Carry Yourself Back to Me

by Deborah Reed

Annie’s hands sweated. The pale pink walls made her legs sway. She lowered herself onto the bed with her mother.

  “I could never stand all that slang he used, but the soft lilt of it, you know, the way he said Flahrida so gently, like it was rolling off his tongue.” She gestured with a wave of her hand, and then she stopped and looked at Annie as if seeing her there for the first time. “The way you and Calder say it.”

  The ache bore deep and hot in Annie’s stomach.

  “At least I’ve got that.”

  “What’s wrong with Daddy?” Calder asked from the doorway.

  Annie straightened her back.

  Her mother seemed not to hear.

  “What happened?” Calder asked.

  Her red eyes were wet again. “He didn’t get to finish the table.”

  They sat in silence. The only sound was sniffling.

  Annie was afraid to touch her own mother. It was as if they’d never met.

  “Finish what table?” Annie finally asked.

  “Hmn?”

  “What table are you talking about?”

  “It was going to be a surprise.” She shook her head at the ceiling like she was faced with something ridiculous. “He was making a new table for our kitchen.”

  Her father had pored over projects in his workshop, surrounded by scraps of wood and saws and glass jars full of nails and a whole collection of chisels and mallets. A range of wood stains lined a single shelf as the final step in making rocking chairs, chests, and bevel-framed mirrors. The air was thick with turpentine and sawdust and sweat. Annie had helped him build cedar birdhouses for swallows with slotted holes to keep the sparrows out. Every day her hands and hair, her whole body smelled like resin. The birdhouses were sold from a stand they built on the road, and some of the money was used to buy her first guitar, which, her father had said, was nothing more than a funny looking birdhouse with a hole big enough for cowbirds to lay eggs in.

  She’d been in his workshop nearly every weekend this summer and never once saw the makings of a table.

  “What does it look like?” she asked.

  “What?”

  “The table.”

  Her mother took a moment to wipe her nose and eyes. “He called it a farmhouse table. He had this dream of making a whole line of tables out of Tiger Maple. He wanted to spend his days listening to the radio in his workshop and building these custom tables for families to sit around.”

  “On Sundays?” Annie asked.

  A gasp escaped her mother’s throat. She shook her head at the floor.

  After a time Annie said, “Where is it?”

  “The table?”

  Annie nodded.

  “In Uncle Calder’s garage. I imagine it’s still in pieces.”

  She dropped the wadded tissue into her lap and wiped her face with her hands. She wept quietly into her hands and they waited for her to stop. She did, finally, abruptly, like she was forcing the tears down her throat, and then forcing words up past her tears. “He had cancer. A tumor. It was in his brain and there wasn’t a thing they could do for him.”

  In the silence a fly ticked the window, trying to get in.

  “I want to see him,” Calder finally said.

  “There’s nothing to see,” their mother said.

  “Take me to see him!” Calder yelled.

  “There’s nothing—” Her face turned rigid, her jaw muscles stiffened, determined to stay shut.

  Annie swallowed dryly. Her father was dead. She knew this was the part her mother hadn’t come out and said. He was dead. She knew this. At least a part of her did, but this other part seemed to be watching from the outside, aware that her mother had somehow forgotten they were only kids, her kids, and her husband had been their father, and now he was dead, and there was no one here to tell them what to do, to help them understand, to get them through the next minute, the next day and year.

  Calder ran down the hall and slammed the door to his room. Annie turned to her mother but she was no longer there. She’d been replaced by a woman who gritted her teeth and stared at the ceiling with hateful, untamed eyes. Annie thought again to touch her, but didn’t dare.

  Where was Uncle Calder? Annie couldn’t bring herself to ask.

  SEVENTEEN

  She blows in through the door as if propelled by wind. A bag of groceries in one arm, dragging her luggage with the other. She has no idea Annie is standing in Calder’s living room, and Annie can’t think of what to say to let her know. And then there’s no need because her cell phone suddenly rings on the counter.

  Sidsel turns and screams, really screams, as if someone is about to kill her.

