by Karina Halle
Don’t cry, don’t cry.
I shake her hand briefly and manage to hold myself together, only because I’m still a bit confused.
“How did you know what flight I was on?”
Noora gives a half-smile. “You said you’d be here for the funeral tomorrow, and there’s not many flights coming up here. Lucky guess.” She reaches out and tugs at my black wool coat. “This might be fashionable, but this won’t keep you warm.”
I’m about to point out that she’s dressed only in a thick wool sweater herself, but decide to keep my mouth shut.
“Your father told me that you work for a clothing company,” she says, her attention still fixed on me, those dark eyes of hers sharp as tacks. “Something to do with the internet.”
“Social media,” I tell her, raising my chin slightly. I’m 5’10” and Noora is a lot shorter than me, but whenever I have to explain my job I feel like I’m suddenly very small. The minute someone hears that I’m in fashion, and then hears that I’m in social media, they tend to make an assumption about me pretty fast. “Social media manager,” I add. “It’s basically how we do all advertising and marketing these days.”
She nods and finally looks away to the baggage carousel, breaking eye contact. I feel a strange rush of relief, like I can breathe again. “I told your father we could use someone like you for the resort, but he always brushed me off, saying that the right people would find the place. He was right, in the end.” She lifts her arm and points as my rose-gold hardcover suitcase appears on the belt. “There it is.”
This time I don’t have to ask how she knew. Not many rose-gold suitcases up here.
I stride over to the carousel and pick up my bag, taking a moment to gather my thoughts. I’ve always been someone who can pick up on vibes (my father used to call me an empath, my mother says I’m “too damn sensitive”) and Noora has vibes up the wazoo. But she did take the time to meet me here, and perhaps the strange energy I’m getting off her might be because she’s grieving as much as I am. My father moved up north to open his resort five years ago, and though I’d never heard him mention Noora, it’s possible they were really close, maybe in ways I don’t want to imagine.
I remind myself to stop making judgments and assumptions and roll the bag over to her.
“Good,” she says with approval. “I will drive you to the resort now.”
“Oh.” I pause, gathering my coat collar. “But the funeral isn’t until tomorrow.”
“Yes,” she says patiently. “But you are staying at the resort.”
It’s not a request, it’s an order. I shake my head. “I booked and paid for a hotel room in town already. I won’t get a refund if I cancel.”
She gives me a placating smile. “You will get a refund. I know all the hotels here. Don’t worry about it.” She pauses, light brows furrowing. “I must say I was disappointed when I didn’t see you book a room at the resort.” Then she turns and heads over to the doors to the outside, a marching-like walk.
“I know,” I admit after a moment, following after her. “I guess because it didn’t show up on the hotel booking site I use. Creature of habit.”
That’s not the total truth though. I’d always wanted to stay at my father’s wellness resort, even before it started getting some recognition amongst the travel influencers who stumbled upon it in their quest for something new. But the idea of finally staying there, only to have him gone, felt wrong to me in ways I can’t really explain. Like it was easier to just stay elsewhere, put a bit of distance in, as if that’s going to make any of this hurt less.
We walk through the automatic doors to the outside and the air is a slap to the face, freezing my lungs. It’s cold as hell, with snow covering every inch of land, including the sidewalks, and cars are making fresh tracks on the road. I’m cursing myself for not bringing a parka. I’m also wishing my luggage had skis attached to the wheels.
“So your mother isn’t coming,” Noora notes as we walk to the parking lot and I drag the luggage through the snow drifts.
I shake my head, trying to ward off the anger that sparks inside me. Noora told me she had called my mother before she called me. As soon as I got the news about my father, I texted my best friend Michelle first, then told my roommate Jenny. There was a lot of crying and drinking shots of bourbon in shock.
I didn’t actually call my mother until the next morning. I knew that Noora had told her, but Noora had never told my mother that she was calling me. Which meant my mother had no idea I knew my father was dead and she sat on that fucking information for twenty-four hours. Maybe even more, had I not called her.
