The Guardian

by Carol Robi

  "Dad I know you are about hardships and all, but please tell me we are not about to walk all the way to grandpa's."

  "Relax, your grandmother must be waiting for us at the parking lot," he says with a chuckle.

  Sure enough, I see an older slender woman with cropped silver hair step out of a small dark grey car. She walks over to her son, enveloping him in a warm hug. We’d last visited the Christmas before last, so she must have really missed him.

  I stand quietly behind them, giving them a moment. She pulls herself from him, but goes on talking in rapid Danish to him. Her Danish is so fluid and quick that I only understand about half of what she is saying. She then comes over to me with wide open arms.

  "Welcome Caroline, I hope you had a good flight," she says to me, a small smile preceding her swift Danish.

  "It was wonderful, thank you," I reply in my jerky version of the Nordic language.

  Dad smiles then, happy that I have finally given in and spoken the language.

  After loading our luggage into the car, we get in and are off to my grandparents’ house, about five minutes’ drive from the train station.

  Chapter 2

  My grandparents' house is a typical Danish family house. I estimate it to be about 130-150m2 on a single storey. It’s made of brown-red bricks, like most houses on this street, and sits on a small land patch with a dark green picket fence around it, sprawling with carefully pruned bushes.

  The car crawls into the driveway and she turns off the engine. Dad then springs out of the passenger seat and goes around the car to get our luggage. I open my door slowly and step out, going around the car to help him.

  "Smile princess," he whispers in my ear, before planting a light kiss on my cheek as he walks past me towards the house.

  I chuckle in answer as I bend over to get my smaller case, just then seeing a shadowy figure floating by the car to my left. It appears to be a middle-aged woman. The hazy shadow around her lets me know that she is not one of the living. I hold my breathing steady, pretending not to have seen her, as I lift the case up, bang the car booth door shut and walk into the house.

  When I walk up to the door, my grandfather is holding the door for me with a big open smile. Now, him I have missed! I run into his arms, and only have to stop myself before I topple him over.

  "Now, now lille mus. Remember I am an old man," he says to me while cradling me in his arms. He smells nice and warm, of cigarettes and light wood smoke, a scent I know to only associate with him. He has soft kind green eyes and dad's wide wrinkled smile. I step up and kiss his cheek.

  "If I did not know any better, I'd say someone has truly missed me," he says chuckling, his hands still wrapped around my waist.

  "Yes, I have missed you, grandpa," I answer him. For a second he looks like he might just start to cry.

  To spare both of us the embarrassment, I turn down to face my case and ask, "Which wardrobe have I been stuffed into?" He chuckles at this.

  "You get to have your own room. Your father, however, has to sleep on the couch in the meantime."

  I feel sorry for dad. The couch is a sofa bed, but dad is a large man, and he couldn't possibly be comfortable in such sleeping conditions. We are squatters for now, however, and my grandparents have been so nice as to let us crash here until dad can get back on his feet here in Denmark.

  The money from our flat and art gallery that we sold in New York, would be used to buy us a decent home here. I know my parents must have gotten a good deal from the sales, considering how profitable real estate in New York is. Dad and mom both agreed that us spending the first couple of months with my grandparents would be a great idea, so that dad could take his time in finding a suitable home without being in too much of a rush. This way we could get us a good deal.

  I lift my case and head to the second room to the far left. It is the guest room, and I know it to be the room grandpa was talking about. I have been in this house a few times before, and know it well. Nothing has changed. The same pictures still hang from their frames on the walls of the tiny cubicle with a single small window facing east. The same furniture, an old fashioned wardrobe, and the very same overly soft bed I slept on so many times before when we had come to visit as a family. A small chest of drawers still stands under the window. Mom and dad would always sleep in this bedroom with me when I was little. However, when I outgrew sharing a bed with my parents, I slept on the sofa-bed in the small living room instead.

  "Hey dad! Guess who is getting the couch," I say heaving my smaller case onto the bed. The other two larger suitcases are lying on the floor, and dad is bent over them trying to get them open.

  "Yeah I know. Enjoy the life of luxury," he mocks me, as he gets the cases to open.

  We spend the next hour or so sorting my clothes into the single wardrobe available. I own too much to fit in, plus I have to save some room for some of dad's stuff anyway, so the rest I leave in my suitcases. I close them without locking, and stuff them under the bed to create more room on the floor space before the bed. I close the now empty smaller suitcase and place it at the top of the old wardrobe, forcing some room for it between the odd boxes stacked up there too. I then plop myself onto the bed, and dad does the same beside me, dropping his worn duffel bag onto the floor.

  I feel even worse for dad at this point, than I do for myself. He looks completely out of his element. It even appears as though I would fit in here much easier than he would. He has not lived in Denmark for more than twenty years, within which he has only been here to visit and I doubt he has ever stayed for more than a couple weeks with each visit. At least not after I was born, because he then spent most of his holidays with mom and me. Now he has to try to reinsert himself into a society he hasn't been part of for so long.

  It kills me to think of how mean I have been to him these past few months, taking into consideration the fact that the change is just as great for him as it is for me. Maybe even greater.

