Óskar was sleeping a few feet away from me. His arms were bent up, hands tucked under the pillow. The shirt he had on was sleeveless, and his biceps were surprisingly buff. He looks like a fucking archangel when he’s sleeping, and I was jealous that he had someone to wake up next to. I fell asleep, mildly pissed that he was probably the last thing I’d ever see.
Bryndis woke me up that morning. She’s got the same supermodel looks as Óskar, but they work so much better on a girl. Resting her hand under my chin, she tilted my face, examining my wounds. It was the strangest thing in the world, to be awoken by some random but beautiful girl. And have her touch me so gently like that. I wanted to flinch away, embarrassed and taken aback. But I stayed still and let her look me over.
“Did you do this to him?” She glanced over her shoulder at Óskar. He was on her bed, laptop open in front of him and a mess of papers and binders and files fanned out around him. Schoolwork, I figured.
“No,” he said, without looking up from his screen.
“Oh, are we allowed to talk now?” I asked.
“Quietly,” he replied.
Bryndis told me her name and gave me a container of blueberry skyr. And a spoon! Such luxuries. Then she left for a minute and came back with a first aid kit. But while she was gone, I told Óskar his girlfriend was nice.
“Sister,” he said, still focused on his computer. “She is fourteen. And if you try to fuck her, then I will fuck you. In the ass.”
“A double date?” I said. “How delightful.”
Bryndis returned and started patching up my face. She wiped the dried blood off me and put one of those butterfly things on the gash, then a big Band-Aid on top. And she gave me some aspirin, which I desperately needed. My head throbbed.
She told me I had striking eyes.
“Thanks. I’m sure you’ve heard that a few times yourself.”
She smiled. Fourteen, I reminded myself. Fourteen.
She left again, whispering in Icelandic to Óskar. I was getting pretty tired of being gossiped about in foreign languages. Whatever she said didn’t garner a response from Óskar.
“Hey,” I said to him. “Can I use your computer for just a couple minutes? I need to cancel my stolen debit card.”
He pointed to a desk in the corner. “Use hers.”
I had a hell of a time getting around on Bryndis’s little pink laptop. Everything was in Icelandic, plus it had a bunch of extra keys. I was able to get to my bank’s website and report that my card had been stolen. I had to ask Óskar if I could receive mail at the hotel and what the address was. I could tell he hated being bothered, especially when he had to walk across the room and type the street name for me because I couldn’t figure it out. But at least I’ve got a new card on the way. I had no clue what I’d do for clothes and food for the next seven to ten business days, though.
I started thinking about my wallet and what else I’d had inside. There was a photo of you—I hope those assholes saw that. It wasn’t like I’d forgotten about you, if that’s what they thought. And my driver’s license (thank God I’d left my passport at the hotel). Thirty or forty American dollars. One of my three condoms. I’m over that now, though. No more following my dick around. Look where it’s gotten me so far.
I shut Bryndis’s laptop and curled up with the blanket again. The house was so still and quiet. Just Óskar tapping away on his keyboard and some muffled TV sounds coming from downstairs. I had about a million questions for Óskar, like when are we going back to the hotel and why did we sneak into your sister’s bedroom last night, but, man, Óskar is weirdly intimidating for such a small, little dude. And I knew if I started looking for answers, he’d probably do the same: where are your clothes, and why are you all beat up? Eventually, the conversation would circle back around to you. I’m tired, Vivian, of defining myself in relation to you. I want to try just being Miles again, whoever the hell that guy is.
The morning dragged on. Mainly because I had nothing to do. Óskar eventually finished his work and loaded all his binders and shit into a big ol’ man purse. Of course he has a trendy little satchel to match his trendy little bun. Though, to be fair, he was still wearing his hair down at the time.
(Yes, I know. I’m being shitty and sexist about Óskar’s style choices. I think it’s deep-rooted passive aggression from eighteen years of being raised to be the most accepting, PC guy on the planet. Damn, can I just be an asshole for a little while, okay?)
“My brother will be home soon. And then we will leave,” he told me.