And, fuck. Even if I wasn’t an empath I could have picked up on her vibes loud and clear over the phone. She thought it was good that he was dead.
So no, my mother isn’t coming to the funeral.
“I’m sure it would be too hard for her,” I say, but from my meek voice, I know that Noora won’t believe me. I don’t believe me either. It’s all bullshit.
But Noora just nods as we head toward a small red hatchback. Once inside the car, I’m met with a plethora of smells, a lot of them familiar like sage and palo santo, the rest earthy, bitter, and cloying. Because my legs are long they’re crammed up against the glovebox and I have to wrestle with the seat control until it slams back.
Noora looks over me with amusement, and for once I see it reach her dark eyes. “Just like your father,” she comments. “He was tall too. Is your mother the same?”
I shake my head and scoff. “She’s five two and a delicate little flower.” And boy, she never lets me forget it either.
Noora makes a low hmmmm noise and starts the car, fiddling with the heat. The controls were set low, which strikes me as odd, but maybe the cold isn’t a problem for her. She’s only wearing a sweater, after all.
“We have no use for delicate people up here,” she says stiffly. “They don’t survive very long. Sorry, I’ll have the heat on in a moment.” The car backs up and then rolls across the parking lot, the tires on snow making a pleasing crunching sound. “Your father told me you used to be a dancer.”
“Yes,” I say, the bitterness in the air now settling on my tongue. “Unfortunately, you have to be a delicate flower in dance and there was a point where I couldn’t do that anymore.” In other words, dance was everything to me, and especially to my mother. But the extremes I went to so I could remain lithe and airy and light eventually took their toll on my body and mind. “But then I discovered martial arts. Capoeira. It’s from Brazil. Combines dancing and fighting.”
Noora takes her eyes off the road to look at me. “He never mentioned that.”
I shrug. I’m not competitive. My heart can’t take anything competitive anymore, not after what I went through. It’s just a hobby. After high school I realized if I couldn’t be accepted in dance anymore, then I wanted to do something else to keep my body moving. I started building muscle, lifting weights, and it just came naturally to me. I used to do a little tae kwon do for a while, even arnis, but capoeira is what stuck.
Noora’s vibe shifts a little. Like this information concerns her. Perhaps she’s old-fashioned and doesn’t believe girls should fight. She’d get along with my mother with that view.
I flash her a placating smile. “Don’t worry, I’m not going to go beating up anyone at Papa’s funeral.” She gives me a stiff smile and I immediately feel awkward. I look around the car. “So what’s the smell?”
“Do you like it?” she asks.
Not really. “Smells like sage.” And like rotting corpses, I add in my head and the accurate thought makes me shiver. I pull my coat closer around me, my cold hands shoved in my pockets. I’ve always been morbid, but I don’t need these thoughts before my father’s funeral.
“Sage, palo santo, lavender, myrrh and sieni. Mushrooms.”
“Didn’t know dried mushrooms smell like that.”
“These ones are special.”
Aren’t all mushrooms special? I think. I
f I actually had a social life in high school maybe I’d know what dried mushrooms smell like.
I turn my attention to the scenery passing by the window. Like the view from the airplane, the land is made up of pine trees and snow, with a few low rolling hills thrown into the mix. I have a feeling we’re driving past lakes and rivers, but the thick snow covers them and makes everything look the same.
It’s such the opposite of Los Angeles that I’m suddenly hit with a pang of fear, like I’m on the edge of the earth, close to falling off into infinity, and I feel precariously placed. In my mind I’m looking at the globe and I can see the little dot where I am and there’s just nothing above me at all except ice and snow forever.
Not only that, but I’ve barely seen any cars on this highway and I realize I don’t know Noora at all. I’m about to pull out my phone and check for reception, maybe send Jenny a text even though I have no idea what time it is back home, when the skin on my spine starts to crawl. I have the most awful, unsettling feeling that if I look at Noora right now, that I won’t see Noora at all. That I’ll see some smiling demonic creature. In fact, out of the corner of my eye, I swear I see a pair of horns, no, antlers, growing from the top of her head.
