by Desiree Span
* * *
The treehouse is still there; tough and strong, and I’m pretty sure my dad was right; it will probably survive us all.
Chapter Five
ERICA
2015
* * *
“Do you have a lot of family in the States?” Fred asked munching on his peanuts. He frowned after peering in the small bag and concluding the minimal portion that had been given to him was actually finished.
I offered him mine, not being such a peanut fan myself, but I had definitely said yes to the on-board complimentary alcoholic beverage and was sipping and savoring my wine. I had to admit it was doing wonders for my nerves. “No, not really. My parents still live in Chester and so does my sister Anabel with her husband and their son.”
“I see,” he said, still chewing.
“Back in The Netherlands I’m very close to my aunt Karen and her daughter: my cousin Lynn. When I was still living in the US, I would visit them almost every summer. So even though I was far away I never lost contact with them.”
Fred was a pleasant conversation partner and we filled the flight hours reminiscing about our pasts. He spoke about his wife, his kids and grandchildren and I told him about my aunt Karen and cousin Lynn, and then about my beloved Nana Rose-Marie...
It was Saturday and I was running late. Really late!
“Jan, I have to go. Aunt Karen and Lynn are waiting for me!” I yelled from downstairs, while simultaneously putting on my shoes and coat.
“But where are the kids’ eardrops? I can’t find them,” he hollered back.
I sighed. “Same place as always, Jan!” I knew it was no use giving geographical directions at that moment, so I ran back upstairs, walked passed him, and opened the upper drawer in the girls’ room. I then dramatically pointed at the eardrops that were in plain sight.
“What would we do without Mommy?” Jan asked Laila with a smile, who was jumping on the bed in her pajamas.
Laila shrugged.
“Laila! How many times do I have to tell you to stop jumping on the bed,” I said impatiently. “Okay, I’m really leaving now. Give me another big kiss.”
Laila stretched her arms out and hugged me tightly. “I want a drag kiss,” she said, asking for one of the many kisses we had invented over the years.
And I held her face in my hands, put my mouth on one cheek and literally dragged my mouth over her nose to the other cheek, leaving behind a slightly wet trace.
She made a funny face and wiped her cheeks with her sleeve.
“There. Sleep tight, sweetie!”
I then trotted downstairs and hurried to the front door.
“Wait! Wait, Mommy!”
I walked back to see my youngest of the twins running down the stairs with tears in her eyes.
“You didn’t kiss me again,” she cried.
“Oh, sorry, pumpkin! You were so quiet, I thought you had fallen asleep and I didn’t want to wake you.” I lifted her up and cuddled her. “Wow! You’re getting big and heavy,” I said, smiling.
“I want a crackle kiss,” she said.
“Sure you do,” I replied, and put my mouth on her cheek and made smacking and munching sounds with my lips. “I love you, baby. Now go to bed,” I said, while putting her down.
She waved and ran upstairs.
“I’m off!” I shouted.
“Hold on a sec,” Jan said as he came jogging down the stairs.
Jeez, what now?
“What about my kiss?” He smiled broadly, pulled me close and gave me a big, wet smooch on the lips. “We’ll call this one a slobber kiss,” he said, still smiling.
“More like a drooling kiss,” I laughed. “Okay, can I go now? Or are you three deliberately making me miss the movie?” I said.
Jan pretended to give me a serious look. “You’re on to us. The girls read the reviews in the morning paper and believe us, we are doing you a favor here,” he joked.
After I could finally leave the house, I grabbed my bicycle from the shed and made way to the street. It was kind of chilly but I didn’t mind. Like for everyone else living in Amsterdam, riding your bicycle was the best way to get around in the city. And I actually enjoyed the breeze in my face, the fact that I could have a glass or two of wine later without thinking who would drive me back, and the hassle-free parking advantage.
* * *
I was looking forward to my girls’ night out. Once every other month I had dinner with my aunt Karen and my cousin Lynn. And now and then we would combine the dinner with a movie, if there was anything worthwhile showing in the theaters.
My aunt Karen was my mother’s eldest and only sister. They had always been extremely close, and after my father had moved us to the States my mother would come back to visit her sister, taking us along with her. Our regular summer visits became a tradition, and I was always looking forward to seeing my beloved aunt and spending time with Lynn again.
Karen’s husband had one of those jobs where he could never take days off during the high season, therefore they took their family vacation at more convenient, but unlikely, times. This gave Karen the best excuse to spend the whole summer with her baby sister and traditionally pick us up at the airport on the agreed-upon date and time. She would go out of her way to please us and enthusiastically offered her services, as our tour guide/hostess/chauffer, for our whole stay.
Karen had three kids, two elder boys and Lynn. Lynn was slightly younger than me and a little older than my sister Anabel. We got along perfectly, were inseparable, and even looked somewhat alike; all three with skinny legs, sun-freckled noses, and fair hair. Lynn’s hair was very curly, though, and she, much like Anabel, had blue eyes, instead of brown like mine.
