HER SOLACE

We had been hitting the books all day long, up until 2 p.m. Our goal was to finish the entire curriculum before sitting for the 12th-grade final exams. I wasn't intelligent, nor was I dull. I considered myself to be somewhere in the middle. I passed and earned good grades in some subjects, while I flunked in others. To be honest, I had attended class that day, though I wasn't at all eager to go. The only reason I did was because my grandpa had pleaded with me. He promised that if I went to school, he'd tell me some folktales when I got back. Since I loved hearing those stories, I decided to go. I felt terribly anxious and nervous, and I think the reason was that my teacher always seemed to have something against me. By 2 p.m., my stomach was already grumbling. I was hungry. I'd only eaten some breakfast that morning, but since I usually skipped meals, I didn't feel too bad. That day, something happened that ruined not just my day but my entire life. When the school bell rang at 2, our teacher, Anna, asked for our attention. "Wait a second, everyone. I have an idea I've been thinking about," she said. We all gave her our full attention as she continued, "You know, we're finishing this grade this month. I was thinking we could throw a party to celebrate our success. We could go anywhere around the city and have fun. What do you think?" Her question sparked a wave of excited whispers in the classroom. The idea sounded new and interesting to all of us. As the noise grew louder, she rapped her stick on the desk angrily, and we all fell silent. Almost all my classmates were afraid of her. She was rude, arrogant, and seemed to do everything only for her benefit. I hated her, and the feeling was mutual to both of us. There was a strong tension between us. I could never raise my hand to answer her questions. So, as the classroom quieted, she continued, "I see you're all interested. So, for your assignment, go home and convince your parents, because we'll need some money from all of you—except for Nora, of course, who has no one to turn to." She smirked at me as she said this, and my blood boiled with anger. She had just singled me out again like she always did. *** Actually, my name is Nora. I'm twenty-four today. But when that encounter with my teacher took place, I was seventeen, nearly turning eighteen. I was born into a fortunate family near the coast of Norway, in Bergen—a town in the southwest part of the country. My mother was a history teacher, and my father was a fisherman who worked in the distributaries near the jungles. I never understood why he didn't fish in the seas, lakes, or rivers where seafood was abundant. I also have a younger brother, Bryan, who is ten years old today. Unfortunately, our parents are no longer with us. They both passed away ten years ago. My mother died while giving birth to Bryan, a result of complications during the pregnancy. Bryan's birthday falls on the same day we mourn our mother. Two months before her death, our father had an accident. It was too brutal for him to survive. He had gone hiking with a friend on Mount Hoven in the north of Norway. My father was one of the most adventurous men I knew. They reached the summit, which had always been his dream, but it was also where his fate awaited. A violent cyclone hit as they were climbing down the mountain. It sent debris tumbling down the slope, and they had to hurry to escape the valley, or else they would be sucked into the whirlwind. As they struggled to descend, my father lost his footing on the rocky slope and fell. He was badly injured, unable to stand or move. It was over for him. He hit his head on the stone, and blood poured out like a waterfall. His friend tried to help and screamed for assistance, but no one was nearby. It wasn't until my father breathed his last that the help arrived. It was his friend who brought us that heartbreaking news. Ever since then, I have harbored a deep disdain for people from northern Norway. I shuddered whenever I met anyone from there, considering them merciless and evil. My father would have been saved if they helped. When we received the news of my father's death, my grandfather was so shocked that he became paralyzed. He underwent treatment but unfortunately, he was never the same. He could talk and joke with Bryan and me, but his health never recovered. He often told us folktales and ancient stories when we couldn't sleep. We would sit by his bed on the rug, listening to him, and sometimes, we'd drift off and spend the night there. Though, it still made my life complete. We lived off my grandfather's savings and pension. He had been a History and Geography teacher at a high school. Our family had seemed relatively happy, and that's how it appeared to everyone in our village. But after my parents' death, everything became chaotic. I've really had enough of life, but I still had to look after my little brother. My mother's final request to me was clear: "Make sure your little brother grows up well and becomes a real man. And you, make sure you become a strong woman!" She