Leaving Berlin

by Britt Holmström

  At the beginning of summer she would return home to find fingerprints and smeared substances, mashed banana, chocolate and what looked like snot — for sure it was snot — all over her kitchen window. After a week of slimy souvenirs she put up a note in big, black letters that sarcastically snarled: “Kindly clear your children’s disgusting mess off my window! Thank you so very kindly for your consideration. Your neighbour.”

  The mothers complied the very next day. There was never again a single smear taunting her sensibilities.

  For some reason that, too, pissed her off.

  Still in her bathrobe, Serena pulls the curtains on the holiday camp, pulls them so hard one curtain snags on the rod and would have ripped, had not the phone rung just then. Hers is a phone with a limited repertoire. She stops and stares at it, doesn’t want to answer. She knows who’s at the other end.

  Hester, her older sister, calls every Sunday afternoon between five to two and five past to double check that Serena is coming for supper at Mother’s. Serena has gone for supper at Mother’s every single Sunday for the past sixteen years, since she moved away from home at age twenty. Still Hester calls to make sure.

  She’ll be calling from Mother’s fading fifties kitchen where she goes straight after church to help prepare the food, giving the impression that Sunday dinner at Mother’s is a once-in-a-lifetime banquet where nothing must be allowed to go wrong. The kitchen window will be open four inches, no more, just to let enough fresh air in. Hester will be wearing Mother’s flowery apron on top of her church-going skirt and blouse.

  If the time-space continuum went awry and sucked Hester back to those fading fifties like a slurpie, she’d fit right in. She’d simply adjust her apron and get on with it.

  Not only does Serena know who’s calling, she knows word for word the impending conversation. First Hester will inquire about her health, making it sound as if Serena might expire before dinnertime — Serena who has not been sick a day in her life. Relieved to hear that her younger sister is as robust as ever, Hester will request that she come over and help get supper ready. Getting the standard sullen reply, she will tut-tut Serena’s unwillingness to lend a hand, no matter how superfluous that hand.

  It’s Hester’s long-standing wish that the two of them spend more time together, especially now that Laurel, their younger sister, is not around. And what better sisterly togetherness than working side by side over Mother’s avocado green stove, Hester imparting advice while the Sunday roast sizzles?

  Serena would rather spend Sunday standing on her head in a bucket of shit, but what’s the point telling Hester that? Hester never listens.

  Serena wishes she were as brave as Laurel, the sibling untethered by family ties. She’s a rebel, that one, Mother always says of Laurel, if and when people ask. Mother is still trying to figure out what went wrong with her lastborn, whether it was a malfunction in utero or some overlooked glitch in Laurel’s upbringing.

  Laurel has since the day she was born been disturbingly independent. As soon as she saw the opportunity to cut loose, she fled the confinement of her loved ones’ embrace to the perilous world beyond the horizon. Last the family heard she was canoeing her way across Africa with an Argentinean medical student named Eduardo.

  Serena had consulted a map. She wasn’t sure how they could possibly paddle across Africa unless they planned to carry their canoe from river to river through inhospitable wilderness in politically unstable regions. According to the map, even if they made their way south — along the White Nile to the lakes edging the western border of Uganda, say — they still had to reach the Zambezi River to get to Victoria Falls, which not even Laurel would attempt to paddle down. From there they’d still have a good chunk of continent to traverse before reaching St. Francis Bay west of Port Elizabeth, where they plan to exit.

  Serena often pictures Laurel and the Argentinean, canoe held over their heads, dodging bullets and machetes, running for their lives, green cobras dangling from the trees in various steaming jungles. They will survive, of course — Laurel being Laurel — to successfully slide out into St. Francis Bay as if out of a dark birth canal into the glaring light of civilization.

  Hester? She has never seen the flimsy point of undue excitement.