I was busy counting the stick-on plastic stars on Bryndis’s ceiling for the third time. “Okay.”
A few minutes later, we heard a crash from downstairs, like glass breaking. Óskar sat up, and then there was a little scream—Bryndis shrieking—and Óskar was gone from the room in a blink. I’ve never seen anyone move so fast in my life.
My stomach bottomed out then. My gut understood before the rest of me that something horrible was about to go down. Then, there was all this noise—crashing and pounding and screaming and shrieking. Chaos. It sounded like someone was getting murdered down there.
And I wanted to stay out of it. I’m not one of those brave souls running toward the disaster scene. In fact, when I heard bare feet slapping up the staircase, I had half a mind to hide under the bed.
Interesting fact I’ve heard about the Icelandic language: they don’t really have a word for “please.” Like, the phrase for ordering a beer would actually translate to “beer, thanks.” So, when Bryndis appeared in her doorway and said (in English, of course), “Help. Me. Please,” my blood went cold. She grabbed me by the arm and dragged me down the stairs into a little kitchen.
Óskar was beating the shit out of this naked old man.
Okay, the guy wasn’t totally naked. He was wearing a robe, but it was open. Óskar was crouched over him, just whaling on the dude.
“Stop. Him,” Bryndis said.
The image of Óskar’s beefy little biceps flashed in my mind, and my recently kicked ass didn’t want to tangle with him, but I also couldn’t let him commit homicide. I tried to grab Óskar and pull him away, but he elbowed me hard in the gut. So, for my second attempt, I just threw myself on him, and we both tumbled to the ground. For a minute there, I was in between Óskar and the old man while they continued to scream what I can only assume were Icelandic obscenities at each other.
Then this other dude came into the kitchen. He was fortyish, ruddy complexion and ginger-haired, but with Óskar’s and Bryndis’s same ice-blue eyes. I kind of figured he might be their dad. And then he was shouting along with everyone else.
“He’s American. He doesn’t understand you!” Bryndis screamed at the new guy. I hadn’t even realized he was talking to me.
“Get him out of this house,” he said, pointing to Óskar and then the door.
I got up and pulled Óskar along. He didn’t fight me too much, though he and his opponent were still shouting. We were halfway through the door when the old guy shouted something at Óskar that made us both cringe. “Faggi!”
“Keep walking,” I said to Óskar, though I kind of wanted a shot at the old man myself. You know that kinda hate don’t fly with me.
Outside, Óskar broke away from me and booked it to the barn. I followed him past the stalls of bleary-eyed sheep and up a ladder to the loft. I leaned on the window frame and looked out into the mountains. Óskar paced the floor, steam rolling out his ears. And then, like flipping a switch, he was fine. Calm again, as if nothing batshit crazy had just happened.
He squeezed in next to me at the window and pointed into the distance. “Wolcano.”
“That’s pretty close. Aren’t you afraid it’ll erupt?”
“It did. In 2010.”
“That’s the one, huh? With the impossible name?”
“Yes.” He spewed out a name full of consonants and accent marks. “When I was a young man—”
“Pretty sure you still are one.”
�
��I was afraid, yes. But that is a worry that only children have. When you first learn that something so consuming exists, you always imagine that it will swallow everything you know and love. But then you get older and you find out that all those horrible things you’ve imagined can happen anyway, no natural disasters required.”
What a guy, huh? Still waters run deep.
Before I could comment on Óskar’s musings, the ginger-haired guy showed up under the window with Óskar’s bag thrown over his shoulder. We climbed down from the loft and then he and Óskar had a brief conversation without really looking at each other. Then the guy handed Óskar his bag, and Óskar and I went back to the Jeep.
On the drive back, I broke the confidentiality clause. I told him about Frankie and the French girls beating me up. I didn’t say why. I hoped he assumed that it was a mugging. For now, anyway.
Then I went into sympathetic camp counselor mode and somehow managed to coax a few little details out of him. It turns out that the old man in the robe was Óskar’s dad. He’s got dementia now, and it’s so bad that he doesn’t recognize his kids. He likes Óskar’s brother Karl (the ginger), but, for whatever reason, hates Óskar with a passion. And poor Bryndis looks so much like their dead mom that she can’t be left alone with him. That was the scream we heard—Bryndis getting bent over the stove and groped by her own dad.