  "Dad, do you think later today we could take a short walk hereabout? I don't want to take a nap now because then I won’t be able to sleep tonight."

  "Yeah, that's a splendid idea," he says beaming. "But first let's Skype your mother and let her know that we got here fine and in one piece, before she goes into full panic mode."

  "Haha we better do that now! I can just see her pacing about right now, wondering if we’ve managed to remember to feed ourselves." I say laughing, dad’s cheerful laugh joining mine.

  I set about turning on my iPad, while dad leaves to ask my grandparents for their internet password.

  After a quick fifteen minutes check-in call, dad and I head to the kitchen to join my grandparents for some tea and cake. We smile secretly to each other over our fruit tea. We are both used to heavy oriental and English teas. This just tastes like diluted fruity warm water, but neither of us says anything. I make a mental note to buy some proper tea when we are out on our walk, or later tomorrow.

  Mom was right about dad and I needing to bond. We might not look alike but we do have many things in common.

  "Caroline and I are thinking of going for a short walk before dinner," dad says to his parents as he assembles the cake crumbs that have fallen onto his place mat with the side of his palms.

  "Oh, that sounds very lovely. It is a beautiful day for a walk. I wish I could come with," grandpa says his eyes twinkling up at us from across the table.

  "Of course you can come with, grandpa."

  "Oh, I can't today. Your grandmother will need help with the dinner. You two go along without me, and we can take another walk together another day."

  "It's a date!" I confirm, and he laughs in response.

  After I finish the light snack, I take a quick shower to freshen myself, and shrug into denim shorts and a bright yellow cotton T-shirt.

  Dad freshens up too, getting into the still steamy bathroom right after I am done. He changes in my room, so I walk out to give him some privacy, taking the time to study some of the family portraits my grandp
arents have hanging on the narrow hallway. Dad emerges clad in faded old khaki shorts and a T-shirt that has seen better days, and we start walking towards the door.

  "Remember your rain jackets," grandma calls chuckling. I rush back in to grab at our jackets that I hanged behind the bedroom door. She is right to remind us. The weather is highly unpredictable here.

  We start our walk at a steady pace, making our way away from the town’s main road, and cutting through back roads until we met the narrow dirt road leading to the sea inlet. Neither of us talks for the first twenty or so minutes of our walk. We both appreciate the silence, enjoying the beautiful landscape with the gentle slopes.

  We soon come up to the water edge, where the water laps right up to the green vegetation and the sharp naturally curved rocks. There is no sandy beach here to mark out the gradual change from land to water, but rather the drastic disruption of grass covered land by the stretch of the fjord waters.

  We stand looking out onto the still water stretched before us. A few sailing boats and water skiers dot the water body, and I know that dad is longing to be one of them. Dad loves sports, more so water sports. For that one fact, I am glad for him to be back in Denmark again. For if there is anything Denmark is blessed with, it is its long coastline and soaring waves that makes various water sport activities possible.

  Another shadow passes above the water, but I do not even blink in response. I have learnt to see them as part of everything else in the world.

  "Dad," I speak up finally. "What kind of job did you get?" I remember when we’d been in New York, dad had been sending job applications. He’d finally found one, and is to begin there this coming Monday.

  "I will be working at the post office, lille mus."

  "Ok," I answer, making sure to sound indifferent for his sake.

  I am sad for him. He has spent such a great part of his life travelling around in exciting places, doing extraordinary jobs that alter the lives of hundreds of people at a go.

  Here, however, he is to hold a dead end job, despite all his experience and wisdom. He is a well trained and experienced carpenter, but who would give a forty something year old man a carpentry job, when under experiences he writes- helped Somali families build huts. They probably do not consider that to be relevant experience, yet it is technically more challenging.

  I choke back my rising anger with society and stare straight ahead at the beauty sprawled before my eyes.

  "Very exciting stuff, huh!" He jokes poking into my side with his elbow. I giggle in response, unable to stop my reflexes.

  "I think it’ll give you and me a lot of bonding time, though," he adds, laughing good naturedly. "I’d forgotten how few working hours there are when one has a regular job. I am to meet at work every weekday from 7am to 2pm, and I am free the rest of the time. I’ll have to find myself a hobby, princess. I hardly remember ever having so much free time in my hands." The last past is said forlornly. Quietly.

  I slip my hand into his and squeeze. I still don't understand why he would accept to take care of me. They could have easily left me with my grandmother in Kenya, whom would have been ecstatic to have me, and I wouldn't have been ruining her life.

  "Dad I'm so sorry to be such a burden. I promise if you leave me with mom's mom, I’ll be fine, and you could join mom and work there. Then I wouldn't be the source of your misery...” I say, my voice breaking and tears streaming down my face. I try to stop them, but the moment they start pouring out, I am unable to control them. Dad looks confused at first. He then recovers, pulling me gently against him, and holds me close.

  "Shush, shush now. Don't cry. I am not miserable. On the contrary, I am happy. Excited to get back some of the time I missed of your early life. Shush now, lille mus. Just think how much time I have now to kick your butt at one-on-one!"

