by Emily Childs
“You need to really think about how you’re behaving. Brita, you’re nearly twenty-two years old. We’re done raising you. Not to brag, but I think we did a stellar job. Now, it’s time for you to make your decisions separate from what you think this family wants. I know nothing about Axel Olsen. Is he good to you? Does he feel the same? Will either of you behave like adults and admit it to your families?”
“Ouch, Mom,” I say, but she quickly silences me.
“Not finished, Brit. Sweetie, these last few years I really hoped you would find that spark of strength that’s inside you. I see it, but you’ve always worried so much about the approval of me, your dad, Farfar—everyone. Perhaps our family dynamic played a part in that. I know the resentment flows deep. It seems the Olsen boys are much the same with their own parents and with Viggo.
“But if I could have one wish for you these last few months of school, it would be that you find your own path. You find that thing that is so uniquely made for you, Brit. When you find it, cling to it. Don’t let anyone tell you what you must do, who you must be, who you must care about. That is my hope. I can’t do it for you. Your dad, me, Inez, your roommate—we can’t give you permission to live your life. You must find the strength to stand in your own sneakers and live for you.”
Another tear. My chin quivers when I hang my head, studying the threads of the ugly, brown carpet.
“Brita, you there?”
“I’m here,” I whisper.
“Sweetie, I have to go. Are you okay?”
“I’m fine. You’re right. About everything.”
“Okay then. We keep everything out in the open?”
“Um…” She will hate this. “Can we just keep it between us—for now?”
I feel the weight of her sigh. “Brita—”
“Please, Mom. Let me tell people after I know if anything is even going to happen with Axel, okay? What if it doesn’t work out?” Please no. “It will only give Farfar more reason to despise the Olsens.”
Another palpable pause. Mom clicks her tongue and I imagine her rubbing her forehead, eyes closed, red lips puckered. “Alright, Brita. You speak with your grandfather. But I’m not keeping it from your dad. He should know, he’s your father and deserves more credit. Unless you’ll tell him.”
“Geez, do you and Dad talk all the time or something?”
“You’re our only child, divorce or not, we’re going to discuss what’s going on in your life. I’ll tell him not to tell Farfar, okay? If Jonas continues to drive you back and forth, you should let everyone know. Nothing criminal about getting a ride.”
“Unless you’re a Jacobson riding with an Olsen.”
“There, that’s the attitude,” Mom says with sarcasm. “Okay, Brit I have to go. You promise to keep me updated on all the mom-need-to-know parts of your life? Swear it.”
“I swear,” I say.
“Good. You are brilliant, Brita. This is your time, take advantage of it. Have fun, but use it to really decide what you want from life, okay? Oh, and be smart with Axel. I don’t want to see you hurt.”
“Deal.” I want to question her meaning of smart, but frankly I don’t have the energy.
It takes another two minutes for my mom to finally hang up, despite her declarations she is dangerously late for a housing meeting for a large cabin along the lake. I wipe my cheeks, now sticky with salty tears.
“Hey, Jane,” I say in my brightest, non-whimpering voice, when my phone rings immediately after Mom and I disconnect.
“Happy first day!” Jane squeals. “Hey, just letting you know I’ll be in The Lab pretty late tonight. If you want to invite your blue-eyes over, I’ll make sure I get home really late.”
“If by blue-eyes you mean dark chocolate over almonds, then yes, stay late. Have fun.” Jane always calls the computer lab ‘The Lab’ as though it is the only place that deserves a label on the entire campus.
“See ya,” she says, drawing out the ‘ya’ and abandoning me in the quiet of the English building. Taking a deep breath I gather my things, including my pride, from the floor, and trudge to the bus stop.
***
Throw pillows are my delight. I love stacking, designing, and squishing between the different sizes and textures. Jane teases me that my bed is merely a display shelf for my numerous pillows. When I plop onto my bed, I can’t shake my conversation with my mom. Judy Jacobson is a soft-spoken woman, she hardly raised her voice to me as a kid, but she has mastered the art of punishment by disappointment. Her words about my age and my behavior sting, and the more I think on them, the more they sting.
