by Emma Chapman
‘Did you just say you were spending Christmas with Katya’s family?’ I ask Kylan.
‘We haven’t decided yet,’ he says.
‘What about your father and me?’ I say.
‘They’ve only just invited us, so we haven’t had a chance to think about it yet,’ Kylan says.
‘It’s fine if you want to go there this year,’ Hector says. ‘We’ll only be having the usual quiet Christmas.’
I think of the roast turkey and all the trimmings that take me days of preparation. Easy for him to say it will be quiet. I imagine Christmas dinner with Hector and his mother and I want to beg Kylan to come back.
Katya leans forward to pick up her glass and that’s when I see it, on her left hand, a small square diamond on a silver band. Before I know what I’m doing, I have reached across and her hand is in mine.
‘Where did you get this?’ I ask.
Katya pauses. ‘Kylan gave it to me.’
There is a long, long silence.
‘Is this—’ I say, looking at Kylan.
‘I’ve asked Katya to marry me,’ he says. ‘That’s what we wanted to tell you.’
The old look of concern is on his face again. I can feel her looking at me, all of them looking. My eyes begin to itch; my throat aches.
I hug him, pressing my face into his shoulder. ‘That’s such wonderful news,’ I say, into his ear. ‘I’m so happy for you.’
I pull back. I can see Katya is hiding a secret smile, of genuine happiness.
‘Mum,’ Kylan says, ‘are you all right?’
The tears are beginning to spot my shirt. ‘It’s just such wonderful news, darling.’
I feel the tears begin to come faster.
‘Let’s get some champagne,’ Hector says, and we leave the room together.
When we cross the threshold into the kitchen, I stop, feeling his hands on my shoulders. He turns me around and without looking up I bury my face in his chest. I feel him pull the door to behind us as I sob into him, and he puts his arms around me, holding me.
‘He’ll still come back, Marta,’ he says. ‘He just won’t be living here any more.’
I look up at his calm blue eyes. ‘But I miss him,’ I say.
Hector strokes my hair. ‘It had to happen eventually,’ he says. ‘We don’t want him here for ever.’
I put my head back against his chest. I do.
‘Why didn’t he tell me?’ I say softly.
Hector looks away, and I know then that Kylan had already told him. I imagine the phone conversation, Hector sitting behind the desk of his study, dishing out advice as if he is the expert on how to find a good wife.
‘You knew?’ I ask.
He rubs my back with his hand. ‘I wanted to tell you,’ Hector says, his voice soft, ‘but he wasn’t sure then. He asked me not to.’
I push him away.
‘He shouldn’t have asked her at all if he wasn’t sure,’ I say. I pull out a chair and drag it over to the oven so that I can reach the wine rack above it. My heels sink as I lift myself up, denting the plastic covering. Unbalanced, I stand on the chair. I grasp the wall, feeling Hector watching me. He doesn’t try to stop me.
Managing to grab a bottle of champagne, I tumble backwards, finding myself bundled in Hector’s grasp.
‘Marta, will you please be careful,’ he says. ‘I don’t want you to hurt yourself.’
I extricate myself from him, putting the champagne bottle down onto the side, and walking out of the room. He can sort out the drinks.
* * *
I stop in the hallway, shutting my eyes and listening to the murmured rumblings of Kylan’s voice through the closed door ahead. Pressing my head against the coolness of the paint, I try to steady myself. I’m not ready to go in there yet.
The voices have stopped. There is something on the other side of the door. I can smell the air coming from under it. Images begin to swim. A metal frame. One thin mattress: a neatly made bed. The creaking of springs.
The bedclothes are smooth and white and clean, and she is underneath them, tightly tucked in. She’s wearing a pair of clean white pyjamas with small pink hearts all over them, brand new. They are not hers: too small, a child’s size, tight across her chest, too short at the ankles.
There is a buzzing in the room like an insect caught, coming from the electric strip light which runs across the grey concrete ceiling, flickering slightly. A whirring too, ongoing, coming from a fan like the one in our bathroom, to keep the room from steaming up.