  No flibbertigibbet, she’s dismissive of any amusement that is not of a predictable nature. She’s always the first to volunteer to set the tables for the church tea, arriving early to be on the safe side, resting assured that only she knows where everything is, instructing any daredevil new volunteer how to go about the task at hand. “No, not like that! This is how we’ve always done it,” is her warning cry. Since the day Hester learned to talk, she has used that cry as a shield to dodge any stray bullets of change, has polished it with her special intonation to make it impenetrable.

  Sometimes when Mother gazes at Hester bustling about her kitchen, she wonders if the woman wearing her pansy-patterned apron is her daughter or her mother.

  Serena, the middle sister, has no knack for enjoying herself at all. Not unless she is outside, that is, feeling the distance between the top of her head and the sky above. She cherishes this particular private joy, and this is the reason she loathes the presence of the bronzed young mothers glistening like uncoiled snakes in the grass outside her window. They’re hogging her bit of sky, depriving her of it.

  Considering the need to feel the sky above her head, it was pretty damn moronic to rent a basement apartment, she’s well aware of that. But the price and the location were too convenient to dismiss, and at the time she had to make a quick decision before her spurt of independence fizzled.

  Besides, when the curtains are open, the place is bright enough. When she sits on the couch below the living room window, as she does now, phone in hand, she can — if she leans backward and cranes her neck a painful ninety degrees — glimpse a narrow strip of sky over the apartment building next door.

  As usual, Serena turns a deaf ear, but is forced to pay attention when Hester suddenly raises her voice. This must be serious. Hester was born with her volume set at ‘medium’. She considers a raised voice a form of violence.

  “Serena! Are you even listening?”

  “Sorry, Hester. I was looking at the kids outside my window. They’re so darn cute. Don’t you wish you had kids? Anyway, you were saying?”

  “Do you want to come to St. Paul with me or don’t you?”

  “St. Paul?”

  “Yes, St. Paul.”

  “St. Paul, Minnesota, USA?”

  “Is there another?”

  “There are seven,” says Serena.

  “There are?”

  “Yes indeed. There’s even one in Africa. Look them up on the map.” Knowing Hester will do just that as soon as she hangs up, get dad’s outdated world atlas from the bookshelf in the den, turn the pages, puzzled, unable to believe her sister might have tricked her.

  But the question remains. “Why?”

  “Why what?”

  “Why go to St. Paul?”

  “To research our family history. You weren’t listening, were you?”

  Haven’t for years. “I was riveted. But why do you want to research our family history? It’s bound to be boring. And why Minnesota?”

  “Because,” says Hester with emphasis on each word, “our great-grandparents first settled there when they emigrated from Norway, in case you didn’t know.”

  “So?”

  “And there’s a Historical Society with all kinds of records available to the public. Frank found it on the Internet. His great-grandfather on his mother’s side came to Canada from Germany through Minneapolis. I’m curious to find out about our past, that’s all. Don’t you remember when we talked about it at Mother’s a couple of weeks ago?”

  “No.”

  “Sure you do.”

  Hester and their Norwegian descended mother are fond of spinning tales about Norsemen ancestors crossing a stormy Atlantic in mighty longboats, singing uplifting sea shanties and never getting se
asick. Altruistic Vikings who abhorred the idea of looting and burning.

  It’s been years since Serena last bothered to remind them that the ancestors in question arrived in the late nineteenth century by cargo ship, destitute farm folk who could have benefited from a bit of looting to see them through until they found gainful employment.

  “Well? Aren’t you interested? You said you were.”

  I lied. “I changed my mind.”

  “Oh, come on, Serena, you could do with a bit of a holiday. You never go anywhere.”

  “You’d freak out if I did. You fuss if I cross the street without consulting you first.”

  “Nonsense, dear. Besides, it’ll be an adventure. And you needn’t worry about the details, I’ve got it all planned. We’ll drive there via Saskatchewan and visit Aunt Hilda in Regina on the way.”

  “Who?”

  “Mother’s Aunt Hilda. You know, Mother’s Uncle Emmett’s wife? Don’t tell me you don’t remember Aunt Hilda.”

  “I don’t remember Aunt Hilda.”

  “Yes, you do, dear.”

