by Isa Hansen
“That you have to be so darn specific whenever you’re talking about family. Like, you can’t just say Grandma; it’s either mormor or farmor. You have to specify if it’s your mother’s mother or your father’s mother.
“Yes?” Oskar said.
“So what if you’re talking about your relatives to someone who’s just an acquaintance? Swedes are so reserved, you know, so do you really want to get that detailed and specific in casual conversations?”
“If you want to keep things reserved, you talk about the weather, not your relatives,” Oskar said simply. He tilted the snaps bottle toward Celia. At first she shook her head but soon reversed her reply with a shrug: why not. The problem with aquavit was that the first one made you think the second one was a good idea.
He poured them both another shot.
“And then all of the designations everywhere,” Celia said. “It’s your father’s sister and your mother’s brother and your mother’s cousin’s father. How does that not get confusing?” She downed the shot in one swig and made a face. Jeez, that was strong. An immediate warming of her inside ensued.
Oskar was smiling. “It’s not that difficult, actually.”
“Aha,” Celia said, smiling back and lifting an argumentative finger. She liked bantering with Oskar, even if the conversation was inane. “So what do you then call your father’s brother’s wife?”
“Faster, usually.”
“But that’s incorrect, see? Because your father’s brother doesn’t have the same relationship to his sister as he does to his wife. Or so one would hope. Yet you use the same distinction.”
Oskar gave a little laugh and raised an eyebrow. “But in English, wouldn’t you just say aunt in both cases? So what’s the difference?”
“Huh,” she giggled. “Didn’t think about that.”
He regarded her with a playful expression, and suddenly she sensed herself blushing. Maybe it was the aquavit. She picked up her glass of water and took several sips, peering at him over the glass. She wondered what she felt about him.
Did she like him?
That is: like him, like him?
With her and Oskar’s deepening friendship, she sensed something—feelings beyond what she felt for Ebba or Zari. There was this blissful spark of joy when she was with him. A little tinge of excitement when he called or texted. But it was subtle and she wasn’t sure what it meant. She also didn’t know how he felt about her.
“What are you thinking about?” he asked.
She shrugged. “Oh, I don’t know. Nothing. Life.”
All she knew was that she adored being there with him. They sat and talked for hours. It wasn’t until she glanced up at the kitchen clock that she realized how much time had passed.
“I should get going,” she said.
He followed her line of sight to the clock. “I’ll go check with my dad. I’m sure he’ll drive you home.”
Celia thought it would be too late to ask his dad for a ride, but Oskar popped out of the kitchen before she could argue. He returned saying it was absolutely fine and not a problem.
While Simon warmed up the car, Celia bundled up with a scarf, hat, and an extra sweater. It was definitely brisk out now, and Celia who wasn’t quite yet ready for the cold was prone to dress in layers.
It took less than ten minutes to get from Oskar’s dad’s place to Erik and Anette’s house by car. Celia sat in the passenger seat next to Simon with Oskar in the back, leaning forward, chatting and joking with them.
Distracted by the laughter, Celia wasn’t paying attention to the way they were driving. Not until they neared the park that blocked off Erik and Anette’s street—creating a dead-end for thoroughfare traffic.
“We can’t drive here.” Simon slowed the car to a stop. He squinted into the unlit park area ahead. From a distance you couldn’t tell that the road was about to end. “Looks like we’ll have to back up and drive around.”
“Oh no, that’s OK,” Celia was quick to say. “The house is just past the park. I’ll walk.”
“You sure?” Oskar asked.
“I’m happy to drive around.”
“I’ll be home in two minutes, literally.” Celia swept up her bag and mittens from beside her, pushing open the car door.
“OK then,” Simon smiled. “Come and visit us again fröken Celia.”
“I will!” She thanked him for the ride and said goodbye to Oskar who got out to take the passenger seat.
She waved to Simon and Oskar. She could just make out the contours of them waving back as they drove away. The street turned quiet once Simon’s car was out of sight. She observed the park. The lack of lighting ahead made her wary.
Maybe she should have let them drive her the whole way home. Not that there was anything to worry about.
The park was merely a narrow strip of land. During daylight hours she wouldn’t even blink before crossing through; it was just a rectangle with grass and some trees. She tried to see it that way when she entered the patch of black.
Winter-barren trees stood on either side of the path. The leaves shed earlier in the season were now dead and dry and crunched underneath her shoes.
All was quiet except for her steps, swishing and crunching.
She sensed movement.
Her eyes wandered the park. Just trees stirring in the wind.
She halted. Was it her imagination or did the crunching go on for another second after she stopped?
Her heart pulsed harder.
Casting a glance over her shoulder, she sped up her steps.
She was almost out of the dark.
Just another few feet and she’d be in the clear.
On the other side of the park, the street lamps lit up the way ahead of her. She continued forward with quick strides.
Shadows of bushes and trees with elongated branches patterned the grainy pavement under her. Nearing the house, she stuck her hand in her bag for the key while shooting another glance into the wood.