The room is square, with thick concrete walls. Against the opposite wall is a low white table, the paint bloated as if it has been outside in the rain. There is probably room to lie down lengthways between the bed and the table, but only just. There is a chair next to the bed, and in the corner there’s a toilet without a lid, plumbed into the wall. Everything is nailed to the floor.
In the ceiling, there is a square metal door, with a sturdy looking padlock hanging from it.
A man is sitting on the edge of the bed, turned away from me. He sits and stares at her as she lies sleeping. I watch her eyes begin to open, slowly, as if it’s painful. She tries to lift her head, to sit up, but she brings a hand up to her face, shuts her eyes tightly, and falls back again.
‘Look at me,’ he says. His voice is calm, and she begins to raise her eyes to his.
My eyes meet Kylan’s. ‘Mum, look at me,’ he says. ‘Are you all right?’ He speaks softly.
I blink. ‘I’m fine, darling,’ I say.
He stares at me.
‘Shall we go in?’ I say.
He stands there for a moment. Behind him, I can see Matilda sitting in one of the armchairs; Katya on the sofa. Katya quickly looks away from me as I take in the room, but Matilda stares for longer than feels comfortable. I wipe under my eyes again. Kylan steps aside and I walk past him, taking a seat in Hector’s armchair. I sit quietly, feeling my legs judder against the ground, trying to ignore my pressing headache. I want to see the room again, but the image is gone now and I can’t bring it back.
There is a long, still silence: all that can be heard is the sound of wet wood cracking in the fireplace, and the agonizing tick of the clock over the mantelpiece. Matilda is staring at the blank television screen, her mouth a tight line.
Kylan reaches his arm along the cream sofa and Katya slides into the space he has made. Their movements are automatic, natural, as if sitting like that, their bodies touching, is the way they have always been. I wait for the conversation to pick up again. Katya puts her hand on Kylan’s knee. He covers her hand with his, squeezing her fingers. I feel myself breathe in, and then I am at the living-room door, halfway up the stairs. It’s too hard to be in that room any longer. The cold shifting thing in my stomach has been replaced by something sharp, as if something jagged has lodged itself deep in my flesh, too far in to get at.
10
In the dark bedroom, I crouch down by the bed, running my fingers underneath the mattress until I feel the two cigarettes, waiting side by side. I slide them out, rolling them into the palm of my hand.
My head sings as I stand up, and I shut my eyes against the glaring pressure. When I open them, her bare feet are there on the grey carpet, the dirty toenails almost touching it. I see the filthy edge of the once-white pyjama bottoms, and below that, the fair hairs which grow from her exposed calves. Her hips are narrow and wrong-looking, as if her legs have been attached at a strange angle. At the waistband, there is a gap where her stomach doesn’t meet the material. She seems a different person, half the size of the girl I just saw tucked into bed: only the pyjamas are the same.
She watches me, crossing her arms. I’m excited to show her the cigarettes.
I hold out my hand: the two white sticks quiver.
She smiles and her face becomes hers again for a moment. Reaching forward, she hugs me, pressing her thin arms around me and squeezing. I close my fingers around the cigarettes, protecting them.
We sit on the edge of
the bed.
She puts the cigarette in her mouth and flicks the lighter easily. Her silver ring gleams. Inhaling, she smiles.
I light my own cigarette, feeling the smoke fill me up.
She reaches forward, puts her free hand around my face, cups it, and rubs my cheek with her finger.
I look at the clock resting on the floor. It is a big yellow circle, with a smiley face. The hand that counts the seconds is broken, but I can still see the nub of it moving round and round. It’s two o’clock. Not time for a cigarette, time for an afternoon nap.
I hear a sound and my heart leaps.
Kylan appears in the bedroom doorway. I breathe out. He seems tentative, as if he is unsure whether he wants to come looking for me.
I don’t hide the cigarette, watching the shock flash across his face. I think how much he looks like his father.
‘Mum, what are you doing?’
‘I’m having a cigarette, darling.’
‘You don’t smoke.’
‘There’s a lot you don’t know about me.’