  Serena does, but only barely. “I still don’t understand. Why drive across half a continent to see some ancient aunt of Mother’s? She won’t even remember us.”

  “Sure she will. We’re family.”

  “Oh, fu . . . forget it.”

  “Frank says we should make it to Regina in about four days. He drove there in three days once, but I’d prefer for us to take our time, enjoy the scenery and relax. We’ll visit with Aunt Hilda in Regina, she’ll like that. Then it’s another two days down to St. Paul. How does that sound?”

  Like fucking purgatory. “You can probably drive to St. Paul through the States in half that time.”

  “Could be, but that’s the States, isn’t it? Wouldn’t you rather see a bit of our own country? I would. I’ve never been out of Ontario. And as we’re going to Regina to see Aunt Hilda, it makes sense to drive through Canada. We can go through the States on the way back,” offers Hester.

  “I get carsick.”

  “No, you don’t.”

  “Yes, I do! Why don’t you go with good old Frank anyway? I bet he never gets carsick.”

  “Frank has to work all of August. Even Saturdays. They’re short of people down at the depot.”

  “Go in September. It won’t be as hot. Besides, I don’t think I can get time off right now. The lab is really busy.” Serena was recently asked to use up her holiday time or she would lose it.

  “Sure you can. And I thought it might be nice for us sisters to do something together for a change. We never do. And family is so important. Aren’t you interested in your family history?”

  “No.”

  “Of course you are. Think about it. We’ll talk about it again at dinner. Mother agrees with me, by the way. That we should go to St. Paul, I mean.”

  “If she agrees with you, it’s because you told her to.”

  “Don’t talk nonsense.”

  “Anyway, I can’t come for dinner today. I’m busy.”

  “No, you’re not.”

  No, I’m not. I’m trained never to be busy on Sunday afternoons. I don’t have the guts to be busy. I lack the ability to deal with the guilt it would create to be busy. I’m that pathetic. I should just join the aliens outside and shove dirt up my nose.

  The very sound of Hester’s voice makes Serena pugnacious. It’s like pressing a button. But as she’s a coward, it remains an internal rebellion. There’s no taking a stance, no verbal shoot-out, only self-inflicted indigestion and a lurch in her gut, a tensing of the muscles in her neck.

  Serena’s family has squeezed her so tightly to their bosom that her spirit wheezes like an asthmatic’s last breath. Having found themselves unable to rein Laurel in, they are not about to let Serena slip away. They live for their sense of family, their holy institution. It’s as if they only feel a sense of identity in relation to each other, like stars in an ignored constellation. They will never fathom why Laurel prefers trekking across dark continents in the company of strangers.

  There is as of late a new star in the constellation: Hester’s husband since a year back, the one she got secondhand: Frank of the Immaculate Garage. God knows he fits right in.Serena has already succumbed to the fact that she’ll be stuck in a car for days on end, driving from southern Ontario to Saskatchewan well within the speed limit, listening to nothing but talk radio, in order to visit with the aged wife of their mother’s dead uncle, to then get back into the car — Hester’s freaking Honda — and drive for another two days to some Midwestern American city where they don’t know a soul. All because persnickety Hester feels the need to delve into the past to find something that will shine a spotlight of importance upon the partly Norwegian stars in the constellation.

  Kill me now.

  Putting down the receiver, Serena fantasizes about breaking Hester in half, shoving the top half up the tight butt of the lower half. The image of Hester stuck up her own ass gives her the strength to shower and get dressed.

  Outside her window comes the sudden howl of an aggravated alien.

  Hester is approximately half the size of Serena, a dry little twig of a woman, but that does not mean she’d be easy to snap in two. Or even bend. Hester doesn’t yield in any direction. She’s modestly proud of her limitations, breathtaking in scope as they are, bound like a bride to her unwavering sense of duty.

