The Greenhouse

Twenty-seven

The fresh new granddad asked whether he should collect Jósef at the community home to take him to see the baby. I told him how things were — that I barely knew the girl, that I hadn’t put her into the family picture yet, hadn’t even mentioned the brother who shared a birthday with me, hadn’t spoken about my relationship with Mom — we weren’t close, I told him, despite our one-off close encounter.

— We’re not a couple, Dad, I say.

— You’re not going to shirk your responsibilities, Lobbi lad? Your mother wouldn’t have liked that.

He felt this was a good cue to revive some old memories of when his twins were born.

— They didn’t know what was wrong with Jósef at first, but they put him in the incubator because he was weak. And because you were his twin brother they put you into the incubator with him for the first twenty-four hours. When I bent over the pair of you I saw that you had taken your brother’s hand, just a day old and already taking care of him.

He wasn’t just implying that we were holding hands, but that I was already taking care of my two-hours-younger brother who had something wrong with him; he had embellished the memory with the benefit of hindsight.

— You took his hand. Your brother slept for most of his first year. You, on the other hand, were wide awake and observing the world.

That’s how he set us brothers up, as opposites.

— You started walking when you were ten months old, while Jósef was still sleeping. Your mom spent a lot of time with you. I was more with your brother. We divided you between us. You and your mom liked to chat a lot together, and Jósef and myself were quiet together. It suited us all that way.

Then the electrician was offering to buy a stroller for the grandchild and outdoor overalls and leggings or anything else she might be short of. Once more, Mom had the last word.

— Your mother wouldn’t have had it any other way.

He insisted I buy three of everything: three bodysuits with buttons on the shoulder, three pairs of stockings, three pajamas with different patterns, elephants, giraffes, and teddy bears. He also wanted me to buy a baby carriage and outdoor overalls. Then Dad pulled out his wallet.

— Your mother wouldn’t have had it any other way.

— She’s just like you when you were her age, Dad said when he saw his granddaughter. I thought it was only grannies who said things like that.

— Twenty-four hours old? Do you remember what I looked like when I was twenty-four hours old? I asked the brand-new granddad.

— She’s the spitting image of your mother, he confirmed. As if Mom and I were one.

He was hoping the child would be named after Mom; I could see it when he was looking at the baby, he was looking for Mom.

— I’ve got no say in the name, Dad, I said. It would be different if we were living together. Besides, the child’s mother’s name is Anna, just like Mom, so she’d be naming her after herself.

He didn’t understand that point of view.

— Her name is Flóra Sól, my daughter, I say to the drama student.

— Cute, she says. Then we just sit in silence. We haven’t far to go now.