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When you were eleven, your mother gave you a plate of scrambled eggs so wonderful, that you have forever tried to discover her recipe. She offered to tell you what it was, but you were resolute; you were going to find out for yourself. You spent three hours on a Saturday trying to recreate them – cabinets and fridges and packages opened and closed what felt like a million times and staring at bottles and little cups of cream or mayonnaise – but eventually, you had to give up. The eggs were gone.
A passion was found.
You were never a top student, but cooking was a hobby you could completely lose yourself in – your family eating everything you created and giving feedback that you’d write down in a notebook, just so you knew what you could try and do the next time you made it.
Your aunt was your biggest fan; giving you old-timey cook books and some professional kitchen tools for your birthday. But there was that afternoon when your aunt surprised you at school, brought you along to the supermarket, and frantically bought you 200 packs of butter and flour and milk and asked you to make 200 pies with her. Your mom, stern and calmly, sent you to your room when you arrived back home with her sister.
You had forgotten about this incident until your son became obsessed with religious texts and didn’t leave his room for days.
Until you found him.
--
Even was named after your wife’s grandfather Eivind, a loving and kind soul who lived his life in service of his family despite the difficult circumstances he had lived through as a child. He was named after him in the hope that it would inspire him to be like his grandfather – and indeed it was so.
Even took after his mother’s side of the family mostly; and you didn’t mind at all – after all, she was the one you had fallen in love with and started a family with. He was a happy child and you always felt very fortunate to have him as your son.
There were moments that were difficult, for sure. Even was an energetic child at times and had difficulties concentrating and focusing but was trying to work so hard for school, wanting to go to Elvenbakken (it’s the best school if I want to be a director, Dad), leading you and your wife to take him to the doctor. ADHD, they told you – quite normal, lots of kids have it.
You didn’t notice then that he took after your side of the family too.
--
One of the things he had in common with you was your shared love of cooking. He loved helping you when he was younger, and when he got to be old enough to hold a sharp knife on his own you’d sit at the table while he worked, giving him tips and asking him about his day.
There’s a girl, he told you once – a girl called Sonja, who quickly became a girlfriend called Sonja, and who became part of your little family too. Even was an only child after all, and you and your wife were very close to him. And you trusted him, as long as he was being honest with you.
He got to go to Elvenbakken too, like he had wanted so much since he was younger, although he didn’t go for the media-curriculum like you had expected him to. I’m trying to be realistic – he told you.
After a while, Even’d go over to his new friend’s house; someone called Elias, whose mom made them the most delicious chebakia and who would teach him new things that he’d show you in return.
Even was the son you could have never dreamed of.
--
It didn’t happen quite unexpectedly. He had had his bad days, days in which he barely got out of bed and you would bring him a plate of scrambled eggs of your own special recipe. At the end of the day, the plate was barely touched and he had only eaten a small bite.
The small victories, your wife said, maybe it’s his medication.
After a week, it was like it never happened.
--
When Even turned eighteen, the cracks in his relationship with Sonja started to show. She barely came around, and he wouldn’t bring her up at dinner anymore. Instead, he started telling you about the guys, about Mutta, Yousef, Adam, Elias and Mikael – his group of friends who wanted to create films together, and what they would do when they would graduate school, and what they’d want to make.
And about how he had worked together with Mikael to make a school project and how Mikael had edited their video for class, and how talented Mikael was at editing and how they had worked their butts off on it and got a 6 for it in the end.
There’s a boy, he told you one afternoon while making dinner. And you, worried for the other person in the picture, asked: Isn’t there a girl?
That stomped the conversation dead.
--
You had wanted apologise for the way you responded immediately, but there was no way of getting through to Even in the weeks after. He was always gone, out with his friends – until he was not.
His room was littered with notes on papers, all about the Quran.
--
One week later, you were caressing your son’s face in a hospital.
--
Doctor’s appointments, therapy appointments, medication adjustments, signing paper after paper and caring for your son’s well-being through it all led to this:
Bipolar disorder.
--
The decision to change schools is made quickly after it becomes clear what happened at Elvenbakken. Sonja is over most of the time, willing herself to become knowledgeable as much as she can because she wants to support. She loves him, you can see, but it is going to exhaust her in the long run. It’s as if she feels guilty for not being there for him when he needed her the most.
But it is no one’s fault. No one’s fault but your own. It was your DNA; it is your side of the family.
