My Grandmother Asked Me to Tell You She's Sorry(49)

“Was it you who showed my granny Miamas, or was it Granny who showed you?”

She spits out the words. The hood doesn’t move, but she can see him breathing. She’s just about to repeat the question when she hears, from the inside of it:

“Your granny. Showed. As a child.”

He says it the way he says everything in the normal language. As if the words come bickering out of his mouth.

“You were about my age,” Elsa says, thinking of the photos of the Werewolf Boy.

The hood moves up and down.

“Did she tell you fairy tales?” she asks quietly, and wishes he’d say no, even though she knows better.

The hood moves up and down.

“Did you meet during a war? Is that why she called you Wolfheart?” She really doesn’t want to ask anymore, because she can feel her jealousy growing. But the hood continues to nod.

“Camp. Camp for the one who flees.”

“A refugee camp. Did Granny bring you here with her? Was she the one who arranged it so you could live in the flat?”

There’s a long exhalation from the hood.

“Lived in many places. Many homes.”

“Foster homes?” He nods. “Why didn’t you stay there?”

The hood moves from side to side, very slowly.

“Bad homes. Dangerous. Your granny came to get me.”

“Why did you become a soldier when you grew up? Was it so you could go to the same places as Granny?” He nods. “Did you also want to help people? Like she does?” Slowly, the hood moves up and down. “Why didn’t you become a doctor like Granny, then?” The Monster rubs his hands together.

“Blood. Don’t like . . . blood.”

“Smart idea to become a soldier. Are you an orphan?”

The hood is still. The Monster is silent. But she notices that the beard withdraws even deeper into the darkness. Suddenly Elsa nods exuberantly to herself.

“Like the X-Men!” she exclaims with more enthusiasm than she’s really willing to give away. Then she clears her throat, composes herself. “X-Men are . . . mutants. And many X-Men are sort of orphans. It’s quite cool.”

The hood doesn’t move. Elsa pulls out some more stuffing from the chair cushion and feels stupid. She was about to add that Harry Potter was also an orphan, and to be like Harry Potter in any way at all is actually the coolest thing there is, but she’s starting to realize that The Monster probably doesn’t read as much quality literature as one might hope.

“Is Miamas a word in the secret language?” she asks instead. “I mean, is it a word in your language? It doesn’t sound like other words in the secret language—I mean, your language.”

The hood doesn’t move. But the words come more softly now. Not like all the other words from The Monster, which all seem to be on their guard. These sound almost dreamy.

“Mama’s language. ‘Miamas.’ My . . . mama’s language.”

Elsa looks up and gazes intently into the darkness inside the hood.

“Did you not have the same language?”

The hood moves from side to side.

“Where did your mother come from?” asks Elsa.

“Other place. Other war.”

“What does Miamas mean, then?”

The words come out like a sigh.

“?‘I love.’?”

“So it was your kingdom. That was why it was called Miamas. It wasn’t at all because I called pajamas ‘mjamas.’?”

Elsa pulls out the last bit of stuffing and rolls it into a ball to distract herself from her churning jealousy. Typical bloody Granny thing, making up Miamas for you so you’d know your mother loved you, she thinks, abruptly silencing herself when she realizes she is mumbling it aloud.

The Monster shifts his weight from foot to foot. Breathing more slowly. Rubbing his hands.

“Miamas. Not made up. Not pretend. Not for . . . a little one. Miamas. For real for . . . children.”

And then, while Elsa closes her eyes to avoid showing her agreement, he goes on tentatively:

“In letter. Grandmother’s apology. Was apology to mother,” he whispers from under his hood.

Elsa’s eyes open and she frowns.

“What?”

The Monster’s chest heaves up and down.

“You asked. About Granny’s letter. What Granny wrote. Wrote apology to mother. We never found . . . mother.”

Their eyes meet halfway, on different terms. A tiny but mutual respect is created between them, there and then, as Miamasians. Elsa realizes that he is telling her what was in the letter because he understands what it’s like when people have secrets from you just because you’re a child. So she sounds considerably less angry when she asks:

“Did you look for your mother?”

The hood moves up and down.

“For how long?”

“Always. Since . . . the camp.”

Elsa’s chin drops slightly.

“So that’s why Granny was always going off on all these trips? Because you were looking for your mother?”

The speed of The Monster’s hand-rubbing increases. His chest heaves. His hood moves down a fraction, then up again, infinitely slowly. And then everything is silent.

Elsa nods and looks down at her lap and, once again, her anger wells up unreasonably inside her.