Mom never proffered an opinion on my relationship, only be smart. Smart about what? What is so wrong with Axel Olsen? About any Olsen?
Ripping out my phone, I send a quick message to Axel, hoping that hearing his voice will somehow make the storm in my heart disappear.
Hey, can you talk?
I stare at the plaster of my ceiling as I wait. Part of me wants to call, but if I interrupt a class or a clinic or whatever he does all day, I will dwell on my shame for the next fifty years. After twenty minutes of no response, I dig a path through my pillows and turn out my purse, spilling the insides over my mattress. Pens, band aids, lip gloss and a hoard of receipts sprawl between the pillows. This letter serves as a lighthouse on the shore in my sea of heartache. Tearing open the tattered envelope, I take extra care this time to read each word; to deduce what might cause my beloved Farmor to offer such a final appeal to me—of all people—to me.
My Brita-
Little älskling—well I must say you are not so little anymore. How I love you. I know I do not have much time left in this world. I’m not afraid, Brita. Know that I am not afraid. Although, facing one’s demise does bring about a time of reflection—and if it doesn’t, then to that perfect person, I would say—go sit on a pin.
I am proud of the life I have lived. Your Farfar and I have worked hard. When he came to this country, he had little more than a knapsack with his dress shoes and ten dollars to his name. But oh, how I remember falling head over heels for him when we met on that ship. I knew when I found him, that I would follow the man around the world if he asked. But we stayed in our new home, we worked, we raised a beautiful family. So, I shall say again, I am proud of the life I leave behind. You are part of that life. I am proud of you.
I hope this letter does not bring you any distress. I’m certain I will be an angel (or some days a devil) on your shoulder, and I hope you will forgive my weakness in not speaking my heart in life. I have hardly the strength at this point to lift this pen. But there are things I must say. Life is short, my dear granddaughter, and the truth is that I leave behind one true regret.
I did not right a glaring, terrible wrong.
But I have hope that you might.
Now, I have my suspicions Philip may read this before it reaches your hands. The old snoop. But I want this to be for your eyes first and foremost and I’m certain you will understand.
I submitted to bitterness long ago, Brita. I’m ashamed to say I settled, though I knew I should have stood for what I believed. I hope you will have the strength to do what I did not. Resentments do not serve anyone, and you have the heart to heal what was broken long ago between two families who once loved each other.
Misunderstandings, hatred, and grudges are like poison that infects even the most beautiful of people. I’ve seen power inside your soul, my dear. Forgive, Brita. If I could ask one thing of you, forgive. Take the time to understand the differences of others. Sometimes when we allow the ugliness of hatred to cloud our vision we miss out on the most beautiful of sights. I hope others in our family will follow your example someday.
You are my heart, and I shall always be near you. Keep working hard in school. Love our family as you do, and as I do.
I love you always,
Farmor
P.S. I had monthly tea with Clara Olsen for all my adult life, may she rest in peace. If you haven’t guessed (but you’r
e brilliant so I’m certain you have) I’m speaking of That Family.
P.P.S. Philip! If you’ve read this without permission I insist you return it to Brita immediately, or I promise you my love, I will not welcome you with open arms in the next life! And quit griping about my monthly tea! I know you are.
I wipe away a tear through the laugh that always comes at the end of the letter. Farmor left the note to me in her will. Yes, she willed me the letter. Farfar eyed it curiously as I read her words in the corner of the bakery weeks after she passed. In my heart I know he hadn’t read her last appeal or I had to believe the tension between the rival bakers would have eased. It hadn’t in the least.
This is my burden to carry. The task of healing a feud that no one talks about, no one faces, and that stacks more anger and resentment with each sunrise. Hatred has festered like a cancer between two otherwise pleasant, personable families. Before the holidays, I never thought the idea possible. But now, I do. Jonas, Axel, and I have proven it is possible. Though I have little confidence in my own abilities to break through the feud, tonight I somehow find some sliver of strength to try. Mom and Farmor share similarities in their advice to me. My grandmother didn’t want me to regret as she had; Mom wants me to be happy by choosing my own way.
