Dandelion Girl

by Isa Hansen

“They’re just boys being boys,” his father demurred when his mother voiced concern that perhaps the older boys were being a little too rough.

  Boys just being boys or not, Alex had been deeply relieved when Kristian moved away from home. And if truth be told, Alex would never have dared do to Kristian what he did to Filip when he put up that website. Because Filip in the end was all right. But Kristian with his violent, flaring temper; there was no telling what he’d do to avenge if he ever found out.

  Once when Alex was five and sitting in the bathtub, Kristian had come in and pushed Alex’s head under the water for so long that he thought he would die. He didn’t let go until Filip came bustling in, yelling for their mother and ordering him to stop.

  Alex had often wondered what would have happened if Filip hadn’t been around to shield him. Filip had caught his own share of Kristian just being a boy, Alex was certain of that.

  The oldest brother had been a terrifying figure when Alex was a child. Kristian with his full-grown body and angry, raging hormones. Alex didn’t stand a chance whenever Kristian felt like turning him into his own personal punching bag.

  And there it was again.

  The anxiety, creeping back.

  Like it tended to do when he allowed himself to think of his eldest brother, or the stupid house, or his family in general. Just like it did whenever he feared that he was losing control.

  CHAPTER 15

  “Hey, check this out,” Celia said to Alex and picked up a small-sized accordion. It looked like it could be Russian or Polish with a pattern of black, brown, and maroon swirls on its glossy exterior. She pressed the instrument together and plunked on the keys, making a series of sharp honking sounds.

  She and Alex were in a large farm shed holding miscellaneous old Scandinavian wares across several rows of tables. Farther down, at the back of the shed, furniture and paintings were on display.

  Celia hadn’t been looking too hard for things for the house, she was just having fun browsing.

  “Let me see that,” Alex said, and she handed it over to him.

  He put the accordion into position and let his long lean fingers dance over the keys. A solemn yet rhythmic tune leaked out of the instrument while he moved the accordion with surprising ease.

  “Get out of here! You play the accordion?”

  Alex nodded, got a chord wrong, frowned and tried again, this time hitting the right note.

  “Wow,” Celia exclaimed, “I would’ve never thought…”

  “My grandmother was an accordionist,” Alex said, continuing to play a melody that sounded hauntingly sad for such a jovial instrument. “She was the one good person in my family. She liked French folk music. When I was little I was inspired by her and played for a few years.”

  Celia smiled at Alex. “I like when you tell me things. Personal things like that.”

  The more time she spent with Alex, the more clear it became; Alex was harder to get to know than her other friends. Sometimes she was allowed to see beyond the carefully composed exterior, but there was so often something yielding with him—something keeping her at bay.

  She loved the times when he was more open.

  His eyes were bright, smiling back at Celia. “I think I’m going to get this.”

  “How much is it?”

  Alex held the accordion upside down, searching for a price tag.

  He shrugged, put it back upright and headed toward the front of the shed where a woman in a flannel shirt and scarf was handling the sales.

  Celia continued down the row of tables.

  Alex was full of surprises, she thought.

  Not only had he not scoffed at the idea of visiting a bunch of flea markets, he actually seemed to be enjoying himself. It was easy for Celia to imagine Ebba or Oskar browsing the aisles for funny old thrift items. She’d had a harder time seeing it with Alex with his preppy designer clothes and glossy apartment full of high-end appliances.

  For the last hour and a half, they had been driving around in an area outside of Björkby that was famous for holding antique sales and flea markets from May to October. In another week they’d all shut down for the year.

  “Ready to go to the next one?” Celia said when Alex came back, stuffing a wad of cash into his wallet, a lumpy tote bag slung over his shoulder.

  He nodded, and they headed back to Erik’s car, their steps light and spirits high.

  Celia reversed out of the gravel parking lot. Soon they were traveling between mossy green fields. Off in the distance, the autumn trees paraded against the early afternoon sky, some nearly bare and others full and rich with color.

