Between the Pages

His hands in the soapy dishwater Simon scrubbed vigorously. Water splashed on his T-shirt and face. One single tiny bubble emerged from the sink. It floated upwards. It lingered for a second. Then it popped in front of his face, leaving a soapy taste on his lips.

“Stop joking around. Make sure the dishes are clean.”

Simon didn’t turn his head to look at his father. Instead, his fingers squeezed the sponge that it completely disappeared. The ruff side pressing in his palm, while lukewarm water covered his lower arms.

Stupid, shitty chores.

Slowly, he got moving again. Trying to ignore the bits of food touching his hands when they felt for cutlery. Still, he could suppress a shudder. His movements got faster again, which brought him another scolding.

Wish I was at Mom’s. At least there’s a dishwasher.

With the last bowl rinsed he lifted the sink stop. The murky water disappeared in a whirl while the food leftovers were caught in the drain.

“Don’t forget to clean that. The drain will clog.”

Mouthing his father’s words he saw the last bit of water disappear. A few soap bubbles were stuck on soggy pasta and tomato pieces.

“Simon. Now!”

“I AM doing it. Don’t be so anal about it!”

His hand was almost touching the mushy food when he felt his father step next to him. Immediately, Simon shrank back. Avoiding eyes, which for sure were gleaming with anger.

Shit, shit, shit. I’m not with Mom.

“What’s that tone? Is that what your mother is teaching you?”

“Sorry. Just … I’m cleaning it up. See!”

Concentrating on not making any eye contact, Simon scooped out the left-overs. With a wet plop they landed in the small green bucket for organic waste.

“Check, if you caught everything. And no more attitude.”

“Yes. Sorry.”

There was enough sincerity in his voice for his father to turn around. The chopping began anew and Simon scraped out the last parts from the sink. Adding a bit more soap than necessary, he washed his hands and dried them on his damp T-shirt.

“If you are done, wait at the table. I’m almost done with the fruits.”

“Thank you, dad.”

I don’t care about the fruits. I wish this weekend was over.

With naked feet Simon patted into the other part of the one room flat. It’s what he called home once per month while his father had named it his ‘Palace of Independence’ four years ago.

Wonder, if he has renamed it. Maybe ‘Fortress of Loneliness’.

Simon strolled over to the only shelf. His gaze grazed at the titles he had seen so many times. There was a noticeable layer of dust covering the books which his father claimed were the most important in his life.

Stoics, Epicureans, Platonists, Cynics … oh, Skeptics. That sounds almost interesting.

Despite knowing he wouldn’t understand a word, he took out one of the books.

The Cambridge Companion to Ancient Scepticism – at least one companion is still there for him.

Dust danced in the sun in front of him when he lifted the book off the shelf. Some of it made it into his nose. Quickly, he pressed his nose down with his palm and moved it in circles. His friends always laughed when they saw doing that. But so far it had always prevented him from sneezing.

Having avoided drawing his father’s attention who had started humming a strange melody, Simon sat down as ordered. Carefully he opened the book, which still let out a dry cracking sound.

I hope the books in his office are in better shape.

Not checking the pages, Simon flipped through the book.

Huh? What’s that?

Between the first pages of the chapter “Scepticism and Belief” was a photo. Simon frowned. There was no decoration or memento of any sort in his father’s palace. A snort escaped his throat. Immediately, his head shot up but his father was still oblivious, humming and cutting and moving his body to this strange rhythm.

The photo had once been glossy but now there were oily fingerprints blurring the faces. He recognized his father and mother immediately. They were pointing at the camera. Both were laughing. They were sitting on a tree stump. A red hiking bag at their feet. A thermos in his mother’s lap.

“I remember this.”

Putting the photo on the table, Simon flipped a few more pages just to stop at “Scepticism and Action”. Another photo was stuffed between the pages. The frown was replaced by a smile. This photo as well, looked like it had been touched many times. Even more than the other one.

We were one happy family.

The photo showed them at a beach in the South of France. Simon could still remember all the mussels he had eaten despite his mother wanting to stop his father from letting him try.

I haven’t eaten mussels in ages.

With a big tooth gap, he was smiling happily at the camera. This was something his father had always had a knack for. Setting up the self-timer and being back in time for the perfect natural composition. A few summers ago, Simon had tried to recreate the experience with his mother.

Maybe I should ask him how to do it.

There was the red backpack again as well as the blue thermos. With his finger tipping on the bottle in the picture, Simon’s gaze wandered through the single room. Everything had its specific place. Only his backpack near the door, with shorts and a hoodie thrown on top were disrupting the forced order in this place.

But he hasn’t always been like that.

Simon’s eyes returned to the photo. Especially during their time in France his father had been the chaotic one. The smile widened to a grin when he remembered how they had played hide-and-seek in their holiday apartment. Hanging towels and blankets or any other fabric they could find. He still could hear his own giggle, his father’s laughter and his mother’s chiding.

Simon focused on his father’s slightly slouched back. The former dark hair was now peppered with grey streaks. The man in the photo almost felt like a stranger. A face riddled with wrinkles from a wide smile.

Where did it go?