, the door falls shut. I swallow back a potent mix of conflicting feelings and fight the urge to go back and hug her. But it’s no use now—it would only be awkward. I do decide not to sneak out to my neighbor, though. It would hurt her too much right now.
When I enter my room, I don’t bother turning on the light, unsure of what to do next. I may have an ancient, not-so-smart phone and a prehistoric laptop, but there’s no Wi-Fi, and no phone signal reaches this forsaken corner of the civilized world. So, no Google searches for lost teachers or ancient lists with red and green names. I think about what my neighbor said—that real, valuable knowledge can’t be found on the internet. Maybe he’s right, but at least it would have given me something to do to pass the time.
I stare out the window, watching as the night devours the last light of day. I love this moment—the magical instant when time feels almost tangible yet seems to stand still. The witching hour, as Gran calls it. Everything is reduced to abstract, dark gray forms, vaguely silhouetted against the sky, now a deep, dark blue: the tree, the fence, the gate, the disintegrating old car we will never drive again, the enormous stack of garbage bags waiting to be collected, the... My eyes dart back. Something moved.
I dive to the floor, and when I cautiously peek over the windowsill, I see a large garbage bag slowly moving away from the others. A very large, man-shaped garbage bag. It’s that journalist! What the hell! Doesn’t he have anything better to do? I’m not some goddamn celebrity! This has to stop. Tonight! But just as I’m about to get up, go downstairs, and confront him, he abruptly stops.
A wheelchair rolls into the yellow rectangle of light projected by the kitchen window. From this distance, it’s hard to read my father’s facial expression, but his body language speaks volumes—he’s angry. The journalist, however, doesn’t seem to notice or chooses not to. He reaches into his pocket and pulls out a recording device. Really? What a nerve. He pushes a tiny microphone into my father’s face, probably mistaking his silence for compliance. He couldn’t be more wrong, though. The moment my father stops talking, he’s mad—really mad.
Oblivious to this, the huge pile of a journalist smiles encouragingly, waiting for an answer. One second, two, three—and then, without any visible cause, his expression changes. He presses his hands against his ears and stumbles backward, obviously in pain. I don’t see why, though. My father sits motionless in his wheelchair, and there’s no one else around. Still, it seems to get worse. The journalist turns around and starts running back to his car, hands still pressed over his ears, his face distorted with pain. He wrestles himself into a ridiculously tiny car, squeezing into the painfully narrow seat. When the motor revs up and two bright beams of light shoot into the night, he flees with squealing tires from our land, narrowly avoiding one of my father’s bigger “inventions.”
When his taillights disappear into the distance, I look back at my father. He looks tired and fragile now, as if he’s somehow shrunken. I don’t know what to make of it. What did he do to that journalist? What could he have done to make him run? He’s sitting in a wheelchair, for Christ’s sake!
Slowly, he seems to wake up from his thoughts and come back to life. He turns his wheelchair back toward the kitchen and wrestles it with difficulty over the threshold.
I watch him with an uncharacteristic level of empathy. I feel the urge to go downstairs and thank him for protecting me. Actually, I want that very much. These are the moments when I realize I miss my father as much as I miss my mother. It’s exhausting to live in a permanent state of war with your own father. Still, the right words seem to elude me. They always do, but every time I try, the words seem to stumble over the threshold of my lips and crash down like chicks prematurely thrown from their nest.