  “It’s all right,” Annie says, but she can see by Sidsel’s round eyes and the way she’s still backing away that she doesn’t believe her. “I’m Annie. Calder’s sister.”

  Annie opens and shuts her phone to stop the ringing.

  “Av mig God!” Sidsel says, or something like this and sets the groceries on her luggage. She grips her knees beneath her red trench coat and catches her breath like a runner who’s just finished a final mile. “Why are you here?” A statement more than a question. Her intonation is flat, and Annie isn’t sure whether this is because her head is lowered or she simply talks this way. There’s the accent, too, the trouble she seems to have with her R’s. Before Annie can answer her question she says, “You really frightened me.” She’s still leaning into her knees in the doorway, her long blond hair obscuring her face. The cold air, damp and woodsy, rushes through the open door.

  They’re so quiet it’s as if they’ve stopped to listen to the wind rustling the plant leaves.

  “I came to water the plants,” Annie says. “And bring in the mail, but I see someone has already done that.”

  “Thank you,” she says, as if Annie is doing her a favor. She straightens herself and shakes her hair behind her shoulders and peers around the room as if she’s lost.

  Annie rubs the sides of her arms. Sidsel finally turns and shuts the door. What little heat there is in the room slowly wells around them.

  “I’m Sidsel. Jørgenson,” she adds, from the back of her mouth and Annie realizes this is the way it’s pronounced in Danish. She takes off her jacket and folds it in half across her luggage next to the groceries. She sighs and pulls her white blouse out of her jeans like a man loosening his tie after work. Annie’s discomfort grows. Sidsel doesn’t live here. Neither does Annie.

  Sidsel pulls her luggage and groceries away from the closed door as if someone needs to get by. Fresh herbs hang from the top of the bag. A small box of what looks and smells like cookies sits next to them, probably from her café. Annie looks around her brother’s home, and though she’s been here for more than twenty minutes, it feels strange now without him in it. With Sidsel here instead.

  “It’s so great to finally meet you,” Sidsel says, no longer sounding flat. “Calder asked me to call you and here you are.” She comes toward her. “Sorry I was so frightened. My nerves,” she says, and throws her arms around Annie. She is tall and thin like Calder but she smells like Mrs. Lanie’s kitchen. Sugar and butter and flour. It is faintly what Annie smelled on her brother’s sheets.

  Annie starts to let go but Sidsel holds on to her. Annie waits like a child seized into the breasts of an aunt, though she can’t help notice Sidsel’s breasts are smallish and firm along her cheek.

  Annie pats her, feeling the lean muscle of her back. She finally lets go.

  “You’re a beautiful singer.” Sidsel has no choice but to look down at her when she speaks. “Your voice is like a scratchy whisper. So delicate, but big. It reminds me of Iceland.”

  Annie feels herself blush, embarrassed, and finally confused. She doesn’t know a thing about Iceland. She doesn’t know a thing about Sidsel. “Iceland?”

  “They believe in fairies.”

  “I see.” But she doesn’t.

  “There’s a quality to your voice. Something. I don’t know. It reminds me of their language.”<
br />
  They look around the room and sigh at the same time. This makes them smile. The tension seems to ease.

  Sidsel is stunning. Annie doesn’t think she’s ever seen more beautiful skin. It’s like the flawless, velvety finish on a fine piece of oak.

  Sidsel folds her hands together in front of her. They are surprisingly rough and aged. Dishpan hands, completely out of place with the rest of her. They look like Annie’s.

  She scratches the back of one when she says, “Calder suggested I stay here. I’ve been a little scared at home by myself. I feel like I’m being watched by whoever did this to Magnus.”

  The air shifts at the mention of Magnus. “I’m sorry,” Annie says. “About your loss.” Her words sound inappropriate, obligatory.

  Sidsel nods at the floor and rubs her eyes. “Magnus wasn’t a very nice man,” she says. Annie waits for her to say something more. Something that will make what she has already said seem less crude, less comical. But she isn’t saying a word, and now Annie can’t stop the awkward smile breaking on her face. It’s tight and fixed and fake and she cannot seem to change it.