Clutching the letter to my chest, I close my eyes and drift into a dreamless sleep.
Axel doesn’t write back.
Chapter 13
Doctor Nichols is one of the most influential professors of my college career. Being his assistant for his freshman courses is a dream gig. To sit on the other side, and learn from one of the greats. Bring it on.
“So, I’ll be looking to you to help me structure the papers. You know, check for writing style consistency, flow, voice, all the good stuff,” Nichols says ten minutes before class is to begin. A few early birds already flock into the room. “I’ll need your eye, Brita, to find those gems.”
“I can’t wait,” I say sincerely. Tuesday will be a better day than Monday. I already told myself as much.
I drove with Jane since we both have morning classes, but will be finding my own way home after lunch. Those long days in The Lab for Jane, and all. I’m sure Young Adjunct Professor might have something to do with it too. But in other news, today is my shortest day on campus. Yes, I think Tuesday will be my best day.
Plus, Axel wrote me back this morning. He apologized for being away from his phone—blaming study group—but said he would call me later. Despite the foot of snow dropped last night, today is shaping up to be epic.
“You can take the desk here,” Nichols says. “But I won’t require you to always attend the class. I know it will be monotonous for you. You can work in my office. I thought you might want to come to review the syllabus and course material this week, so you have an idea what I’ll be working with and what I expect from the students.”
“Oh, I don’t mind working here, it will be fun. The poor little things,” I tease, eyeing the new students finding seats. “They have no idea what you’re about to do to their minds.”
He laughs and adjusts his glasses. “I won’t give it away just yet, next week I make no guarantees. I wouldn’t want them all dropping and running to Crichton, now would I?”
“Oh, Doctor Crichton has no problem scaring students the first week,” I say, knowing both professors well. In fact, Alice Crichton is my instructor for my senior capstone project. This afternoon I plan to select my subject, but I’m stuck amongst the writings of Shakespeare, Charlotte Brontë, or William Faulkner.
“True,” Nichols says, glancing at his gold wristwatch. More students filter in, jabbering to one another, some take seats in the back corner, leaving plenty of empty front seats for stragglers. “Well, it’s about time to start. Glad you’re here, Brita. You’ve got a good eye for words.”
Normally I don’t accept compliments with much grace, I get all flitty and red in the face, but Nichols doesn’t hand out praise unless he truly means it. I’d insult the man if I argued. I smile and take my place in the corner by the doorway, ready to take in the lecture.
Until I see him rush in, three minutes before class is set to begin.
“Jonas?” I say.
Jonas whips around, his brow furrows until he registers my face. Perhaps I should try to not like his smile, but truly it isn’t possible. Jonas dresses much like I would expect a senior in the final stretch to dress. His long-sleeved T-shirt is tight around his shoulders, sleeves scrunched up over his forearms showing off his antique watch. His hair still delightfully tousled. Messy hair suits him. So do the black athletic pants. I like the casual look on Jonas. There, I said it.
He glances down at his phone. “Am I in the right class? This is supposed to be a basic English class.”
“Structure of English Grammar, to be exact,” I say.
“So, what? You’re just retaking all your old classes for fun?”
My cheeks prickle with warmth not coming from the heater when he leans against the small desk. “I would if I could. I’m the TA for the class. I thought you were taking a writing class.”
Jonas’s smile drops. “Don’t classes like this just mean a ton of writing?”
“This is much different than creative or technical writing.”
Jonas shrugs, and takes in the room one time before meeting my eyes again. “So, you’re going to read everything?”
“Why, yes Mister Olsen, I will be reading your papers. You don’t mind, right?” Jonas takes a deep breath, truly nervous. “Jonas, I’m teasing. Well, sort of. I will be reading the assignments, but come on, I’ve already read one of your reports. It will be as easy as that. You won’t even know if it’s me or Nichols.”
