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.
I paid the driver and quickly got out of the taxi, heading toward the nursery school. Bryan's class hadn't ended yet, but I needed to take him home as I was ordered by grandpa. It wasn't easy to convince Sister Caroline to let me take him out of school before recess. She was very strict with her pupils, but I managed to get him out. Bryan and I took the same taxi back home. He kept asking me to buy him kebabs whenever we passed a BBQ stand on the street. I bought him five, since I had some money on my phone, though I rarely spent it unless it was an emergency.
***
Hours passed, and that night around eight-forty pm, I heard my grandpa groaning upstairs. It's only after some minutes since Bryan and I had just left his room. We had been chatting, and he seemed all right. So, I quickly went upstairs to check on him. By the time he groaned, I was talking to my boyfriend, Ethan, a photographer. We had been in love for a while, but it had been a week since he last visited me. When I heard my grandpa groaning, I hung up and rushed upstairs. Bryan was watching cartoons on TV. When I entered his room, grandpa signaled for me to close the door. I did it, then pulled a chair for myself to sit by his bed. "I heard you groaning from downstairs. What's wrong?" I asked, gently touching his white hair. He winced in pain, but it seemed like he was trying not to let me notice. I wasn't that junior, not to detect a possible thing going on.
He cleared his throat with difficulty, as though something was stuck in his throat, and began blurting out, "First off, I'm sorry for everything. I'm sorry for not being there when you needed me, especially for not being able to help physically. I'm sorry for not telling you what I should have warned you about. I'm really sorry I'm going to leave you soon. I'm sorry I won't be able to see you and Bryan grow up, see your marriages, see my great-grandchildren, and see you become the woman of your dreams..." His voice cracked with emotion, and the lump of tears in his throat seemed about to burst. I didn't fully understand what he was trying to say until I felt tears running down my own cheeks unknowingly. "You must be pranking me!" I whispered, but he responded, more seriously this time, "No. This is not a joke. I'm running out of time, you see." He went on "Actually, Teacher Anna is your aunt_ biological aunt." I heaved, "My what?That's the most impossible thing I can ever imagine! Not worth thinking about."
"Wait until I finish speaking before you interrupt again," he said with urgency. "I told you; I'm running out of time. Anna is about three or four years older than your mother. There were family issues that caused a rift between them, which is why she treats you the way she does. In the living room, there's a bookcase, isn't it? You'll find an envelope inside the yellow encyclopedia. Open it, and you'll find more information. I feel like I can't go any longer. I'm sorry for unreliable information." I sat there, silent, trying to process everything he was saying. I had never seen my grandpa so serious like he was. He was even crying. I felt like I was losing my mind. I couldn't believe him right away. I tried to ask about what the family issues, but he said I would understand later. Bryan entered the room, but grandpa didn't want him there. He motioned for me to get Bryan out of the room, which I did quickly, handing him my phone to play games. Once Bryan was out, grandpa continued: "I need you to do me a favor once I die. Bury me in the coffin in the basement. I bought it. Don't waste your time after burying me. Use my pickup truck in the garage and drive to the address you'll find inside the envelope. That's the safest place for you after I'm gone. Please, be on time. You don't want to see your life destructed, do you?" It's already destructed. I wanted to answer. He stopped speaking, tears streaming down his face. I was speechless, my heart shattering into pieces. I couldn't even form a word so well. "I know you can't leave me like this," I whispered. "We still have so much to—"
Suddenly, grandpa groaned loudly, so painful that it made my heart jump.
"Go get me a glass of water," he managed to say through the pain.
I rushed downstairs to the kitchen, grabbed a glass of water, and ran back up. When I entered his room, I found him silent, eyes closed. I called his name twice standing in the doorway, but he didn't respond. My mind brought a thought which I wanted to believe was wrong, but it was already late for both of us. I dropped the glass on the floor, rushed to his side, and cried, "Grandpa! Grandpa! Wake up! Please, open your eyes!" But there was no answer from him. When I touched his neck, there was no blood pulse. His heart wasn't beating. He was gone. I realized it though I never wanted to believe it instantly. I cried silently, trying not to let Bryan hear. My heart shattered into pieces. The most important person in my life was gone. I felt hopeless. I sat by my grandfather's body, recalling all the memories we shared and trying to come up with a white lie to tell Bryan so he wouldn't make things harder for me. I walked out of the room, locking it behind me, taking the keys with me.