  In the passenger seat, Alex fiddled with his newly acquired accordion. Celia was glad she’d asked him to come along.

  The sun warmed the left side of her face and she felt her cheeks pull upwards into a contented expression. She was doing well in school, she had good friends, and her Swedish language skills were improving on a daily basis. More than half of her conversations with her friends were now in Swedish. She’d been elated over how easily and naturally her Swedish was coming back to her. Part of it was thanks to Ebba and Oskar who certain days would ban her from speaking any English.

  At home things were good, too, even though Erik could be subdued and hard to engage with. But he was also gone from home a lot. Erik’s job kept his fall schedule busy with a substantial amount of traveling and working out of town. For the most part it was just Anette and Celia; they cooked together, often sitting late into the evenings, talking and laughing. She loved that she was getting to know her aunt better.

  The next stop along the way was an old farm house that offered a café and an antique store with goods over multiple floors. Alex and Celia stopped to have something to eat before perusing the building.

  A fire crackled from a brick fireplace in the great room. They passed a picnic table boasting handcrafted linens and rustic loaves of bread for sale before entering the dining space.

  Their food order—shrimp sandwiches for both of them—was taken by an elderly man. He used an old-fashioned cash register to ring up their order. He smiled when he saw Celia. “You look just like a young lady who used to work at our café,” he said to her. Then he added with a sigh: “That was a long time ago now. How time passes us by.”

  Celia peered up at the man. A black cap was pulled over his head, rimming gentle blue eyes.

  “Liv? Was that the name of the girl who worked here?” she asked.

  The question came with some reluctance and a little bit of guilt. She’d admittedly left her investigation on the back burner over the past weeks and had found herself generally less stressed and more at ease because of it.

  The man thought for a moment. “Yes, Liv,” he said. Despite his age, his eyes were lively and alert. “Are you related?”

  Celia nodded.

  He looked around the café as if he were remembering it the way it was thirty years ago. Perhaps a lot had changed since then, perhaps nothing. “Hardworking girl, she was. Had a good way about her, too.”

  “What did she do here?” Celia asked.

  “Helped out in the café, mostly doing what I’m doing right now. Taking orders, washing dishes, wiping tables. Back in the day we didn’t have a dishwasher.” The man smiled, reminiscence in his eyes. “She was saving money, for private swimming lessons, I believe. I remember one day she came in and was excited that a professional swimming coach was willing to take her on.”

  A private swimming coach. Celia flipped it over in her mind. Could that be significant? Her instinct to dig and pry—the one that had been dormant over the past weeks—was awakening, like an animal carefully peeking out of its hiding place. “Do you know who the coach was?”

  She noticed Alex step closer, seeming to take interest in the conversation.

  The man shook his head. “She never came back after that summer,” he said. “We read about her accident in the paper. Such a tragedy.” He gave Celia a solemn smile and finished ringing up their orders.r />
  Celia and Alex sat down at a table with their plates and cups of coffee.

  Both sat in silence.

  Celia chewed on her shrimp sandwich thoughtfully. She was becoming addicted to the shrimp sandwiches commonly sold in Swedish cafés and lunch restaurants. This one was as good as any of them: creamy and fresh, tasting of caviar and lemon with slices of egg on top. She put her sandwich down and gripped her coffee cup. The taste of coffee was also growing on her.

  “Liv mysteriously drowned,” Celia said after a while. “She had a private swimming teacher; that might be something worth looking into.”

  She glanced over at Alex.

  He was staring intensely at something. Celia looked in the direction of his eyesight, but whatever he was fixating on was internal.

  “Hey, you there?”

  Alex returned his focus to Celia but still seemed stuck on whatever it was that had clouded his eyes and darkened his spirit.

  ***

  It was a busy autumn for Celia. Besides school and the house renovation, she had also taken on part-time work.