“That report wasn’t easy to hand over either,” he protests.
“Well, I think you’ll have to face a fear this semester,” I say with my own version of a sly smile. “Unless, you want to transfer classes. I think the only other class is at seven in the morning.”
“You don’t scare me that easy.”
“Good. I knew you’d be up for the challenge.”
Jonas smiles, his eyes deepen a bit. For a moment I think he might say something more the way he inches a little closer, but Nichols calls the class to order and Jonas scrambles to find a seat.
In the front. Right in the center.
He doesn’t look happy. Especially when Nichols asks everyone to state their major, and Jonas endures sporadic lawyer jokes the remainder of class. I laugh, and accept that I’m not a good friend in the moment. No mistake, I’d laugh until I turned blue if it kept his tepid smile on his face all day.
The ham and cheese melt drips down my chin. I’m embarrassed, but Jonas simply snorts and hands me a napkin. Jonas doesn’t have a class until five this evening. I don’t remember when we arranged to have lunch together; we both left Nichols’ class, started talking, and ended up in the café.
“So, are you ready to graduate?” I ask, wiping the stringy cheddar from my face.
“Yeah, but I’ll be right back in school in the fall. If I’m accepted into law school, I guess. But this place has grown on me. It’s been a good program.”
“What made you choose to stay in Minnesota? Most of my graduating class went out of state. I’m one of the few who stayed close to home.”
Jonas shrugs. “I don’t know. My dad came here, I think it’s a good place to get my undergraduate. What about you? Why’d you go here?”
“Well, it’s far enough away that I feel like I’m living on my own, but still close enough I can go home without a problem.”
Jonas agrees, and I like the way a dimple forms in the corner of his mouth. I’ve never noticed it before.
“Any first week complaints?” I ask.
He wipes his hands on a napkin and takes another drink before answering. “The biggest stress is applying for law schools.”
“Where are you trying for, Harvard? Yale?”
Jonas answers pompously. “I’m incredibly intelligent, and those scho
ols would be lucky to have me—”
“You know I’ve always admired your humility,” I say.
He grins and takes a bite of his panini, properly eating the bite without chewing like a Neanderthal. “I know. But honestly, I don’t think my brilliance is a good match for the ivy leagues.”
“Yes, it’s best if you mingle with those who can only learn from your mind.”
“Common folk,” he says. The tinge of crimson over his cheeks is rather endearing if I do say so myself.
“So where in the world will Jonas Olsen grace with his brilliance?”
“I’ve applied here, which my mom is voting for of course, a few schools on the East Coast and Midwest. I plan to apply to some in Alabama, maybe Louisiana. There’s also a few highly ranked schools in the west.”
“So basically, you’re applying all over,” I say through a smile.
“Basically.”
“That’s exciting,” I add. “Any preference?”
“Not really,” he says. “I wouldn’t mind going out of state for a while. Axel enjoys Wisconsin. I’ve never really gone anywhere else—you know how the family business sort of ties you down.”
I nod and wash down the last bite of my sandwich with a long swig of cocoa. “You still shouldn’t let that stop you from going to a school you want.”
Jonas stares at me for a long enough moment I can feel my heart rush a bit and I start to wonder if I’ve spilled something more on my chin. He rubs the back of his neck and rests over his elbows. “I think it’s ironic you say that.” His voice changes so it sounds low and calm. “Why does everyone else get to live their dream, but you allow yourself to settle for something you don’t want?”
I turn my attention out the large window. A tight bubble smolders in the center of my stomach. Crossing my arms over my chest, I give Jonas my best mind-your-own-business look. “I already have a mother, you know.”
“Is that what she told you, too?”
“I live my life.” I toss my hands overhead. “Why does everyone insist that I don’t? If anyone should understand it’s you. And honestly, we don’t know each other that well to give life advice.” If I could bite off my tongue I would.