  “I’m sorry.” Sidsel finally shakes her head at herself and rolls her eyes. “I seem to be mixing things up. My English is normally very good, but now my thoughts have switched back to Danish and things are getting lost in translation.”

  Annie can’t imagine what she might have meant to say. “Don’t worry about it,” Annie tells her. “We all do that. Even in our own language.”

  “I don’t think I did it back home, though. I never had people look at me the way they look at me here, with such blank faces.” Annie thinks to tell her, “They’re just stunned by your ridiculous beauty, not by your words,” when Sidsel says, “But then I never had a dead husband back home.”

  Annie slowly points her finger. “Right there. That’s—I don’t think you mean it like that.”

  Sidsel growls. “I give up.” She rubs her arms as if to warm herself. “I just came from meeting with a realtor,” she says.

  A childlike quality, an innocence flashes in the way her thoughts seem to bounce. Annie imagines Calder charmed by all the non sequiturs and the accent coming through those pouty lips. Sidsel crosses the room and flips the switch to the fireplace. A flame of blue and then a fire swooshes behind her legs as she turns to speak.

  “Calder said I should meet with a realtor to try and sell my house. I don’t ever want to go back there. I never liked it to begin with.”

  “I can’t imagine,” Annie says. What else is there to say?

  “She was really helpful. The realtor. It turns out a while ago some woman wrote an article in Architectural Digest about the Dutch architect who designed the house. People still drive by to have a look at it. I never knew. I haven’t lived there very long.”

  “Hmn.”

  “The realtor is attaching the article by this woman to the fliers and the Web site, hoping it will distract from the fact that Magnus lived there, you know, if they see his name somewhere and put it together it might be hard to sell.”

  “Have you seen my brother?” Annie asks.

  Sidsel moves to a chair and sits. She scoots back, crosses her long legs, and runs her hands down the upholstery. “Yes,” she says, swinging her foot nervously. “Nearly every day.”

  “How is he?” The room may have gone dark if not for the fire. Annie turns on the floor lamp and sits on the sofa across from Sidsel. She sinks, easily, into the down cushions. Outside the wind has picked up, causing a whistle in the kitchen window. She needs to get home to Detour.

  “He keeps saying he didn’t do it. As if I’d ever think he did.” Sidsel glances down the hall toward the bedroom. The lamplight catches her face. Tiny puffs rim her eyes. “It’s not like I don’t know how much he loves me. I think he’d do anything for me, but I don’t think he’d do that.”

  A jealousy she can’t explain pinches Annie’s chest. “Why’d he ask you to call me?”

  “He said you could help.”

  “How?”

  “I don’t know anyone here, aside from a few young girls who work for me. I have no family here. My parents are old and not in good health.”

  “Do you have brothers or sisters?”

  She shakes her head no. “Calder was hoping you would befriend me. Be friends with me. However you say it. So I won’t go back to Denmark.”

  Annie imagines their friendship but can’t seem to develop a clear picture. And now she sees that she’s hurt Sidsel’s feelings by not speaking quickly enough. By not immediately inviting her into her life.

  “It’s silly anyway,” Sidsel says. “He doesn’t need to worry about that. I won’t go back to Denmark. I won’t leave him. No matter what.”

  If they were friends Annie would tell her, “Oh, but you could. People do things, say things, end up with lives they never imagined.”

  “His tics are getting worse,” Sidsel says.

  “I know. My Uncle Calder told me.”

  “I love your Uncle Calder.” Sidsel smiles with what appears to be memories of him.

  This is the second time today his name has been used like a slap across the face. “You love my Uncle Calder?” He never even mentioned meeting her.

  “He’s a funny man. And pretty charming, don’t you think?”

  “Yes. I do,” Annie says. “A lot like my brother,” she adds, trying to take some control. She can’t know Annie’s own family better than she does. “Have you met my mother, too?”

  Sidsel’s smile dissolves. “Not yet. I have a feeling she doesn’t like me. I’m sure she thinks this is all my fault.”