“I overreacted,” Óskar told me. “But I would like for my sister not to lose her virginity to her father.” He was really pissed at Karl for running off for the weekend with a girlfriend and leaving Bryndis to fend for herself. Óskar’s been sneaking around the house while Karl’s been away, trying to look out for his sister and keep out of sight of their dad.
“That’s really fucked up,” I said. “I’m sorry.”
What I didn’t say was that it was kind of nice to know that someone had a shit-ton more problems than me.
Chapter Ten
Miles Away to Vivian Girl
June 8 11:39 PM
When I got back to the hotel last night, I took a long shower, scrubbing all the mud and blood and ick off of me. I fell asleep immediately after, on top of my bed sheets. Later, I was awakened by the phone—Óskar telling me he’d be coming to see me in a few. I asked why, but he hung up without answering. So, I got up and threw on Óskar’s PJ pants (which he had yet to reclaim) and a hotel robe while my Tourist T-shirt and one and only pair of undies soaked in the bathroom sink.
There was a knock, and I answered to find Óskar in the hallway. With a cop.
“Shit. What’d I do?”
Óskar handed me a mug of tea and stepped into the room, gesturing for the cop to follow. Once the door was shut behind them, he said, “Your debit card was stolen. Many banks won’t reimburse your funds unless you file a police report. Also, you were assaulted.”
I wanted to snark at him about the fact that he’d assaulted someone himself this weekend, but I just sighed and told the cop I wasn’t interested in pressing charges. Before my card was deactivated, Frankie and the French girls had only managed to blow about eighty dollars, since nothing but gas stations were open on a Sunday. The cop was nice, though, polite and smiley. He sat in my desk chair and took notes while I laid the whole truth out. Well, I didn’t mention the graffiti or oral sex, but other than that, I told it all. He didn’t recognize your name, but when I mentioned your website, he said, “Yes, I have heard about that.”
Hey, we’re internationally famous, V. Canada, France, Iceland. Is there nowhere I can escape?
Óskar hovered by the doorway the whole time, sponging up the full glory of my plight. I wondered if he’d heard about you. What was his opinion on the matter?
The cop gave me a carbon copy of his report and a business card. I thanked him, shook his hand, and sent him on his way.
Before he left, Óskar said, “All of your clothing was stolen?”
“Yeah. I’ve got a new debit card on the way, but in the meantime I’m gonna need to hang on to your pants.”
“Of course,” he said, heading out the door.
“Takk!” I called after him.
After that, I went back to sleep, hard. Óskar woke me up again early this morning. “I have some things for you.”
I let him in. He stood next to the television and unloaded a bunch of stuff from his messenger bag.
One black nylon wallet with an Icelandic flag embroidered on the front. “From our gift shop. Good souvenir. Check the inside.”
A replacement bus pass. One prepaid debit card. “Twenty-seven thousand krónur—that’s around two hundred dollars American. You can load more at the front desk anytime.”
A pack of black and gray boxer briefs. A few pairs of white socks. A three-pack of plain black T-shirts. One pair of dark gray skinny jeans. “Everything’s new except the trousers. They belonged to Atli. He’s about your size, maybe?”
“Who’s Atli?”
“Another concierge. Dark hair. Sometimes he can be quite loud. He said for you to keep them. He had them set aside to donate, anyway.”
“Oh. Okay.”
“I hope everything is to your liking. I’ve charged it all to your room, but if there’s an item you don’t want, I will refund you.”
“No, it’s fine. Great, actually. Thank you.” My voice cracked ever so slightly. I hoped he wouldn’t notice.
He glanced at me for a second, then stared out the window. “I should have taken you to the police Saturday night. And the hospital. I was selfish, too involved in my own affairs.”
“It’s fine,” I whispered. I was overwhelmed. Touched that someone had gone to so much trouble to take care of me. All at once, I missed Mamochka like crazy.
And I missed being able to look after you.
