The work of a mover. I always thought of it as a dirty job that basically keeps my head above water. Throw a few boxes in the car, drive down a few floors, occasionally throw your back out, but so what? It pays the rent, right? It's just lately... I feel like I'm doing it differently. I'm not saying I'm some kind of saint or anything. But when you walk into an apartment and you're greeted by an old lady with a look that tells you her dog died, her husband's mug broke, and life just ain't what it used to be, you just can't ignore it.
I'll help her move a few blocks away. Sure, it's paid for, but instead of just throwing boxes in the back, I'll offer to build her a bed. Or put books on the shelf. And the weird thing is, I don't mind. I guess I've gone soft.
The guys at work noticed. Venca, the chatty guy who talks like he's a B-movie comedian, told me straight out: "Dude, what's wrong with you, Matti? You've been too nice lately. Did somebody die on you or something?" But nobody died. Maybe... maybe I'm just starting to see more that life around me isn't just a bunch of assholes that piss me off.
Once again, I'm heading to pick up Katie. She's already running toward me with a drawing in her hand.
"Uncle Matti, look what I drew today!"
"Wow, beautiful, a true masterpiece," I tell her, even though I know as much about drawing as a pig knows about oranges. The drawing shows the whole family: Katie, her mom and dad (my brother), grandma and grandpa... even me. In a cap, with a beard, hands in my pockets—classic, as she calls it. But then I notice—there's some unfamiliar girl standing there. Blonde hair, a sweater, standing slightly apart from the others.
"Hey, Katie, who's this?" I ask, pointing at the figure.
Katie looks at me like I'm a total idiot.
"Don't you recognize her? That's Eli! She's my big sister. My friend in preschool has one too—someone who picks her up, brushes her hair, and plays with her. And now I have one too!"
I turn to look at Eli. She's standing behind me, covering her mouth with her hands, tears streaming down her face.
"Eli, what's wrong? Are you okay?" I ask, feeling a bit nervous now.
Katie looks at her, frowning.
"Why is she crying? Uncle Matti, is she sad?"
"No, Katie," I say. "She's just... you know, sometimes people cry when they're happy."
Katie just shrugs, clearly not buying my explanation. But I know what's going on. Eli told me how she lost her parents. That she doesn't have anyone. And now Katie is calling her 'sister.' Of course, that hit her hard.
Later that evening, after I'd brought Katie home, Mom cornered me in the kitchen.
"Matti, what if you invited that Eli over for dinner?" she said right off the bat.
"What? Why?" I didn't get it at first.
"Katie keeps talking about her, 'big sister this, big sister that,' and she wants to show her room to her," Mom explained. And then she added her signature line: "And I want to meet the girl who made my Matti tell his mom he loves her."
Well, you can't argue with that. I just shrugged.
"Alright, I'll invite her," I muttered. But honestly, deep down, I'm kind of looking forward to that dinner myself.
YOU ARE READING
The Twelth Player
Short StoryMattias Heiberg is haunted by one unpleasant event after another - nasty clients at work, a break-up with his girlfriend, a car accident. The former football superstar is not going to make it at least in the lower competitions. On top of that, an un...