  The staff at her grandmother’s nursing home had observed how well Celia got along with the residents that she was offered a job. Her role was to help out with recreational activities, keep the residents company, aid with meal times, and if things got busy, help the nursing assistants with ad hoc tasks.

  Celia accepted the job without having to think too much about it. It was some extra money, she was able to see her grandmother regularly, and her speaking Swedish with the elderly, most of whom knew very little English, was a perfect way to keep sharpening her language skills.

  She worked some evenings after school and took on occasional shifts during the weekends. On the Monday following her flea market outing with Alex, she worked the afternoon shift.

  On her way in, she passed Dr. Kassis—the attending physician at the Willow Warbler—who was in for one of his biweekly visits. He smiled warmly at Celia as he always did.

  She dropped off her bag and her coat in the employee room.

  Most of her time working at the Warbler was spent in the big recreation room that converted into a dining space at meal times. Round tables stood toward the front of the room, close to the commercial kitchen. On the other end of the room, comfy sofas were grouped together. She entered the large gathering room where most of the residents were present. Bustling and clanging sounds of dinner preparation came from the kitchen.

  Celia greeted a group of elders in wheelchairs sitting in a row against the wall. She even exchanged a few words with Sten: the man she’d seen fighting on the first day that she came to visit her grandmother. She preferred to avoid the cranky old man whenever possible, but today the drugs had made him demure. He answered, almost pleasantly to her greeting.

  Dr. Kassis was on his way past them, but he stopped to say a quick hello to Celia. He put a hand on her arm. “How are things with you?” he asked in Swedish.

  “Just fine,” Celia replied. “All is well with you?”

  He gave her a smile and nod and continued. A busy day for him, she assumed. Normally he would stop and chat a little longer.

  It was then that she saw her grandmother sitting in one of the sofas at the back. Celia small-talked with the residents a bit more but became distracted when she noticed that Maj-Britt was staring at her with a disturbed look on her face.

  It was happening again.

  For the most part, her grandmother knew her as Celia: as the American granddaughter. On those days Maj-Britt acted happy and carefree toward her. But occasionally she would turn rigid and nervous, as though Celia reminded her of something charged from the past.

  She made her way to the back of the room and sat down next to Maj-Britt, giving the woman’s petite shoulder a comforting squeeze.

  Maj-Britt observed her with a long penetrating stare. Then she took Celia’s arm in a tight grip. There was such agitation in her green-blue speckled eyes that it gave Celia’s stomach a jolt.

  “Farmor?”

  Maj-Britt leaned in, close.

  “Be aware of the doctor,” she breathed into Celia’s ear. “You shouldn’t trust him.”

  Celia arched back.

  “What?”

  Maj-Britt was still wearing that same fearful expression. “He’s not a good man.”

  Celia looked over at Dr. Kassis who was conversing with residents at one of the round tables.

  “Dr. Kassis?” she asked, confused.

  Why should she be worried about him?

  She turned back to her grandmother for an explanation, but Maj-Britt just shook her head and said, “Be careful, Liv.”

  CHAPTER 16

  “Be careful Liv?” Zari picked up her cup of miso, her eyebrows raised.

  The following afternoon, Zari and Celia were done with their last classes around the same time and were both hungry, so they’d gone to the sushi restaurant close to school to grab a bite.

  Just like Celia, Zari was in the social science program at school, though Zari’s specialization was in behavioral science. Being in the same broader program, they were often in the same school quarters, just not in any of the same classes.

  Now they sat at a window seat in the small restaurant that was filled with natural light, blond wood, and colorful contemporary Japanese art. The food was good there, almost up to par with Celia’s favorite sushi place back in Seattle.

  Celia absently stirred her own miso soup with a chopstick. “Dr. Kassis is so nice; I don’t know why she’d say something like that.”

  “Maybe your grandmother is confused,” Zari suggested.