One evening we were all wearing the same pajamas our mothers had bought us that afternoon while shopping. My uncle found us in the kitchen standing in a row drinking chocolate milk; he laughed loudly and called us Kwik, Kwek, en Kwak, the Dutch names of Donald Duck’s nephews, Huey, Dewey, and Louie.
As kids we spent our summers mostly swimming, riding our bikes, playing with other kids in their neighborhood, and walking behind my aunt as she was giving us some tour at one of the main Dutch points of interest.
Every summer I spent with them in The Netherlands was amazing, except for the summer of 1991.
* * *
I was seventeen years old, and Lynn and I had just gotten back from some kind of party a friend of hers had thrown. It was very late and we were both slightly drunk when we slipped through the door. We tried to be as quiet as possible, for we knew we would be in huge trouble if they caught us in that state, but our efforts only made us more giggly and noisy, which we thought was hilarious and made us even louder. When we walked through the door that gave way to the living room, I found my mother still awake, waiting for me.
“Erica,” she said. “I’m sorry, but I have bad news,” she continued sadly. “Dad called a few hours ago. Nana Rose-Marie has passed away.”
I was instantly sober. “What?” I said with trembling voice.
“I’m sorry, honey, I...” She didn’t finish her sentence for I ran into her arms crying.
When my dad had called he told my mom that he would be attending the funeral of his best friend’s mother-in-law on behalf of us all, so there was no need for us to cut our vacation short.
“No!” I said firmly. “I have to go. I want to go!” I was very upset and wouldn’t take no for an answer.
“All right then,” she said, and picked up the phone to call back my father.
The next day my mother, sister and I were on a plane heading back home, and a couple of days later we were attending Nana Rose-Marie’s funeral.
I had never been to a funeral before and I had always imagined it to be only grim and black with women wailing in the front row, but I was struck by how lively the whole thing actually was and I can see the irony in the use of the word “lively” here. I mean, of course, people were sad, and the ceremony itself was very proper and elegant
with classical music that could faintly be heard in the background and white flowers that adorned every corner of the room — all according to Nana’s sophisticated style. But, it was also lighthearted and a tribute to a woman who despite having been somewhat pompous, had also been fair, loyal, giving, and warm-hearted. She had been well loved and people had come to accept her pride as part of her charm. Many shared loving moments and memories about her. When Colleen, who had worked for Rose-Marie for countless years and knew her better than anyone, stood up to tell a couple of cherished anecdotes, the whole room laughed and many nodded their head in recognition.
I was sitting next to Oliver, holding his hand tightly. And when it was his turn to get up and walk to the front to say some words about his grandmother, I squeezed his hand encouragingly. Oliver talked lovingly about his Nana, and he too recalled funny moments he and I had shared with her, and through my tears I couldn’t help but smile.
When it was time to say good-bye, I didn’t dare go. I wanted to remember her just as I had seen her the last time. But Oliver took me by the hand and told me we would go together. I slowly walked up to her casket and there she was, exactly as I had last seen her, only seeming to be sleeping peacefully. The person who had prepared her had taken meticulous care in doing her hair and makeup precisely as if she would have done it herself. She was dressed in her favorite outfit and wearing her diamond earrings. But then I noticed her hands and saw that her vintage ring was missing.
Nana Rose-Marie had a beautiful vintage engagement ring. It was given to her by her husband, who had gotten it from his mother, who had gotten it from her mother. The ring carried one big aquamarine diamond, shaped like a teardrop and framing it were many little diamonds. It was absolutely stunning, and Nana Rose-Marie wore it on only special occasions.
My favorite memory of Nana was the one time she let me make a portrait of her. I had tried to convince her for a while before she finally gave in to pose for me. She came to my parents’ house and I led her all the way up to the attic, which I used as my studio. She had dressed elegantly for the occasion and was also wearing the ring.
“Where do you want me to sit, dear?” she asked.
I took out a chair for her and dragged it toward the center of the room, where the light fell just right. “Right here, Nana,” I said, smiling.
I was feeling very enthusiastic about this project but wasn’t sure I would succeed in making her go through with what I really wanted her to do. That was to get naked.
Nana Rose-Marie took her place on the chair and looked at me, waiting for further instructions.
“You know, Nana, I actually had something else in mind, and I think it would be perfect. You see, I was wondering if you were willing to pose naked,” I said carefully and smiled sheepishly at her.
She looked at me and raised one eyebrow.
“I know that-,” I started saying, but she raised one hand, commanding me to stop talking, and stood up.
She then carefully took off all her clothes, folded them neatly and lay them on a table in the corner.
“The next time, you should inform your model from the beginning exactly what you want. For now I didn’t even bring a robe,” she said and took off her earrings. When she wanted to take her ring off I stopped her. “No, keep it on Nana. It looks perfect.”
