The Mistletoe

It was a tranquil night, the moonlight illuminated the nighttime sky. The wood of the house creaked, and the wind blew gently, swaying the trees around us while I scrolled through videos and read messages from my friends posted on their photos. Seated near the fire in the fireplace, my father was reading a book and taking some notes in a notebook; I never liked books.

“What are you reading, Dad?” I asked.

“The Iliad, by Homer. I have to prepare something for tomorrow’s class; we’ll be discussing mythology and Greek history. You should read a book, son. You spend all your time on your smartphone and hardly go out, like you used to.”

My father, Clemente, was a very straightforward man; our house was simple, containing only what was necessary, and everything had a purpose, either for utility or learning. A globe, a map of ancient Rome hung on the wall, shelves filled with books, mostly history, some literature, and others on philosophy.

My father always had a serene look and rarely got angry about anything. He often said to me, “You can’t change what happens, but you can control how you react to it.” He never used social media; he only used email and what was needed for his classes. For him, technology was a means of learning and a tool for teaching.

He taught at a rural high school several kilometers away from where we lived, in Llanquihue, a town in southern Chile. How would I describe my father? Hmm...

His hair was curly and short, he had a thick black beard, and dark brown eyes. He was short for the average Chilean, and slim, but his belly had grown, so I used to tease him, saying he looked pregnant or comparing him to a spider. Yes, sometimes I went too far with my jokes, but he would do the same, calling me a zombie or a little demon, referencing Bart and Homer from The Simpsons. His face always reminded me of those busts of Greek philosophers, you know? I truly admired how he could be so patient and calm, which tempted me to tease him even more.

And why do you think he called me a zombie? Well, let’s just say I had a certain co-dependency, according to him, on technology. When I wasn’t looking at memes or playing on my smartphone, I’d sit with my friends to play games online. My favorite games were always war-based or shooters; if not those, then first-person games.

When I was younger, my father tried to buy me books and read to me at night, but as I grew older, our relationship became strained. You see, my story isn’t the conventional story of an average 20-year-old South American.

It all started when I was young. My parents met right here. My father, very young at the time, encountered my mother in the middle of a forest, she was a bit dizzy and in bad shape. He told me she had no injuries, just dizziness and nausea; he took her as a lost tourist and went to help her. My mother was amazed by his calmness and simple altruism.

My mother, named Hilda, was a radiant and beautiful woman. I remember her straight and golden hair in a braid, shining like the sun, and her piercing neon-blue eyes. She was tall, very tall and athletic, a stark contrast to my father. My father’s mother used to say she looked like a fallen angel from heaven, and she was very proud to see them together. My grandmother said that her mere presence made people stare, mesmerized by her beauty; this made my father uncomfortable, but his character helped him cope with it calmly.

The strange thing was that she never talked about her life, and my father didn’t ask her much either. If she didn’t want to share, he simply, given his character, didn’t insist, which drove my grandmother crazy. She bombarded my mother with questions about her family, nationality, and curiosity to get to know them.

My mother always spoke perfect but neutral Spanish, and it seemed like she knew many languages, although she didn’t boast about it much. My grandmother recounted that my mother wanted to have a home birth. Both the midwife and my grandmother were amazed by my mother’s strength and recovery. My mother chose my name; she called me Miguel, like the archangel.

The nurse wrote in the record: “Miguel Angel Aguilar...” The nurse asked my mother, trying to figure out her last name.

“Just Aguilar Aguilar,” she simply said with a smile. The nurse and my grandmother found it quite peculiar that my mother didn’t want to leave her surname on my record, but with a smile, she kindly asked her to leave it that way. So, the nurse finally agreed and didn’t ask any more questions.

Finally, the nurse noted my date of birth, November 1st, 2000.

Neither she nor I ever went to a doctor. My grandmother was upset by how careless it seemed, but my mother always managed to convince her one way or another. As I didn’t show any symptoms and never seemed to get sick, my grandmother gradually accepted my mother’s lifestyle. The few times a doctor came to the house, they always said everything was fine, and there was nothing to worry about, so my grandmother slowly started to accept my mother’s way of life.

As they were both frugal, I grew up in a simple place; we seemed like hippies. When I was little, my mother used to take me to the forest and walk around; sometimes, she’d close her eyes and show me a kind of strange dance, which she would then teach me. She also loved to sing, especially in the woods, but I never understood the language she sang in; many times I thought she had lost a screw, but I never felt worried or scared. On the contrary, it was fun, and I’d go along with it, often laughing out loud.

“So, you’re laughing at your poor mother, little rascal,” she’d say, in her melodious voice, while holding me in her arms and stroking my hair. She used to kiss my forehead, but sometimes, I felt a sense of sadness when she looked at me. Truly, she was a very active person who loved walking in the forest, collecting fruits, or simply smelling the scent of plants and trees, always with a smile.

