Jack

August 4th, 1984. Halifax

I shield my eyes from the bright sun. The temperature today is 23 degrees Celsius, which is normal for Halifax in August. Dad and I are staying here for about three days.

In the distance, I can see Peggy's Cove. The lighthouse stands up tall, and the rocks at the shore are so smooth. It's because of how they eroded over the years.

"Don't you think this place is more preferable to Calgary?" Grandma asks, as she sets some chocolate biscuits in front of me. I take one and nibble on it. As always, Grandma's biscuits are hard, but deliciously good. You can't resist them.

"Calgary's so dry," she says. "The sun shines each day so brightly." She turns to look at me in the eye, her gray hair shining in the sun. "Besides, you're not with that narcissistic mother of yours."

"Narcissistic?" I ask.

"She thinks she's so great and better than anyone else. Thinks the world revolves around her." Grandma makes a tsk-tsk sound. "The only good thing about your daddy marrying her was that you came out of it."

I'm tempted to tell Grandma that Mom's not narcissistic and all, but I can't say that without thinking about what happened this morning.

Earlier that day

I can smell smoke outside the house. I must be hallucinating.

I kick off my bed covers and run out of my bedroom, the stench of smoke and flames getting stronger. Out the window, I can see flames leaping up from the ground. A silhouette in the darkness outside shows. I can see the outline of a bald woman in a robe.

It's Mom.

I pour three jugs of water and run outside, dousing the fire. It starts to die down. In the ashes, I can see my Canadian of the Year collection, my AC/DC vinyls, my band t-shirts, and the photos of Brian Johnson I have. I can also see some charred school books.

"What are you doing, Mom?" I shout, using the second jug to erase the fire. The fire dies down more; it looks like a tiny flame. I thrust the third jug of water onto the fire. It goes out completely. But that doesn't change the fact that my vinyls, my shirt, and my Canadian of the Year collection are destroyed. Maybe not a hundred percent, but badly enough for them to be useless. My schoolbooks are only charred, which is a good thing, because I don't want to go out and buy more. Dad always kept spares ahead of time.

I spent so much money and time on that stuff. Dad helped me with the Canadian of the Year collection. He would be very upset as well.

"I'm burning this stuff. You love it more than your mother," Mom says. I open my mouth to speak, but she holds her hand up. "You're such a narcissist, son. You love to listen to music, and you spend more time on your school work than you did in Grade One. I don't care if you fail school. You can always go again. Your mother is more important than being an asshole teacher."

The way she says asshole, you would've though of a kid in kindergarten whining about not getting his toy.

And how did Mom know I want to be a teacher? I have to spend a lot of time on school because teachers are smart. I sometimes hate school, and I don't want to study, but I have to put in the effort so I become a teacher. Dad spent some money on math books for me to practice during the summer. He wants me to be a teacher as well.

I just stare down at the pile. That stuff meant so much to me. But at the same time, I feel guilty for thinking about how much that stuff meant. What if Mom's right? What if I am a narcissist who loves AC/DC more than her?

"I love you, Mom," I say. "I just wish you didn't burn a lot of my stuff to the point it became useless." Both of these things are true. I really do love Mom, and I wish she didn't burn my stuff.

God. Am I really a narcissist?

Now

I look out the window again. I've been thinking of going to the public gardens today. I take another one of Grandma's biscuits and bite it.

"That's horrible, Jack," Grandma says.

"What?" I ask.

"What your mother did. Burning stuff you spent precious money on. Stuff your daddy helped you with. I can understand putting in extra time to study to become a teacher." Grandma shakes her head. "Marrying her was the biggest mistake he ever made. I tried to warn him out of it, but he was too deep in to listen." She looks at me with low eyes. "Only now he's learning. At least you're not as narcissistic as she is."

I look out the window. I'm thinking of asking Grandma to take me to the public gardens, but I'm scared.

What if she's wrong?

What if she thinks I'm narcissistic?