Chapter 22
NEW BEGINNINGS IN OLD ROOMS
The next morning, Andi woke when George came back from his morning run.
It was still way too early, not even seven a.m. Because of the heat, George got up at five, an hour Andi only knew from the worst cases and nightmares.
How anybody could willingly drag themselves up to do sports, of all things, was way beyond Andi’s grasp.
Well, nobody was perfect and even George had to have some flaws.
The silverfish were especially active this morning, telling him how George entered the house, leaving his running shoes on the rack next to the door—a new installment because apparently just leaving the shoes on the ground there wasn’t enough.
They had to be in order as well. He walked along the floor into the living room, where he did some stretching against the wall.
The silverfish reported how sweaty and very healthy he was.
His heartbeat was robust, already slowing down.
He was that fit, his electric fields a soft, rhythmic buzz that almost lulled Andi back to sleep.
After stretching, George went to the kitchen to start breakfast. He hated showering while he was still actively sweating, claiming he felt gross even after the shower, and if possible, he had breakfast first, waiting to dry.
Andi didn’t mind. If he thought about it, there were a few things he minded about George and those had more to do with work than their day-to-day life together.
The obnoxious kale smoothie was prepared, and the silverfish didn’t have an opinion about it, which was okay because Andi had enough of that for an army.
That stuff was disgusting. Not disgusting was the oatmeal with plant milk.
Today, it seemed to be made with almond milk, as they had various flavors to pick from, store-bought, but Andi had seen George looking into options to make them at home because his man didn’t like all the additional ingredients companies put in their products.
The oatmeal was topped with hemp and chia seeds, not Andi’s favorites, and because George knew him, there were also hazelnuts and walnuts to make the super healthy seeds more palatable.
A plate with various sliced fruit, apples, strawberries, melon, and banana and a pot of chamomile tea completed the setup.
When George started pouring the smoothie, aka the swill, into a tall glass, Andi knew it was time to get up and start the day.
He left the bed, did his morning business, and lumbered down the stairs into the kitchen.
George greeted him with a kiss and a soft ‘good morning, dear,’ which Andi answered in kind before he sat down on the kitchen island.
George put the plate with the fruit in the middle, then handed Andi one of the bowls with the oatmeal, along with a cup of steaming tea.
“Thank you.”
“It’s my pleasure.” George winked, emptied the smoothie, put the glass in the sink, and sat down with his own bowl.
“How was your run?”
“Nice. Relaxing.” George took a spoonful of oatmeal, chewing slowly. After swallowing, he smiled. “You didn’t follow me?”
Andi shook his head. “I was too tired.” Sometimes, when he was aware George was going, he would follow him through the senses of the arthropods. It was a good exercise, made easier by an object of focus he knew so well.
George reached over the island to touch Andi’s arm. “I meant what I said yesterday, dear. We can close the door anytime.”
Andi sighed. He wanted to close that door. He didn’t want to close that door. It had long been coming, and he was glad he had somebody to do it with him. “I know. Thank you. But…it’s time. I can feel it.”
And he could, in a way he would never be able to express with words, for they were poor substitutes for the wealth of emotions the fading echoes of his gran’s existence woke in him.
The memory of her scent and movements, her electric fields, her weight on the mattress.
It was all gone from their perspective because there were no social insects in there who could have stored it for longer.
All that remained were the shadows of his own memories, and they were haunting, not soothing.
It was time to make new impressions, to get rid of ghosts Andi had conjured up himself.
Knowing that his gran wouldn’t have wanted him to turn her bedroom into some sort of shrine was another motivator.
As it was, she’d probably been looking down on him since her death, cussing him out for his stupidity—in a very gentle, loving manner, but still.
She’d been good at that. One look from her conveyed more meaning than an entire monologue from somebody else.
“We’re going to need boxes. To…pack stuff.”
“We still have the boxes from my move here. I’ll get them from the attic after my shower and then we can start.”
They finished their breakfast in silence, for which Andi was grateful.
He felt raw and vulnerable in a way he’d almost forgotten.