  A thread of warmth pulls Annie toward her. “Don’t worry. She doesn’t like me much either.”

  Sidsel smiles a full open laugh of a smile. Her teeth are large and white and straight. Perfect. Annie doesn’t understand why she isn’t on a runway somewhere making millions of dollars instead of sitting in Calder’s living room.

  “I grew up in a small house on a cobbled street,” she says, and Annie thinks of Calder trying to keep up with the way her mind works. Then she realizes the mention of Annie’s family has reminded Sidsel of her own.

  “We had two black cats named Trudel and Lille. My parents were teachers.”

  “My mother was a teacher, too.”

  “I know,” she says.

  Of course.

  “I used to spend my summers swimming naked and eating strawberries on this island called Aeroskobing.”

  Annie nods and smiles and sits back for the ride. It’s easy to imagine Calder pulled in by the intrigue, the beauty, the crush and curiosity of her.

  “The stone houses stand all in a row there.” Sidsel clasps her palms together. “Red and yellow and blue. People throw the shutters open at the same time every day so the breeze from the North Sea can come in. The pillows on the furniture feel damp. Everything smells like salt.”

  So she’s a storyteller. This is how they’ll connect. An unexpected knot rises in Annie’s throat.

  “I haven’t thought of this since I was little. Nearly every window on the island has a pair of porcelain spaniels on the sill.” Sidsel laughs inwardly as if some insight has just been revealed to her.

  “There’s this legend about the fisherman,” she says. “When they traveled to London they visited prostitutes whose business was supposed to be selling these porcelain spaniels. The fishermen brought them home as gifts for their wives. But the wives weren’t stupid. They knew exactly where they came from.” She shakes her head. “The wives were so clever that they placed the spaniels in their front windows as a sign for their own lovers. Facing out meant the husband was away at sea. But if the back and curly tail was turned to the street, then the husband had returned and the lovers knew to stay away.”

  It’s as old and common as dirt, this game of lying and pretending, this whole business of cheating. Funny how Sidsel speaks with such ease, considering what cheating has made of her life, not to mention Annie’s. She must know about Owen
. She must know what happened between Annie and Calder. Assuming Sidsel knows all this, her ease appears callous.

  Then again, maybe it’s only her nerves. Maybe it’s lost in translation.

  Sidsel drops her head back and sighs at the ceiling, and they are both quiet and Annie doesn’t feel the need to say anything. She stares into the fire, its predictable shape never changing.

  She thinks of the time Owen came home with a peculiar smell on his clothes. It wasn’t perfume or lotion or makeup. It was the smell of cooked meat and broth and smoke, and she knew he had spent hours in a restaurant somewhere. A nice restaurant. He was supposed to be working, and she told herself that maybe he and the guys had hit a wall, it was like that sometimes, when no one can agree on the tiniest melody and you need to leave the studio and come back with fresh eyes and ears; and so she’d rolled away from him in bed, and though it tugged at her for a while, it wasn’t so powerful that she couldn’t sleep.

  The next morning she looked at his shirt on the back of the chair but didn’t pick it up. She didn’t examine it. She simply allowed a finger to brush along the sleeve as she left the room. Then she did something she rarely ever did. She made him eggs Benedict, his favorite. She sat across from him and watched him eat. He didn’t say a word about hitting a wall the night before, and Annie never asked. She sees now that she was already steeped in something meant to protect her from what was happening even as a part of her seemed unaware that it was happening at all. He took long, slow bites, and every now and then he smiled at her above his coffee cup; and then he said something about a red-tailed bird at the window but when she looked it had already flown away. It makes her heart physically ache just thinking about all that went unsaid that morning. What would have happened if he’d come right out and told her? What if she’d slammed her fist on the table and demanded to know where he’d been? Could they have worked things out? She has no way of knowing. She has no way of knowing if he even felt guilty as he sat there eating his breakfast. For all she knows he was thinking how unfortunate it was that of all mornings she could have made eggs Benedict, she picked the one when so much rich food was still sitting in his stomach from the night before.