Her hand froze around the metal key ring.
Something was moving in the park.
She kept her focus on the dark mass of trees.
Now she was certain of what she saw. A silhouette. Edging out into the street.
She could see it better now.
A dark coat with a hood.
Walking in fast strides.
Unnaturally fast.
She spun around. Her steps turned to dashes as she rounded into the driveway and approached the house.
She sprinted to the door, fumbled with the key in the lock.
Wrong key. She tried the other one.
From the corner of her eye she saw the person, tall and towery, hood pulled down deep.
Steps pounded against the pavement.
Coming close, fast.
Please keep walking. But the dark coat turned. Into the driveway. Straight toward her.
Shit.
Celia abandoned the door and spun around, her muscles braced for a fight.
The thing loomed toward her, an arm reaching out.
Light from the house lantern streamed across the coat; she searched for a face under the hood. There was none. She shrieked and backed up to the door. “Help!” She banged and kicked the door with her boot.
A gloved hand on her handbag, pulling. She gripped her bag with both hands and was tugged forward. Then a struggle, the movements blurry—time passing quickly and slowly at once. The sound of the door unbolting behind her.
The attacker ceased its grip on her bag. She stumbled backwards. The figure darted into the neighbor’s yard, vanishing into a blear of shadows and brush.
The door opened. Anette stood in the doorway, clad in a night robe.
“Celia?”
She yanked her keys from the lock and staggered inside—into the warmth of the house. A night light cast a light over the white wooden beams of the kitchen. Anette and Erik were watching her, their eyes large with wonder.
“What happened?” Erik asked.
; Erik was also dressed for bed, wearing a robe and slippers.
“Someone was out there.” Celia tried to slow down her breathing. “Someone went after me, tried to steal my bag.”
“No!” With a horrified expression Anette flitted to the door. Erik was at her heels.
Stepping out, they scanned the street in both directions. Erik barred the door upon their return. “I didn’t see anyone,” he said with a troubled frown.
Celia sat down on a kitchen chair and rubbed her arms, trying to calm her trembling body and stuttering heart.
Erik took the seat opposite her and Anette pulled out a chair next to her.
They asked her to give details and Celia recounted how the attacker appeared from the park and followed her to the house. She said, “I’m not sure, but I think he was wearing a mask, you know the kind that’s faceless.”
“I’m so sorry that happened.” Anette placed a comforting hand on Celia’s back.
“This isn’t a bad neighborhood,” Erik said.
“I’m calling the police—” Anette swiftly rose from her chair, gave Celia’s shoulder a squeeze and left the kitchen.
Erik was still for a moment, then jerked into motion. “I’m going back out,” he announced.
He pulled off his coat from the hook by the door and headed outside.
Celia got up and paced, unnerved. She went up to the kitchen window and pulled the wooden blinds up a little, just enough to see out. Crouching down, she watched Erik move down the street.
From the other room, Anette spoke in a quick and decisive tone.
After exchanging another few words, Anette hung up and came back to the kitchen. “They would like you to come in and make a statement.”
Celia hugged her arms around herself. “Not now. I don’t want to go out again.”
“Not now, of course,” Anette said. “Tomorrow will be soon enough. Let’s get you warm.”
She looked up at Erik who’d just come back in from outside. He shook his head to signal he hadn’t seen anything.
Anette said to him, “Can you put on some tea?” Erik made an affirmative sound and Anette turned to Celia. “I’m making a bath for you. That’ll get you warmed up.”
“Thank you,” Celia whispered.
Some time later she was undressing next to a clawfoot bathtub topped with bubbles. She dipped one foot in, then the other.
The water gave an electric sting, sending a shiver of goosebumps over her skin.
Slowly she sank down into the tub until her body and face was completely covered by the steaming water.
CHAPTER 21
Celia woke up in the night. Slowly sitting up in bed, she tried to hold on to the small thought that had sent a signal: that found its way into her sleepy subconscious and slipped away again. Fleeting, floating, like a particle through the air.
Only the place remained in her mind.
Bear Lake.
The death hollow.
The lake—that shimmering pool, once rimmed by golden birches, now surrounded by bare wispy branches.
Something was there.
It was calling her, drawing, beckoning.
The answer was there, just beyond her reach.
Without any clear purpose or direction, she slipped into a sweater and pulled socks on her feet. She found herself reaching for her coat, looking for a flashlight in the hall.
The walk was a quiet one, tranquil.
Everything was frostbitten and cold.
Fog all around her.
Her flashlight created a string of light through the mist and the dark.
Other than the occasional rumble from a faraway highway, nothing stirred. Not even a bird sang out.
She soldiered on. Moved steadily toward her goal.
Saw the lake from a distance.
The pool of water was still.
Shingles of ice had started to form on its glassy surface.
She went out on the dock. Cast a glance behind her. Thought she saw something move out there in the dark. Looked again but it was gone.
She sat down despite the chill and the fog. She waited for the water to call out to her, to bring answers. Instead there was a cold, empty void.