  “Well, she’s always getting things mixed up,” Celia admitted. “But I don’t know … there was just something so alarming about the way she said it. She seemed so worried for me.” Celia paused. “For Liv,” she corrected.

  After her shift at the Warbler, Celia looked up Dr. Kassis. She didn’t think he could have had anything to do with Liv’s death but felt compelled to do a check-up. A quick search online showed that he hadn’t arrived in Sweden until 1993. That was nearly a decade after Liv died.

  With that in mind, Celia felt that she should disregard her grandmother’s comment. Yet she was having a hard time letting it go.

  Celia noticed that Zari had stopped eating and was poking around at her Maki rolls. “I’m sorry, I thought you liked sushi,” she said. “Maybe we should have gone somewhere else?”

  “It’s not that.” Zari poked a bit more, then raised her eyes to meet Celia’s. “Do you want to be Swedish?”

  “Do I want to be Swedish?” Celia contemplated, a little surprised by the question. “I guess I haven’t thought about it in that way. I’ve always been interested in my Swedish side of the family, but I’ve never considered that I could fully be Swedish since I didn’t grow up here and my dad is pretty Americanized.”

  “I have been thinking about this, a lot.” Zari spoke slowly, choosing her words. “This is supposed to be my country now. My family doesn’t have any plans to go back. It would be too difficult. And I feel, I don’t know … displaced. Like I’m floating between worlds.” Zari twirled a strand of hair and let it fall. “I’m writing an essay in one of my classes: Do I want to be Swedish?” She flicked her gaze downward. “I hope it won’t offend my teacher.”

  “Why would it offend him, or her?”

  “Because I don’t know that I want to be. I’m grateful that we can be here, but I don’t know how I feel about this place. I’m meeting with this group right now, Amina mundi. It’s a club, sort of. Religious students at school who get together. Well, it was religious before. Muslims, Christians, Zoroastrians…”

  “Are you Muslim?” Celia asked.

  “I’m not. My family—we’re Christian. It was hard for us to stay in Iraq. That’s why we came to Sweden. About the group, though … secular people started joining, too, atheists. But what we all have in common is that we’re new Swedes. Because we’re not quite Swedish, there’s a qualification. It’s like
we’re on the outside looking in. And we talk about this a lot in the group: do we want to be Swedish? And even if we wanted to be, could we be?”

  “You don’t think you could?”

  “There’s a divider.” Zari tipped her chin up, reflecting. “There’s a barrier between Swedes and immigrants, an invisible line that places you and defines you. And I wonder, if I stay here and have children, then they will grow up with the language. They will know Sweden more than Iraq. But will they be accepted as Swedish? Or will they still be on the outside looking in? We’re called invandrare, which means we’ve wandered in. But when are we done wandering? Can we ever consider ourselves to just be home?”

  “Oh,” Celia said, finding herself at loss for words. These were all new thoughts to her, and she wasn’t sure how to respond.

  “People like that girl, Nicole, they want me to know that I’ll never be Swedish.”

  “Have you seen her again?”

  Celia had been blissfully unaware of Nicole Rönn lately.

  After the incident on the bus, she hadn’t seen either of the tormentors. The school was large enough that if you weren’t in the same program as someone, you had to work to bump into them, and Celia had no desire to bump into Nicole or her vapid friend. She knew through Ebba that Nicole was in the childcare program at school.

  Nicole as a caretaker of children—that was a chilling thought.

  Zari said: “She and a few of her friends found out where my locker is. They’ve been harassing me.”

  “What do they say?”

  “It doesn’t matter.”

  “It does matter.” Celia set her elbows against the table with conviction. “I’m going to talk to Nicole.”

  “No, please don’t.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because it isn’t so bad, and it’s just them. I want to stay low. I don’t want others to start bothering me.”

  “I don’t think anyone else would bother you. Besides, we’ll stand behind you the whole way.” Celia reached out and touched Zari’s arm.