Óskar dug into his bag for one last item: a pair of raggedy black Chucks. “Maybe these will fit you? I’ll need them back, though. They are frayed, but I’m fond of them.”
He left the shoes by the corner of my bed and booked it out of there pretty quickly. I could tell he was the sort of guy that can’t really handle it when other people cry—and I was clearly about to lose it. Especially when he gave me the shoes. I didn’t want his shoes. I wanted your stupid fucking boots, and I was gutted all over again by the fact that I’d lost them.
I always tell myself I’m not going to cry over you anymore. And I always end up cocooned in my bed sheets, sobbing into my pillow. Fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck.
Miles Away to Vivian Girl
June 9 2:04 AM
Now that the floodgates are open, the wounds are fresh, and I’m not getting any sleep tonight, I might as well pull up one of my demons and look it straight in the face.
I’ve been thinking about the box, the money. The thing is, most people who intend to kill themselves do not make plans for the future. Many of them give their belongings away. They don’t hoard thousands of dollars in a shoebox in the back of their closet. The fact that that shoebox exists means that, in some ways, an alternate reality exists. While there is no denying the fact that you willfully took a lethal dose of pills, I’m not so sure anymore that you actually intended to die.
This could be good news. God, I almost want to call your parents and spell it out for them. It’s been speculated that they’re keeping you on life support because, according to their religion, suicide is an unforgivable sin. Keeping you alive keeps you from eternal suffering, which is almost kind of touching, until you consider the fact that they care more for your “soul” than they ever did for you as a fully functioning human being.
Eternal salvation aside, the shoebox means something else: I think you intended for me to save you. You wanted to do what you loved to do: worry me. Terrify me. Have me beg and plead and bargain.
And I did all those things for you, babe. But I was too late.
Somewhere there’s a parallel universe in which I went to check on you as soon as I got home that day. Or maybe one where we hadn’t just had that stupid fight the night before. I envy that Miles in that universe, who
still has the ability to kiss your eyelashes every night. Instead I’m stuck in this universe, being this Miles . . . this guy who is so goddamn lost without you.
I had stopped at the Redbox after school that day. I didn’t find anything to rent. I also put gas in my car. I went home to Mom and Mamochka’s for a while. Had a snack and watched some cartoons. I did everything I could think of to avoid heading back to the cabin with my tail between my legs. If I’d only been myself that day, not so stubborn, I’d have gone to your place right away for a cuddle and a chat, apologies all around. The doctors could never pinpoint what time exactly the brain damage occurred, only that it was a miracle I’d found you breathing at all. That’s the American South for you—a doctor, a supposed man of science—doing his best to convince you that any alternative is better than death.
He was wrong. An unending coma is a thousand times worse than death.
I never told anyone, not even Mamochka, that there were several minutes there after I found you and after all the CPR I tried, when I just held your hand. Too afraid to call an ambulance because I knew how pissed you’d be if you woke up in a hospital gown, stripped, misgendered, and exposed.
Do you remember that time I tried to tell you the real story of “The Little Mermaid”? Not Ariel, but the original Hans Christian Andersen tale? You didn’t believe me, so I drove to the library and found the book. It had a blue canvas cover with a gold-leaf mermaid on the front. So pretty—I took a photo of it with my phone. I read you the story, and you pouted, told me I’d ruined your childhood.
I’d laughed at the time, about the poor mermaid-turned-human who endlessly felt as though she were walking on knives. But that’s what it feels like for me now. Every step without you brutal and terrifying.
Miles Away to Vivian Girl
June 9 4:17 PM
Despite my sleepless night, I got out of bed early this morning. Still angry and hurt and tired, but I decided to put your memories away for a while. Keep moving, Miles. I put on the clothes Óskar had given me. The shirts are V-neck, a little more snug than I’m used to. I think it’s that they are the right size for me now; I’m not wearing the same shirts that belonged to the me of two years ago. Same with the jeans. I’ve worn skinny jeans, but I’ve never been able to pull them off before. In fact, I look pretty good except for my black-and-blue face.
Miles Away from You Page 9