Nothing came to her; no reveal, no clarity.
The dock creaked and swayed.
She turned and squinched, searched for movement.
Only darkness all around, nothing else.
The dock creaked again, and this time she saw it.
A body without a face.
Creeping toward her.
No eyes; no identity under the hood.
She didn’t have time to react. There was nowhere to go.
The faceless was upon her.
A clammy hand over her throat.
She tried to scream but couldn’t. She gasped for air but could no longer breathe, couldn’t move.
Paralyzed, terrified, a fast shove and she was falling. Hit the water like a stone shattering through glass.
Frigid water; burning ice.
Her body stiffened and froze.
Something from below dragged her down. Desperately, she tried to move—saw a light above but could do nothing to reach it.
Water in her mouth, in her eyes, in her lungs.
A hand was on her, pulling at her.
Then, a voice: “Celia, Celia.”
Celia woke up, shot up.
The room whirled around her for a few seconds before the walls rearranged themselves and she found herself in her bed. Anette was perched on the edge of it, bleary like a shadow.
“You were having a bad dream,” she said, her tone soothing.
Celia gulped for air. Cold sweat trickled down her back.
“Were you dreaming about last night? The person trying to steal your bag?”
Celia put her hands over her face, massaging. “Something like that.” Her words came out groggy and slow.
“Will you go to the police today?” Anette asked softly. “That might make you feel better.”
Celia nodded, distracted, trying to clear her mind.
“I’ll go with you if you’d like. I could take off from work, or go during my lunch break.”
“No, I’ll just go from school.”
Celia looked up at the clock on the wall. Squinted to see the hands, her eyes still adjusting to the dark. It was past seven. Good God, it was morning. She thought it was still the middle of the night.
Although she was glad for the morning. She hardly wanted to go back to sleep.
Instead she refocused her thoughts to the logistics of the day ahead. There was relief in thinking about something other than the sinking terror of her dream.
Her first class would be with Hans—a back-to-back double class. She knew they would have independent study time for the second part. She would opt out of that and go to the police with her report.
Boarding the bus an hour later, she was consoled by the everyday sights and sounds of her commute. She found comfort in the solid upright seat against her back, the gleam of the sun rising out the window, and the rhythms and clatters of the world around her moving on in its ordinary fashion.
At school she was about to enter her first class when she saw Oskar down the hall. He called her name and strode toward her with quick steps, his forehead creased with worry.
They met a distance from the classroom. He pulled her into a tight, long hug.
Her heart jumped as she clasped herself around him. She stood on tippy toes, her cheek resting against his neck, reveling in how good it felt to be brought in so close. A scent of sawdust lingered on him and he was a bit disheveled—he must have left class in a hurry.
“Ebba just texted me about what happened,” he said, releasing from the hug and searching her face. “Are you OK?”
“I think so,” she said. “They were just after my bag.”
“We should have driven you all the way.”
Celia shook her head with conviction. “You didn’t know. None of us had a clue that would happen.”
“No, but we—”
“You didn’t know,” she insisted.
Oskar reached for her hand. “I’m so glad you weren’t hurt.”
She squeezed his hand back.
His grip unexpectedly tightened, his eye line set over her shoulder: “Someone’s watching at us.”
Celia threw a startled glance in the same direction.
Hans stood by the door to the classroom, arms crossed, scrutinizing them with a look of raw annoyance on his face.
She let go of Oskar’s hand. “That’s Hans,” she whispered.
“That’s Hans?” Oskar said, sounding alarmed. “Ebba’s right, he is creepy.”
Celia then realized that all of her classmates had entered the classroom. It was only Hans there now. Alone in the corridor, staring.
Hans spoke, loudly enough that his voice carried through the hall. “Celia? Class has begun.”
“Talk to you later, OK?” she said to Oskar.
They walked together to her classroom. Oskar gave her another quick hug before heading off.
Hans hadn’t moved. His sight was still firmly on her.
She stopped in front of him. “So … I need to leave class early today.”
“Ditch class to hang out with your boyfriend?” Hans’s voice was low and dry. “No, actually. You’re not leaving early.”
Celia gaped at him. “Excuse me?”
Swedish teachers didn’t act like that. You said you needed to leave class early, there were no questions asked. That was one thing she really liked about being in Sweden: you were treated as an adult.
“What I do with my boyfriend is none of your business.” And just like that she’d turned Oskar into a fictional boyfriend. It rolled off her tongue in a curiously natural way.
Hans snapped, “It is my business if it happens during my class.”
“Well, this has nothing to do with him. I have to go to the police to make a report.”
That changed Hans’s disposition. The haughtiness was immediately gone. “What do you need to report? Did something happen to you?”
She wasn’t sure why she said what came out of her mouth next. It was one of several stupid things she did that year. Maybe it was Hans’s over-stepping into her private life that gave her a rebellious push. Or maybe it was the opportunity to poke a little at the piñata to see what might come out that she couldn’t resist.