Things turned sour when I turned seven. One day, without warning, my mother disappeared without a trace. This devastated my father, who, along with my grandparents, searched high and low, with the police, thinking that something bad might have happened to her. While searching the house for clues, he found an envelope with a letter from her addressed to him, and some kind of amulet she had left, according to the letter, for me.

The police compared her handwriting with the one on the letter, and it was indeed hers. She had left instructions for my father on how to take care of me; he never exactly told me what was in that letter but rather revealed it to me little by little as I grew older. My mother had abandoned both of us, and she never said why. That was the only time I saw my father cry; he loved her in a way that I probably would never understand, but he probably wouldn’t comprehend how much her absence hurt me. My mother was the closest thing to me; I felt it as a betrayal.

I hated looking in the mirror because I had inherited my mother’s intense neon-blue eyes, but nobody seemed to notice it. My hair was light brown, and my skin was lighter than my father’s but more bronzed than my mother’s pale and radiant complexion. My finer features reminded me of her; I loved her, but at the same time, I hated her.

I stopped going to the forest, and my outdoor activities came to an end. I didn’t want to do anything that reminded me of her. The kids teased me and compared me to a girl because of my finer features inherited from my mother. During my puberty, I just wished to grow up and finally leave behind the traits that reminded me of my mother.

I immersed myself in video games. I could play for hours and hours when my father wasn’t home. If I wasn’t playing, I’d dive into social media, making online friends or just annoying people in chat rooms. I never felt like a man. I tried to exercise and dress more manly, but the constant stares from people, especially the way grandmothers talked to me and pinched my cheeks, irritated me even more. I remember how many adults mistook me for a girl, and it made my blood boil. Do you know how frustrating and embarrassing it is when you’re in the car with your dad at the age of 10, and an old lady approaches, saying:

“How beautiful is your little girl!”

And I shout back: “I’m a boy... I’m a man!”

Each time incidents like that happened, my father, with stoic calmness, tried to explain to me that it’s human nature, and it’s a waste of energy trying to convince everyone. He advised me not to focus on others but on myself, on being better. “Sure!” I thought. “He was never called a girl at school or on the street!” Little did I know, things were about to get worse.

The first strange incident that began to change my life and turn it into a curse happened when I entered the bathroom at the age of twelve. My father had left me a text message saying he’d be late, so I prepared a sandwich, and while I was cutting it, I cut my hand accidentally.

I noticed that after a drop fell, the wound quickly closed.

“Am I dreaming?” I thought. “Am I going crazy?” I panicked and paced around the house. After staring at the knife and my hand for several minutes, trembling with fear, I picked up the knife again and tried to cut myself once more. The wound healed in seconds, no scars or marks. The blood seemed to return to my hand, just like in the Wolverine movies.

My father arrived home and saw me with the knife and a drop of blood on the floor.

“What are you doing?” He asked seriously.

“Dad... you won’t believe it, look...” My father tried to stop me, but I did it once more. He witnessed, astonished, as my hand regenerated rapidly.

“What is this?” I asked, trying to understand myself what was happening.

My father put a hand to his mouth, then both on his hips, murmuring: “Hilda, the letter. Oh God! I thought she was crazy...”

My father put the knife aside and carefully examined my hand. After confirming that there were no scars or marks, only dried blood, he began to explain calmly.

“Your mother left me instructions in the letter, well, in another letter, she asked me not to show it to anyone. She didn’t tell me when, but she spoke about the changes you would have as you grew. Miguel, look at me, from now on, you’ll have to be very careful because we don’t know how doctors or the kids at school would react.”

His face was serious and this time, very concerned. I sensed the tense atmosphere, so I took it seriously; it definitely wasn’t a game. I was afraid of the answer, but my curiosity prevailed.

“Dad... will there be more changes? Will I mutate into a monster?”

“No,” he said. “I mean... there will be changes, but nothing that could physically affect you, or so I think. In the letter, your mother didn’t seem very sure about how all of this would evolve.”

“And if I end up mutating into a monster?” I said. “What if... I grow a tail or another head...”

My father stood in front of me, face to face, and said, “Honestly, I don’t know. What I do know is that if we take you to a doctor, you’ll end up in the news and maybe even in a laboratory.”

I thought about my mother. Do you know how terrible it is not to know what will come next? It’s like the manifestation of a mutation that you have no idea how it will progress. Seeing it on television is fascinating, but when it happens to you, the perspective changes because you don’t know what side effects it might have.

“Damn it!” I thought. “What if my mother was experimenting on me? What if she’s some kind of alien? I could be like Superman, but I could also end up like in the Alien movie.”

My father hugged me and said, “Son, whatever happens, we’ll be together. I won’t leave you, but we have to take it calmly. I’ll guide you day by day, every time a new symptom arises.”

“Darn...” I thought. He talks about symptoms as if it were an illness. “How does my mother know about this and leave us just with a stupid letter, barely giving my father some rough instructions? It’s outrageous!”

I was only 12 years old, but I could perfectly understand how irresponsible she had been. Knowing what would happen, she had the nerve to abandon us.