  She’s by no means an unattractive twig, she has a nice trim figure, a pleasant face enviably untouched by approaching middle age, as if she has lived a life void of troubling thoughts. But it’s an attractiveness that is easy to miss. Hester dresses primly to hide what others would flaunt, has never used a lipstick or a push-up bra. She doesn’t see the point of vulgarity.

  Hester is the backbone not only of her family, but of western civilization, born with a notion that it’s up to her to set an example.

  Stuck in a car with Hester for six days, how will Serena refrain from becoming stark raving homicidal? Serena examines this question with trepidation as she drives over to Mother’s an hour later. Holds it up against the merciless light of her defeatism.

  At the exact time Serena considers running a red light headlong into an empty Sunday bus, Hester is busy chopping the carrots, slantwise to make the slices bigger, having basted the roast, while telling Mother what a rousing sermon the minister delivered that morning, even though Mother was sitting right beside her in the usual pew listening to every word. They have the same conversation every Sunday. Hester finds all sermons rousing. They lift her spirit and propel her through another busy week with a steady smile on her face.

  Mother is more than capable of cooking dinner — she would dearly relish something to do — but she has since a while back been relegated to the role of “elderly” by Hester. The elderly must rest and let the young do the work, says Hester. Having obediently settled into the role, Mother spends Sunday afternoons with a cup of tea she doesn’t really want, watching her eldest daughter prepare supper. She has never been crazy about the way Hester prepares the roast; the meat comes out too dry. Father is of the same opinion, but they never say anything. It’s best that way. Hester means well.

  Father keeps to the den during Sunday afternoons, watching TV with his feet on the footstool Hester bought for him; now he, too, is elderly and must act the part.

  Frank of the Immaculate Garage is outside, sleeves rolled up, doing something to his in-laws’ car, inhaling the tempting smell of food from the kitchen window. Frank is a happy man. He loves his new wife.

  The two sisters leave on their trip from the cracked driveway of their parents’ pale blue bungalow early on a Tuesday morning. Mother is hysterical with worry, crying off and on. It’s such a long, long way and so much can happen on the road to two defenseless women on their own. Having tossed and turned all night, Mother has come to the covert conclusion that this trip is not such a good idea after all, despite what Hester says.

  Mother is looking around for a shoulder to cry
on properly, but Father is hovering by the back door, saying nothing much, which is what he does best. At the moment he’s wishing that Hester would allow him to smoke at least one lousy cigarette. Father is not of Norwegian descent, he’s half Polish, half Ukrainian, but that doesn’t mean he’s not excited about his daughters’ journey of discovery. When emotions get the better of him, this is what he does, he keeps very quiet and thinks of cigarettes.

  In the family’s eyes this is not a mere trip but an adventure of spectacular proportion, an exploratory trek by Viking descendants into the heartland of a still untamed continent.

  Frank, wearing his best tie to mark the occasion, is checking the tires on Hester’s Honda. He has already given her detailed advice about what to do in case of car trouble, insisting she bring the cell phone he bought for — God forbid — emergencies, and to keep the car doors locked at all times. He keeps checking the tires over and over again, putting an ear to them at one point, should they need to confide any embarrassing problems best not spoken out loud. While he does, he pulls nervously at his tie.

  Only Serena is unable to grasp the importance of the occasion. Brooding like the hormone-ravaged teenager she once was, she gets bored and busies herself shoving their bags into the trunk. When she has finished, Hester appears as if on cue to rearrange them, explaining why her arrangement is preferable. Something to do with balance and easy retrieval.

  Kill me now.

  “I’ll drive the first two hours,” Hester says when they’re ready, handing Serena a written schedule. It has three columns drawn with a ruler: name, date and hours. It’s stapled to the three sheets of paper where she has written down Frank’s instructions regarding procedure in case of trouble. “You take over at ten o’clock. Now then, I believe it’s just about time to say good-bye.”

  The farewell ceremony takes another twenty minutes, what with Mother still fussing, insisting they take a second box of Kleenex, a box of Band-Aids, a bottle of calamine lotion for insect bites, mumbling about watching out for rattlesnakes and rapists. “It’s a dangerous world out there.”