Page 55 of Anti-Player

“That doesn't mean you should use the stove.”

“Hah!” The older man wags a finger, taking small, shuffling steps with his hand out to find the wall. “I'm more advanced than that, kiddo. I've got an electric kettle now. Don't worry your head, I won't burn my home down. Tonight,” he adds at the end with a wry grin.

Mikel watches him move carefully to the kitchen doorway, hand tracing the edge of the wood frame, before finding the kitchen table inside. I'm a ball of knots but not just because I'm afraid the sweet grandfather will trip or bump something. “Mikel?” I whisper. He glances at me. “Why am I here?”

He pauses thoughtfully. His humming grandfather has found the kettle plugged into the wall on his counter. We all hear the sink begin to run as he fills it. Then something falls, clattering, and the other man curses. Sighing with a sheepish smile, Mikel says, “Let me help him first. One minute.”

Left alone in the living room with its brown leather furniture, paneled wooden walls, and the thick, clearly expensive woven black and red rug, I fold my arms over my chest. I hear them in the kitchen, talking softly, fussing with the tea. Unable to stand in one spot with how nervous I am, I study the walls. They're covered in framed photos.

I go closer for a better look. I know what they are because my mom keeps and hangs ones just like them. The pictures of a young Mikel in the arms of his mother and father make me smile. There are ones of him as a baby—yup, born day one with those blue as hell eyes—and ones of him as a knobby-kneed pre-teen.

A group photo of Mikel, probably no more than twelve, standing with his grandfather and what I assume is his grandmother, catches my attention. She's got short hair to her ears, big round black earrings, and a smile sweeter than sugar. She's in all the photos on the wall in various stages of posing.

Invested in my discovery, I walk the perimeter, finding more photos perched on tiny tables or stuck to other spots. Mikel on a boat, Mikel fishing, him with his parents and grandparents all on the beach. I haven't met his mom or dad yet, I think. It's funny that I expect I will... eventually, anyway. It seems like things are leading down that path where we get to meet each others family, see who likes us or approves. God, I hope they all like me.

When I reach the photos where Mikel is a teenager, things shift. I slow down, studying them to make sure I'm not wrong. Photo after photo... him and his granddad. No more grandmother.

And I know she's dead.

“Tea is ready!”

I spin around, seeing Mikel holding the tray with the kettle and mugs. I expected them to be fancy little cups, or to at least match, but each mug has a logo on it, a different color. They're the kind of mugs you collect at over-priced resorts. Family trip heirlooms, my mother calls them.

Mikel sets everything up on the coffee table in the living room. He pours me a steaming hot cup; I smile and say, “Thank you.”

“Welcome,” Mikel chuckles.

His grandfather shuffles to the couch on his own. He doesn't ask for help, I believe he does not want any. This is a kind man, but a proud man more so, and I grasp the determination I recognize in Mikel as originating from the same place. Yes. I understand the man I love a bit more, now.

****

Before the visit isover with, I'm comfortable enough to laugh along with the guys. They make it easy—the stories from Mikel's childhood are hilarious. His grandfather weaves a good tale, too, and his delivery is perfection. The way he speaks makes me hang on his every word. The tea drains away with the hours.

“It's late,” the older man yawns. “I should get to bed. It's a pleasure to meet you, Paige. I hope Mikel brings you around again very soon.”

“Thanks. It was great to meet you, too,” I say earnestly.

Mikel and I wait patiently while his grandfather eases upward from the couch. I gather the tea mugs and kettle, take it to the kitchen. While I do that I hear Mikel talking in gentle tones with his grandfather. They leave the living room; I watch from the kitchen until they vanish down a hallway.

Alone again, I wait for Mikel by the front door. Rocking on my heels, eyeing the photos with all the smiles, all the moments captured, frozen in time, I feel a sense of sadness. I can't explain it well. But this home is so warm, so relaxing, it's clear his grandfather is content under its roof. How many years has he lived here alone?

Finally Mikel comes back to me. He grins lopsided, then opens the front door. “Let's go,” he says. Together we walk into the cool night, the steps lit by the lamps through the windows. It's the only way we can see each other.

My heart tilts sideways. “Mikel?” I whisper.

He doesn't reply right away. In the shadow of the house he faces me, his hands sweeping over his hair like he's stressed out. “Ask whatever you want,” he says tiredly.

I wish I could see his eyes better... read his mood better. “When did he go blind?”

“It's been gradual,” he explains. “He wore glasses my whole life, but I think when I was maybe ten or eleven his sight degraded rapidly. He could still see blurry shapes for a while. Now he can't see shadows. Mary, she's this sweet caretaker we hired to come by every day to help him out. He puts up with it.” Mikel chuckles cynically. “Granddad hates needing any sort of help.”

“I could tell,” I say with a smile. I brace myself to ask the next thing. “Your grandmother...”

“Yeah, she passed away,” he says quickly. His jaw lifts an inch as he takes a breath. “nine years ago. Bad case of pneumonia that no one was ready for. Really unexpected, she was so lively, so—well. It hit everyone in the family hard, but obviously my granddad the most.”

“I'm sorry.” I wish I could say more than that. I remember how, when my father died, people were so uncomfortable around me. They all want to say the right thing, not knowing there's nothing to take away the pain.

We stand in a peaceful quiet on the front step. We don't move, we don't talk, we just languish in the experience of being alive while knowing others aren't. The deep, strange knowledge that eventually we'll die, too, and others will wonder how to speak about it... what magic words to use to try and soothe.

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