‘Dad has flipped his lid,’ is what Grandma said when we moved into her place. After two or three weeks at Grandma’s a moving van came by – unannounced, I might add – to bring us loads of stuff from our house … Dad’s house. There was no note, no nothing, just some furniture and boxes with clothes, toys, and random stuff that belonged to either Mum or me. Mum got pretty emotional, Grandma too, but in another way. She started ranting and raving. Normally Mum would have covered my ears during such a rant, but she was in the kitchen crying her eyes out. Being the boy I was, I covered my own ears. Just in case I shut my eyes, too.
The men unloaded the van and put everything in the house. Grandma had them move everything into the right rooms, because we would have never been able to do that ourselves. I kind of looked up to those guys, but not because of their jobs. They were really strong and they threw heavy stuff around as if they were made of feathers. I sometimes have trouble lifting my schoolbag. If Mum hadn’t been so emotional I’m sure she would have been drooling over their muscles. It shall always remain a mystery to me why she had married Dad in the first place. He was everything she didn’t want a man to be.
I guess it was one of the last things I heard of Dad, although I am really stretching the meaning of the word ‘hear’ here. He did sent me that letter that I read half, because Mum got hold of it and threw it away and told me never to bring that letter or its content up to anyone, not even Grandma. Other than that letter and the moving van, I had and still have never spoken to him or written anything to him. Last I heard was that he got married and moved to Spain, but those were Grandma’s words, so I don’t know how much truth there was in it. It could well be that he’s still living in the same house opposite the same old Unice and having the same old boring job, whatever it may be.
Dad and I, although I was obviously a lot more intelligent and handsome than he was, did share some of the same character traits. I always say I only got the good parts. Mum fears for my future as she thinks I’m going to turn into the same kind of ‘maniac’ and workaholic she now says Dad always was. Yes, true, he was a workaholic, but a ‘maniac’? I don’t know. When somebody uses the word maniac I always get visions of men wearing white overalls covered in blood, running after a young half clad lass with an axe. I guess Mum and I don’t share the same definition of ‘maniac’ and I hope she doesn’t think I’m going to run after girls with an axe. I hate running.
That’s it for tonight. See me tomorrow.