It wasn’t the feeling of drowning on land he had gotten used to because of his geschenk.
No, this was the slicing agony of being lost and alone, not because he’d gotten used to it but because the person who had been his anchor and companion was gone.
And when he thought about how his gran had left him, he couldn’t help but think about what would happen to him if George left him.
He was sure he wouldn’t be able to survive.
Andi stood on the threshold of his gran’s room when George came back from his shower with a stack of folded moving boxes in his arms. He leaned them against the wall next to the door before he put his hand on Andi’s shoulder.
Again, he didn’t say anything, just waited patiently for Andi to make the first move.
That was the reason he found the strength to do it.
With a deep intake of breath, Andi took one of the boxes, stepped into the room and folded it out. George grabbed his own box.
“Where do you want to start?”
Andi looked around. He knew he had to ease into this. “Her closet. I don’t know if her clothes are still any good though. There’s no clothes moths in here, and the climate is dry, but—”
“It’s fine. We’ll see.” George stepped forward and opened the wardrobe. The plethora of colors almost blinded him. His gran had always loved bright things. George whistled.
“Wow. This is so not what I had expected.”
It wasn’t meant in a disrespectful way, and Andi understood what his partner meant.
“She was never a typical grandmother. It was one of the things I loved so much about her.”
“I can imagine she looked great in this.” George took out a light, flowing summer dress in the brightest orange imaginable.
“Oh yeah, she was stunning. All the old geezers in the park stared after her and some of the other grannies as well.” Andi winked.
“Do you have pictures of her wearing that dress?”
“I’m not sure. I think I took some, but I don’t know if she had them developed.
You see, she insisted on using this old camera.
She took tons of pictures of all kinds of things.
They never were any good.” Andi chuckled softly when he remembered rainy afternoons going through stacks of poorly shot pictures, trying to find the few that weren’t blurred or with parts of the object snipped off.
Sometimes they laughed until their sides hurt.
The worst of the pictures got their own albums, which his gran titled ‘Never Stop Trying Volume 1-15.’ They had to be somewhere in this room, and suddenly he felt the urge to look at those, not packing up her clothing.
Andi searched around, felt with his arthropod senses until he found them in a wooden crate underneath her bed.
He got on his knees and pulled the trunk out.
It was a nice trunk with ornaments whittled into it, and a sheen only high-quality wood achieved through ageing. George went down next to him.
“Wow.” He stroked the wood of the lid. “This is old.”
“Yes, old and probably too valuable to be sitting under a bed that’s no longer used.” Andi heard the bitterness in his tone and didn’t try to quell it. He knew he wasn’t taking care of the house and the things in it as he should.
George pressed a soft kiss on his temple. “Don’t be so hard on yourself. You were busy surviving, and the trunk hasn’t taken any damage. You’re not neglectful. Just overwhelmed, and you have me now. I’ll look up how to treat old wooden trunks with gorgeous ornaments.”
Andi sighed softly, turning his head to kiss George’s lips. It was soft and sweet and everything he needed at that moment.
“Thank you.”
“I don’t know why you should thank me for pointing out the obvious.” George winked. “Now show me what’s inside.”
Andi carefully opened the lid. The lock was intact, but the key was long gone. Each album was swathed in silk paper, of course in different colors. The first he pulled out had a blue wrapping while the album itself was canary yellow. He undid the paper and opened the first page.
“Uhm…what exactly am I looking at?” George stared at the blur of pinks and greens with the not very helpful title ‘Fun day.’
“I’m not sure. Could be something in the garden. I mean, the garden is green?”
This had always been the funniest part—trying to decipher what Gran had captured after they both had forgotten where she’d taken the photo. The titles were confusing on purpose because, otherwise, looking at the albums would be boring or so Gran had claimed.
“Huh. I guess we now have something to keep our wits sharp.” George reached out to leaf through the album.
He stopped at one page with three photos that looked almost identical, titled ‘Not the Same.’ “Is this to make us wonder what each could be while they are all the same, or is it really three different ones?”