The cigarette is burning away, but I can’t bring myself to take a drag in front of him.
Kylan just stares.
‘Are you all right, Mum?’ he says eventually. His face crumples with worry, and I can’t bear it. I reach forward, open the window, and drop the cigarette out.
‘I’m fine, darling,’ I say, putting my finger to my lips. ‘It’s my little secret. Don’t tell your father.’
I reach my arms out for him and he allows himself to be pulled into a hug, flinching from the smell. Once his body is against mine, I don’t want to let him go. I hold on, eventually feeling his arms over mine, pushing me gently backwards.
‘What’s the matter, Mum?’ he says, squeezing my arms.
‘I miss you,’ I say.
‘I miss you too,’ he says, but he avoids making eye contact.
‘Are you sure you’re making the right decision?’ I ask.
Kylan looks confused. ‘What do you mean?’
‘With Katya.’
He lets go of my arms. ‘Of course I am,’ he says.
‘It’s just that—’
‘Look, Mum,’ he says, ‘you don’t even know her. I love her, and you need to start making an effort with her because I’m going to marry her. I won’t let you do this again.’
I feel my eyes widen. ‘Do what again?’
Kylan sighs. ‘It’s like when I started seeing Vara. You had known her her whole life: she grew up down the road. But you still managed to scare her away.’
‘Vara deserted you when you were being bullied,’ I say.
‘I wasn’t being bullied.’ He sounds angry. ‘I got into a fight over a seat on the bus.’
I can’t believe he is this self-deluded. ‘You had a bloody nose, Kylan,’ I say. ‘The other boy hit you.’
‘I hit him back,’ he says. ‘I’ve told you this so many times. It was a one-off.’
I remember all those days Kylan walked silently, head down, back to the house. Vara’s face: those green eyes, her dark hair blowing in the wind by the side of the road where they got off the bus. I remember shouting at her that she should have been a better friend to Kylan. How could she just give up on him like that? They had been friends since they were children.
‘She lost interest in being with you when things got hard,’ I say.
Kylan looks at his feet. ‘That wasn’t because of the fight,’ he says slowly.
‘It was because she was a bad friend. You don’t want people like that in your life, Kylan.’
‘It was because you yelled at her. In front of a bus full of people. Of course she didn’t want anything to do with me after that.’
I sink onto the bed. ‘That’s not what happened, Kylan,’ I say, tears in my eyes again. ‘I was protecting you.’
‘I didn’t need protecting,’ he says. ‘And I don’t need protecting now. I love Katya, and I’m going to marry her. You need to start being nicer to her. Or—’ He stops.
‘Or what?’ I say.
He pauses. ‘Or we won’t come here any more.’
I put my face in my hands. Eventually, he sits on the bed and puts his arm around me. ‘I’m only asking that you give her a chance,’ he says.
‘I am,’ I say, my voice a protest. He begins to shake his head. ‘All right,’ I say quickly, ‘all right.’
‘I love her, Mum,’ he says. ‘You need to accept that.’
I put my head on the shoulder of his shirt and rub my wet cheek against it. I take his hand in mine and squeeze it. He squeezes back. ‘Let’s go back down,’ he says. ‘We were worried about you.’
11
We enter the living room together, Kylan’s hand on my lower back.
Hector passes me a glass of champagne and I sip it.
‘Dinner should be ready soon,’ I say, ‘if you want to come with me.’
They follow me out of the room and across the hall, carrying their champagne glasses. The rectangular table is covered with a clean white tablecloth. The cutlery reflects the candlelight, and the plates shine like polished moons. I don’t remember lighting the candles.
I have to admit, I’ve outdone myself.
Hector helps Matilda into her seat. Kylan sits next to his father in the seat he has had since he was a boy, and he pulls out the chair next to him for Katya. I smile at her, and she looks at Kylan and then smiles back.
Everyone oohs and aahs as they take their seats. I don’t say anything.
Hector stands at the head of the table, holding his champagne flute aloft.
‘I would like to propose a toast,’ he says. ‘To Katya and Kylan, and a long and happy marriage.’