You did this.
--
The first day of school is nerve-wracking to you. The entire summer he had been at home with you and your wife, and together you had difficult conversations about the how, and the when, and the where. Nissen had offered him a place without much repercussion: he wouldn’t need to change his direction since he already followed general studies, and all of his grades would easily be transferred. And if he needed to break the 10% attendance rule, he’d be allowed to do so.
Still, it’s worrisome, going to a new school with no one you know around. You know he’s a charming guy and he’ll have the teachers wrapped around his fingers in no time, but it’s the rumour mill that worries you the most.
Turns out you needn’t have worried. You arrive home from work and he’s preparing dinner.
And he smiles brightly when you kiss him on his temple.
--
In the months after it becomes increasingly clearer that the conversation you had with him a year ago isn’t finished yet.
And one evening, while cleaning up dinner during which he’s been entirely too quiet, he tells you once again.
There’s a boy.
This time, you fold him into your arms, and you whisper.
You make me so happy. I’m so proud.
--
You’re unsure about the details but the break up with Sonja could probably be handled a little better on your son’s part. Nevertheless, he’s seriously crushing on another boy, a boy who’s blonde and curly-haired and whose smile is adorable and whose eyes are beyond gorgeous and oh Dad did I mention, he’s interested in parallel universes. Pretty interesting, right? I want to make him your scrambled eggs.
But after a week or so, he’s not mentioning the boy anymore, and he’s a little withdrawn too, sketching his heart out in his room but not offering to make dinner anymore.
You wonder who this Isak is and what happened.
He’s not telling you anything.
--
Both of you are not overbearing parents; in the end, Even is his own person and he has to make his own mistakes and decisions.
But him disappearing for a week, only sending a quick message everytime he’s staying with Isak – it does make you wonder and it reminds you of that time last year. Your wife tells you she gets sporadic messages from Sonja too, and you’re finding it difficult to approach him this time – last time, you didn’t know; now you do.
You hide his identity card one night, hoping that he’ll not be reckless with money as the doctors have told you might happen. You call his therapist one night, to give a heads up and to ask for tips. You check every night that his identity card is still there in your drawer.
On Friday, it’s not.
--
At 3 am, you’re carrying your sleeping son to your car with your wife trailing behind.
--
He sleeps.
--
Scrambled eggs. He doesn’t eat.
--
On Friday, he’s gone. You frantically call every place he could be, driving around the city to see whether he’s just walking around in the usual places.
At 22.00, he sends your wife a message.
With Isak. Gonna stay with him for a while if that’s okay.
Thank God for Isak.
--
Your wife calls him every day to ask him how he’s doing and if he needs anything. At least he’s picking up the phone – that seems like a good sign.
That Saturday, you meet Isak for the first time during dinner; a dinner which for a change you have prepared. It was a wonderful time, with an Isak with a slight deer-in-the-headlights look for the first hour or so, before you asked him about his school and his friends and eventually the probability of parallel universes.
Even had told you that afternoon, when he came over to get some new clothes, that Isak had a troubled home life with a father who is not around and a mother with a severe mental illness he had to care for – but Isak is still a very kind person, very intelligent and polite, and mature way beyond his age. No wonder Even has fallen for him. He’s always gone for the down-to-the-bone kind people. It’s in the making of his own bones.
You hope they get to stay together for a while; you see it in their eyes that they would really want to be.
Of all the universes, this universe should let them be happy.
--
When Even moves out, there are a lot of conversations and discussions and agreements and arguments but in the very end? You trust him a lot more than he might think.
He’s a responsible kid, and he’s got more self-knowledge than most of his peers. Your son is a person who loves and respects and takes care of people. If only he’d show some of his love to himself every once in a while.
You tell him, the evening before he leaves, that you are sorry that he got the short end of the stick on the gene front. You tell him about his aunt, and her pies, and how you never really got it until you had him. And he’s interested, so interested to know about her; about what she studied, and does as a job and how her life went. You tell him that you hadn’t seen her in a while but the last thing you’ve heard she got married and adopted a child who just had a baby himself.
And Even, in his most Even-like way, beams and puts his head on your shoulder.
So she’s very happy, huh?
You brush your fingers through his soft, just-showered hair, and you hum in confirmation. It’s quiet for a moment, until you hear him whisper softly:
I am too.