Anti

3: Damien

I change out of my sweaty shirt and head downstairs. I see my grandmother in the kitchen standing over a large pot of soup. From the smell, I can tell I can tell she is making a chestnut and nettle bisque, her specialty. I'm impressed that she still remembers how to make it considering her age. She turns 96 in December, which is two months from now. On top of her age, her memory has been deteriorating since my grandfather died. I brought my last girlfriend over for dinner once and she kept calling her by the wrong name. My grandmother also said that my girlfriend hasn't aged at all. That did not make any sense. They had never met before. My girlfriend called her a crazy old hag and threw a couple of other insults at her before I kicked her out of the house. When I asked my grandmother about it later, she simply showed me an old photo album. My girlfriend did look a lot like one of my grandmother's old friends, but she died 20 years ago. Time always gets muddled in my grandmother's head.

"How's it going Grand-mére?" I ask casually sliding my hand over the granite kitchen counter and picking us a bag of potato chips.

"I'm alright, Damienet. Don't eat those chips before dinner, you will spoil your appetite." she responds.

"Whatever. It's just a bag of chips. I'll still be hungry." That came out a bit ruder than I meant it to, but I feel no need to apologize.

"Very well Damienet. Why don't you help your old Grand-mére in the kitchen? Fetch me some cloves and parsley from the spice cabinet." she says with her lightly French infused accent.

She moved to America, right after my father was born in 1956. I think she wishes she could move back, but there is no one else to take care of me. I've been living with her for the past five years since my parents disowned me. Neither of them wanted me because I reminded them of each other. In response, my father's parents took me in and they told him never to come back to the house again. My grandmother was most disappointed in him. She told him he was not fit to be a father and he was a terrible influence on her grandson. I walked over to the spice cabinet at a glacial pace and picked up the two jars of herbs. I placed them down gently next to her.

"Thank you, Damienet." she says as she spills the contents of the jars into the soup. The aroma is intoxicating, she is an awesome cook.

"Hey Grand-mére, I'm meeting up with my girlfriend after football practice tomorrow, so I won't be back until like 7:00pm or something." I say.

"Ah Damienet, I see you less and less every day. With all your sports, studies, and girlfriends, you won't even notice when I die." she responds dramatically. I roll my eyes.

"Oh Grand-mére, you'll see me when I get back. It's only for the afternoon."

"Humph. I just miss seeing my sweet Damienet around the house. He helps me cook and clean and remember things... Damienet, where did I put my reading spectacles?"

I couldn't stop the smirk from forming on my face.

"You left them in the front hall, next to the antique mirror."

"Ah, Damienet! Thank you, what would I do without you?"

She kisses me on the cheek and begins to stir the soup with a wooden spoon. The aromas of the soup waft their way through the room. I set the table in the dining room for dinner before she asks me too, hoping she will completely forget her sadness about me not spending the afternoon with her. It takes a lot of time maintaining the identity of the coolest and hottest guy in school. I know she doesn't understand. She is too old to get it. I set the table as I usually do. Three placemats, two silver spoons, and two cloth napkins. The third placemat is for my grandfather. My grandmother believes in ghosts and stuff, so she honors his spirit by leaving a place at the table for him at every meal. It's a sweet thing to do, but I think she is in denial about his death. If ghosts actually exist, why haven't I seen one?

"Damienet, bring two bowls into the kitchen. It is time to plate the soup." I hear her holler from the kitchen.

For someone in their nineties, she has quite a loud voice. I check the future to see what bowl I should bring her, I receive a vision of handing her the china bowls with the floral designs. I grab the bowls from the old cabinet in the dining room and walk to the kitchen.

"Damienet, you always know which bowls I want without me having to tell you. It's as if you can read my mind. You are a psychique!"

Right idea, but wrong type of psychic. She doesn't know about my ability. I don't think she should know. I haven't told anyone about my powers. It would just be weird to bring up and I don't want people to think I am crazy. She fills the bowls with the soup and I carry them to the table. She walks behind me at a slow pace. I let her sit down at the table before I put the soup in front her. I put my bowl in front of me and I pick up my spoon. I dig my spoon into the soup and begin to eat. My grandmother, on the other hand, is distracted. She stares at the place setting meant for my grandfather, longingly.

"Grand-mére?" I ask hoping that she will forget her sadness.

"He was a good man, Damienet. He should have lived as long a life as I have."

She pauses to sigh.

"He was handsome like you and strong. I wish I could tell you how we met, but I don't remember such things anymore."

She looks down at her soup solemnly. I remember how they met. She used to tell me the story when I was a child. I guess I'm still a child, but when I was younger child she told me the same story every night.

"It's alright Grand-mére. I will tell you the story."

I pause to clear my throat.

"You met in 1939 in a French war hospital. You were too young to be a nurse, but you lied on your documents. You were tending to soldier and you thought he had the most beautiful face when he slept. You stitched his wounds and injected him with morphine to dull the pain. One day, when he opened his eyes he asked you if he had gone to heaven and if you were an angel. You smiled at him and kissed his cheek and said no you are with me. That was the story you told me Grand-mére." I looked at her face and tears were spilling from eyes. The teardrops filled the crevices of her wrinkles. She turned her eyes to me and smiles.

"Thank you, Damienet. Thank you. One day you will find someone who loves you as much as he loved me." I smile at her, weakly.

As sweet as she is, I know it won't be possible for me to find love. Too much paranoia, since I know when it will have an end. All relationships end, either through death or disagreement. It is impossible to love when you can see the end in the future. I look down at my soup and see the light from the chandelier dancing on top of it. I pick up my spoon and finish the remains of my soup. My grandmother picks up her spoon and eats half of her soup. We finish the meal in silence. I don't want to lose her. I check the future to see when she will die. The answer is sooner than I would like. I excuse myself from the table, go upstairs and plant my face into a pillow. I can't lose her. I've lost Grandpa and my parents. She is all I have left and I'm losing her. I'm losing her and the future cannot be changed.