stammered these words, and no sooner had she finished than she closed her eyes. I later found out she wasn't going to open them again. She said these words while lying in a hospital bed, bleeding after giving birth to Bryan. I cried—tears that seemed to pour endlessly, because they say crying helps in some cases. So, I cried. After that painful event, some of my classmates offered me their condolences and helped me get through it. But others harassed me, bullied me, insulted me, and even used curse words about my parents. Still, I had to endure it all to keep the promise I made to my mother of raising my brother who's currently being reared by the incubator. *** But that day at school, I couldn't take it anymore. Look at how my teacher was starting to act so immaturely! I just couldn't hold back. The teacher began talking about my deceased parents in front of the whole class, which made everyone start questioning and being repelled by the party idea she had been promoting. I felt an overwhelming pressure to lash out at her. My eyes welled up with tears as her words took me back to the day my mother died. I stood up from my seat, grabbed my rucksack, and walked toward the door. Before leaving, I paused, turned to her with anger boiling inside me, and said, "You're nothing but a mess, Anna! How dare you speak like that to your student? I won't judge you, though. You must be younger than my brother, because I don't see how an old woman like you—" She interrupted; her annoyance apparently rising. "Enough! You'll wait until I report you to the headmaster. You'll regret those words." My classmates erupted in giggles, making her even more furious. She turned red, grabbed her papers, and stormed out after me. I made my way home, listening to music through my headphones. I always took them to school in my rucksack. Music was my escape, my way of lifting my mood and finding relief from everything. When I got home, I fumbled around in my bag for the key. My grandfather, who lived with us, was paralyzed. He spent most of the day and night at home, reading newspapers and listening to the radio. To take care of him, I'd wake up early in the mornings before school to prepare breakfast for him and leave a drink with a long straw by his bedside table. My little brother, Bryan, was also at school—he went to kindergarten—and the school bus would drop him off around 4:30 in the afternoon. He wasn't very stubborn, which made things easier to me. *** So, I rushed upstairs to check on my grandfather as I entered the house. I pushed open his door and saw him smiling as he greeted me. He was reading the newspaper, and his milk was finished from the bottle. I greeted him back, and we exchanged a few words before heading down to the kitchen to prepare some food. He asked me to hurry with the cooking because he had something very important to tell me subsequently. I boiled some potatoes, made sauce, and warmed up some milk, and added some sugar to it. I left it on the stove and went back upstairs to feed him. We ate together, chatting while I fed him. I'd slice the potatoes, scoop up the sauce with a spoon, and feed him. At the same time, I'd feed myself too. "You remind me of my lovely wife when you feed me like this," my grandpa joked. I laughed, "You're kidding! Do I look that old to remind you of her? Huh? I'm beautiful..." He laughed again, "Your grandma was more beautiful than you'll ever be. Don't even try to compare yourself to her. You're unlucky you never got to meet her." He said this proudly, and we both laughed. It was really comforting to have him in my life. He made fun of me, cheered me up when I was down, and lifted my spirits during my hardest times. *** After the meal, I got ready to go pick up Bryan from school. His school was downtown, about three miles from where we lived. Bryan was lucky because we had a neighbor whose children went to the same school, and he got a free ride with them in the mornings. I only had to pay half the bus fare for the ride back home. It saved me little money, at least. I went by taxi, and the driver was very annoying. He asked me countless questions during the ride. I barely answered any of them, but there was one that caught my attention: "You're the granddaughter of Mr. Mathias, aren't you?" In fact, Mathias was my grandfather, so I nodded in agreement and asked him, my eager rising: "Why do you ask? How do you know me and him?" He cleared his throat and said, "He's famous out here. I suppose you know it. Do you read newspapers, like Dagbladet?" "Not really, but why?" I replied, looking at him blankly. He cleared his throat again and continued, "Well, it's said that he owns dangerous and haunted jungles up north. Ever heard that before?" He sneaked a peek at me from the corner of his eye. "That's a lie," I said firmly, and there was a long silence until the car stopped by the roadside. I couldn't stop trying to create a linkage between two ideas_ idea of my grandfather's love for reading books about jungles and what the taxi driver had just said about him recently. I was kind of confused.