Nana hardly needed any instructions. She was a natural. She sat elegantly on the chair, with her legs crossed and turned slightly to the left. Her head was tilted a little upwards, and she looked down on me with that snobbish aristocratic look that suited her so well. She came back as many times as I needed but never looked at the portrait; she only wanted to see the end result. And when it was finally done, she stood up, put on her robe, walked over to me and looked at the work I had done for the first time. She was quiet at first and took a few steps back to observe it better. She then came forward, lifted my head with a finger under my chin, and kissed me on the cheek. “It’s absolutely magnificent,” she said. “You’re very, very talented, dear.”
“Thank you, Nana,” I was beaming proudly.
“No, thank you,” she replied. “It was a wonderful experience.”
She then put her clothes back on and said, “Now I expect you to do something with that talent, Erica. It is going to be tough, but don’t let me hear you quit painting to become something as vulgar as a lawyer or, I don’t know, one of those people making advertisements to manipulate people into buying their trivial merchandise.”
“You mean marketeers?” I asked.
“I don’t know how they call themselves, dear. But it might as well be marketeers, because for all I know they could just as well be standing on the market calling out desperately to anyone who will listen. On another note, will you come over for dinner next Friday? I’m having Colleen make your favorite dessert. Homemade chocolate fudge brownies with vanilla ice cream.”
I simply loved that woman.
Chapter Six
OLIVER
1992
* * *
It was 1992 and Erica returned from her vacation a little more than a week before we started our last year of high school, and as always she called me briefly to decide where to get together and catch up. We agreed she’d come by on Sunday to go swimming at the lake. Every year, I would notice how she had slightly changed over the summer, but this year was different. That afternoon she climbed the stairs of the treehouse and was standing on the balcony. I stepped out and when I saw her, for a fraction of a second, I held my breath.
She had lost that tomboyish look and was wearing sandals and a short dress with flowers on it. The sun had freckled her nose, tanned her long legs, and turned her hair into warm honey with light streaks in it. She had pulled it in a messy ponytail, which hung loosely over her shoulder. She stood on the threshold and was... well, seemed to glow.
“Hi, farty-face,” she said, smiling radiantly. “What happened to your glasses?”
I shrugged and smiled back at her, “Uhm, I got contacts.”
She tilted her head sideways and her dark eyes inspected me slowly from head to toe. “You look good!” she concluded. “Who would have thought that was possible?” she said with a smile and wink. “So besides becoming a supermodel over the summer, what else have you been up to?” she kept on teasing.
I shrugged again. “Not much. You know, mostly camping, fishing, hanging out. How about you?”
She told me about her vacation and I listened to her stories, about where she had been this time and what she had done. Her family lived near Amsterdam, and from there she had taken the subway downtown with her cousin. She had visited the Van Gogh Museum and the Anne Frank House, and she enthusiastically jabbered about how impressive it was and that she loved everything over there. And then she made me promise I would go with her someday; and I promised I would. Someday.
* * *
“Ready?” And without waiting for an answer she turned around and headed down the stairs of our treehouse. As we walked off together I turned around to check if the coast was clear and lit a cigarette. She gave me a disapproving look. “Please, Olly, quit those cancer sticks already!”
“Sure... will do, mom.” I took another drag and smiled at her.
She shook her head. “You’re such a dick,” she said and playfully punched me in the arm.
I felt happy to see her again.
When we arrived at the lake it was evident that we were late. Practically our whole school had decided to take a last dive in the water. Seeing how drunk most of them were, they must have been drinking their last-day-of-our-vacation sorrow away since at least that morning. The place was a Valhalla of music, beer, junk food, and gossip for any adolescent. We struggled to find a spot while we were making our way through stacks of empty beer cans and stepping over people making out or sleeping it off.
I was about to give up and suggest for us to head back and hang out at the treehouse when we heard someone call out her name. It was Mark. I pretended not to hear and kept walking. I just ha
ted that dude. He was the epitome of the stereotypical popular jock. Every school has a couple of these assholes and Mark was ours, a self-proclaimed leader of his pack, who never hesitated to aggressively remind anyone who challenged the status quo.
“Hey, Erica,” he shouted.
Just keep walking, E, and don’t look back, I thought.
She stopped and looked over her shoulder.
Dammit.
“Hey, Maaaark,” she said, stretching the a in Mark, which made it sound a little too flirty for my taste.
“How was Berlin?” he hollered back.
She turned around and to my surprise walked over to Mark.
I followed, reluctantly.
“Well, I wouldn’t know, Mark.”
She smiled at him sweetly and said, “I went to Amsterdam, remember?”
He grinned at her. “Isn’t that the same thing?”
For the love of God, someone help this guy. I rolled my eyes.
“No. Berlin happens to be the capital of Germany, while Amsterdam is the capital of The Netherlands, or Holland, as it’s also called,” she said, educating him in a teacher-like voice. And then she rubbed his arm.
“Mmmmh, I guess I missed that geography class, Miss Johansson. You’ll have to come over again and give me some extra lessons, huh?” he flirted.
What an idiot. And wait... what did he mean by “again”?
“I guess,” she said and giggled.
He leaned into her, put his arm around her, and whispered something in her ear.