  "Oh, you wish dad!" I snap back amid my sniffles. How is he able to bring me from a sobbing mess to a competitive athlete in one moment? The secrets of parenthood, I guess. He chuckles in response, glad to hear me back to my normal self.

  "Race you back home!" He shouts before setting off into a sprint.

  “Cheat!” I call out as I quickly set off after him, and we race all the way back to my grandparents' house.

  Grandma looks up bewildered from her magazine as we both come crashing through the door, out of breath and laughing like maniacs.

  Dad and I may not know each other, but we have a lot in common. This will make it much easier for us to get to know each other.

  I retire to bed almost as soon as dinner is done, too exhausted to keep my eyes open after the many hours of travel.

  I fall asleep as soon as my head hits my pillow.

  Chapter 3

  We spend the next Saturday fishing at the fjord in grandpa's old fishing boat.

  It is a splendid day. We packed a lovely picnic with us earlier this morning, pots of tea and hot chocolate, cookies, sandwiches, fruits and even candy.

  Grandma and I sit at the middle part of the boat, cuddled under a light fleece blanket, our fishing rods sticking out from under the blankets. My sketchpad is propped against my raised knees, and my pencil is sketching away furiously. Dad and grandpa sit at either end of the boat, sipping beer and fishing.

  A figure quickly flies past our heads right then, and another follows it hot in pursuit.

  This area is full of interesting supernaturals! I’m thinking as I trap the end of my fishing rod under my right thigh. I clutch my sketchpad tighter against my knees and continue sketching grandpa's profile.

  From my peripheral view, I watch the flying creatures disappear behind a cluster of trees to the east. I then look back at my grandfather, and continue sketching his profile in silence. I know for sure that none of them have seen the flying figures. I have long come to the understanding that I’m the only one that sees them.

  This time however, the creatures I have just seen are far from the ghosts I am used to seeing. They appear to have the same human body, but the speed at which they had moved at had been... Well, superhuman to say the least, even for ghosts. I only managed to see a blurred image of their human-like features, and also caught sight of what could have been large wings spreading out above them.

  After six hours out in the water, we are tired, cold, stocked with enough fish, and ready to go home. As the men row back towards the marina, I brush up the finishing touches of my sketch. I trace lightly the shadowy image of a blur of the flying figure that I have lightly penciled at the corner of my sketchpad, just to the left of grandfather’s forehead profile.

  I’ve drawn more intricate elements of the creature than I remember having seeing as they flew by. For example the long sword strapped to its back as evidenced by the bottom tip of its scabbard, and the patterns of its exquisite hilt emerging at the back of its head. The small part of its wing that I’ve drawn makes it appear as though the creature must have massive wings, spanning the full length of its body in height.

  Part of me wants to rip up the sketch into a million pieces, in fear that I might be sent back to mental hospitals and shrinks, but the other part of me just cannot bring myself to tearing it apart. The image of the flying creature is just too mesmerizing. I quickly put away the sketchpad into my shoulder bag, and walk up to change places with grandfather so as to help with rowing.

  "Lille mus, could I see the sketch you were making earlier today?" Grandpa asks later after dinner. I take a moment to still my heart, and think up of a lie before I answer. None comes to mind.

  "It didn't come out as I’d hoped," I say meekly. It is the truth. I managed to sketch a little more into it than I planned to.

  "Come on, princess," dad puts in. "We all know what an amazing artist you are. I am sure it looks great, regardless." They keep insisting, and not having any more argue points, I make my way to my room and get my sketch pad. I bring it up to him, hoping, praying, that my father doesn't over think the light pencil lines sketched at the top left corner.

  "Wow, she is amazing,"
grandma whispers as she crouches behind the two men to look at it. I burn up with embarrassment at their words of praise.

  "Yes, she is!" Dad puts in proudly. "Her mother believes that she shall be an even better artist than herself." I stifle back my scoff. Isn't that something mothers always say to encourage their children? My mother is an amazing artist, and I cannot fathom a world where I become nearly as good as she is, let alone better.

  "And what is this here. Tell me you were thinking of your grandfather as a superhero," grandfather says with a chuckle. The thought seems to amuse him, and the others too, as dad is now laughing at the thought and shaking his head as though it is the funniest thing he ever heard. Grandma too is smiling, a little too widely, for one of her reserved nature. I smile with relief.

  We spend that Sunday lazily. Grandfather and I prune the garden, grandma practices on her piano, while dad flips through the DBA site on my iPad, the Danish equivalent to eBay, looking for used bikes for us.

  The plus side of having humanitarian parents is that they are pretty cool. The minus is that they are not rich. They do not do it for the money. So getting new bikes will be a luxury for us. However, I’ve never minded the stingy lifestyle as it has manage to create in me an appreciation for everything I own. And a great sense of responsibility.

  By the end of the day, dad has found a couple of bikes for sale in some of the nearby towns. He borrows grandpa’s car and we both leave to go check them out.

  Dad buys his from a kid in a very small town with only a handful houses in the area. The kid is about my age, overweight, and speaks with so many Danish phrasal expressions, that I haven't a clue what he is saying in the end. However, dad understands him well enough. It is a steady uphill bike, 7 gears and pretty much new. He gets it at a nice throwaway price.