***
Downstairs, I forced a smile for Bryan and hugged him tightly. "It's another best year of our lives, Bryan," I said, holding him close. "Angels have come to take Grandpa to heaven. They gave me a message for you—they want you to be stronger than you've ever been before." "Oh, I see. I am used to it. When are they taking us too? I wonder when," Bryan asked, hugging me back. "They don't want to take us prematurely," I lied. "They're waiting until we grow old enough."
Thank God, all the little lies I told him worked. I had lied when Mama passed, I had lied when Papa passed, and I lied that day too. I wondered how it would be if Bryan ever finds out the truth behind the lies, I told him. Maybe then, he would understand why I had to say untruths. Perhaps he would understand that I was trying to protect his mental health. That night, I couldn't sleep. I spent the whole night on the balcony with my duvet and phone. My mind replayed all the memories I had with my grandfather: the day he bought me an iPhone 12 for my 15th birthday, when he taught me how to drive, the time we rode horses in Drammen, and the unforgettable day we spent at the ski resort in Stavanger. Memories never die. I earned. I found myself wiping tears away without realizing how they had come. I decided to call my boyfriend, Ethan, at 1 a.m. I hoped talking to him would help calm my mind. After a few rings, he answered immediately. "Hello babe. Is everything alright? You're calling so late…"
"Everything is terrible. My grandpa is gone. He's gone…" I said, my voice breaking as I spoke. "Oh, babe, I'm so sorry for your loss. Don't worry, we'll get through this together. You're not alone, you have me. I might not be enough, but I promise I'll do what I can..." Ethan said, trying to comfort me. His words brought a small sense of consolation but the thought of having my grandpa gone, persisted still. I thanked him for it and asked if he could come to help me bury Grandpa in the basement the next morning. He offered his support, and we talked about our dream of going to Paris together. Talking to him eased the pain, even though it's just a spot of it. "Good night, sweetheart! I love you!" Ethan said, before ending the call.
***
The next morning, I woke up early, took a hot bath, and went to Grandpa's room to say some prayers for him. Bryan was still asleep, and I didn't want him to wake up before we bury Grandpa. After saying my prayers, I locked the room and went downstairs. I sat in an armchair and scrolled through my social media. I had always dreamed of becoming an influencer. As I watched the sun rise over the hill in the distance and scrolled through videos, I heard a knock at the door. I wasn't expecting anyone but Ethan. I stood up, smoothed my dress, and ran my fingers through my hair to make myself look presentable before answering the door. To my surprise, it wasn't Ethan—it was the bill collector, the man who came to remind people to pay their electricity, water, and internet bills. He was a fat man with a bald head, thin lips, and a round face. "Go away! I know I must pay, but don't knock to people's doors as though they owe you. You nearly broke the door!" I snapped, slamming the door behind me. I sat back in my armchair and my eyes stopped at the family photo frames over the bookcase. But then, I heard another knock, even louder this time. "What's with people today? Can't they knock fittingly or even be patient?" I shouted as I walked toward the door. When I opened it, I felt a surge of embarrassment—there was Ethan, standing with a bouquet of roses in his hand. He hugged me tightly. "I understand," he said softly. Bryan was still in his room. Ethan and I quickly got into work--burying Grandpa in the basement. Once we finished, I asked him to stay for a little while, and I made us tea with some toast. We sat together, sipping the tea. Afterwards, a romantic moment swept over us. Ethan embraced me warmly, kissed my neck, and then planted a soft kiss on my lips. His hand stroked my hair, while the other rested on my belly. But our moment was interrupted by Bryan, who appeared in the stairway, yawning.
***
When Ethan left, I went to search for the envelope that was mentioned by grandpa when he briefed me. It was hidden inside the encyclopedia. I tore it open, revealing two papers inside. One contained an address, and the other, some Latin words I immediately recognized. The address was unfamiliar to me, so I used Google Maps to locate the place. To my shock, it led to the far North, to a city called Hammerfest. I had always harbored a deep disdain for the North and its people. They were responsible for my father's unassisted demise. Timely intervention could have preserved his life. Though my heart recoiled from the prospect, visiting this place became an inescapable obligation. I had to proceed with utmost urgency.