He looks tall, looming above us. He is wishing them everything he wanted for us.
The others raise their glasses. My knuckles turn white around mine.
‘We’re so proud of you, Kylan,’ he continues, ‘and I’m so happy you’ve found such a wonderful partner.’
I carry through the bowls of potato soup from the kitchen. They steam: creamy brown and thick and wholesome, decorated with paint swirls of crème fraîche and chopped green chives.
‘Have you set a date?’ Matilda asks as I put down the last bowl of soup.
I see their hands linked together under the table, skirted by the delicate edge of the tablecloth.
‘We were thinking next summer,’ Katya says. ‘We’re hoping for nice weather.’
‘Where are you planning on having it?’ Matilda says.
‘In the church where my parents got married,’ she says. ‘It’s near my family house and we were thinking of having a reception outside in the garden there.’
‘Katya has a beautiful house right on the edge of a fjord,’ Kylan says. ‘It’s where I proposed.’
I swallow down a hot mouthful of soup.
‘Where are you from, Katya?’ I ask.
‘Over on the west coast,’ she says, smiling.
‘And do you go back there a lot?’ I ask, looking straight at Kylan.
‘We fly over every month or two for a weekend,’ he says.
‘That’s a long way,’ I say.
‘Not when you fly,’ he says. ‘We got the train once and that was stupid. By the time we got there we had to turn around and come back again.’
‘It’s further than it is to get here,’ I say. No one says anything: I listen to the chink of the metal spoons against the china. ‘Do they know,’ I ask, ‘about the engagement?’
‘We went and told them last weekend,’ Katya says, smiling widely. ‘They were thrilled. They love Kylan.’
I put down my spoon, feeling the nausea return.
‘My mother has already started planning,’ Katya says. ‘She’s got all these ideas about a fancy reception, but I’ve told her all we really want is a small thing outside, with our closest friends.’ I wish she would stop talking. ‘But I’ve got quite a large family so I imagine it will end up bigger than we think.’
‘Can I ask what
’s wrong with the church where your father and I got married?’ I ask Kylan.
Katya’s smile falters.
‘It doesn’t really make sense,’ Kylan says. ‘There’s not that many on our side to invite, and Katya has such a big family, it’s silly to make them travel all this way.’
‘My mum has five brothers!’ Katya exclaims, like this is a joke.
‘All your family live on the west coast?’ I ask.
Katya’s smile wavers again. ‘Well, not all, but—’
‘Your grandmother got married in the same church as your father and I. It’s really a lovely church. Your family might enjoy coming to this side of the country.’
There is a silence.
‘Will your parents have far to come, Mrs Bjornstad?’ Katya asks.
I stare at her. ‘My name is Marta,’ I say, my voice terse. ‘And my parents are dead.’
Katya’s smile completely disappears. I almost want to smile then myself.
I get up and start clearing the table. Carrying the bowls into the kitchen, I notice that Kylan and Katya’s hands are no longer intertwined.
* * *
I put the dishes on the sideboard.
Shutting my eyes, I hear the sound of footsteps echoing across stone, and I am in the church where Hector and I got married, walking down the aisle. Matilda had shown me how: step left, step together, step right.
Hector’s parents were our only guests. I could see Matilda standing in the front row, watching me, her face covered by the netting of her pale pink hat. Hector’s father was already ill then, sunk in his seat. Every time we were left alone, all I could think about was the cancer eating away at his pancreas behind his suit, and I struggled to think of things to say. He would just smile at me, a tired, knowledgeable smile, as if every young woman was the same, and he had seen so many like me in his life that he couldn’t bring himself to have that same old conversation again.
And there it is again, that strange echoing fear, slipping through the cracks that have formed in the memory. It’s easy to look at a photograph, and to tell yourself things happened a certain way, that you were happy. Easy to talk about it until it seems that it really happened that way. But as I looked out through that gauzy veil, the petals of my bouquet quivering in my hands, as I made those steps towards Hector standing at the altar without my father’s arm to support me, I remember being frightened, not excited.