I immediately close my eyes and take in a deep breath. Jet lag, I tell myself. Grief and jet lag. Hell of a combo.
“Are you alright?” Noora asks.
I nod, pressing my lips together, keeping my eyes closed. “Just really tired all of a sudden.”
“Why don’t you sleep? The resort is another forty-five minutes away.”
Hell no, I’m not sleeping now, I think, resting my head against the frozen window.
But then the car engine suddenly turns off and I hear Noora say, “We’re here.”
My eyes snap open and I sit upright in my seat. We’re parked in front of a low rustic building, the roof piled high with snow, a forest surrounding it, the branches glittering in the waning sun like icing sugar.
What the hell?
I blink and shake my head. “What happened? I literally just closed my eyes.”
“You fell asleep,” she says. “Come on, let’s get you to your room so you can go to bed.”
My brain feels like a train that’s slowly pulling out of the station as I try to make sense of how time has passed so quickly. “You’re not supposed to sleep the first day you arrive, not until night. Otherwise you’ll never get over your jet lag,” I tell her, my tongue feeling thick.
“It’ll be night in an hour,” she says in a no-nonsense voice. She gets out of the car and opens up the trunk, pulling out my suitcase. I stare at the log-building, at the intricately carved sign that says “Wilderness Hotel” over it, smoke rising from the chimney. I guess this is it. This is what my dad worked so hard for.
Like clockwork, I feel hot tears behind my eyes and I take in a sharp, shaking breath trying to ward them off. I don’t want to cry in front of Noora. I feel like I can’t let myself be vulnerable in front of her.
I get out of the car, the air even colder here, but bracingly fresh, peppered with the smell of pine and woodsmoke. There are only four other cars in the parking lot.
“I guess it’s not very busy right now,” I observe, walking somewhat unsteadily over to Noora, holding my hand out for my suitcase.
“Shoulder season,” she says, keeping the suitcase away. “We only have one guest at the moment. You relax, Eero will take care of your bag.”
I’m about to ask who Eero is when the door to the hotel opens and a tall, robust man with a long gray beard appears in the frame. For a moment I swear I’m staring at my dad, except this man looks older, and somehow crueler. I know that’s an odd thing to glean from someone’s looks, but it’s all in his eyes. Once again, my vibe radar is going off the rails.
He walks over to us and gives me a wide smile, taking the suitcase from Noora. He’s wearing a reindeer fur vest over a snowsuit, and a white and red knitted cap that stands tall on his head, ear flaps hanging by his cheeks. At least he seems more appropriately dressed.
“Nice to meet you, Hanna,” he says in a deep voice. “I’m Eero. I was a good friend of your father’s. We are so glad you are here.”
I can only muster a half-smile. I know I might seem rude and stand-offish, but I just can’t shake the weird feeling.
He exchanges a look with Noora that I can’t read, and they head toward the hotel.
“As you know, the premise of the hotel is that guests can stay in little wilderness cabins in the woods and by the lake, all perfectly placed for watching the northern lights,” Noora says as we walk down the path to the hotel entrance. “But we figured it would be better if you stayed in one of the rooms in the main lodge here. That way you won’t feel so alone. I imagine with your jet lag and your grief, all of this must feel quite confusing by now.” She glances at me over her shoulder. “Tomorrow morning I’ll give you a tour. For now, you rest.”
Suddenly I’m too tired to protest. Eero opens the door and leads us into the hotel, the air smelling of butter, cinnamon, and cardamom, my stomach rumbling in response. The lobby is wonderfully rustic with the log cabin walls, woven tapestries and paintings, numerous chandeliers made of reindeer and moose antlers hanging from the ceiling with flickering candles in them. I know that was one hundred percent the aesthetic choice of my father.
I look around and catch a glance of a dining room, lounge and kitchen before they lead me upstairs to my room, located down a narrow hallway.
Eero opens the door and places my bag beside the bed. I step inside, quickly taking it in. The room is simple, with birch walls and fur curtains, though it smells just like Noora’s car.
“We’ll see you in the morning,” Noora says to me as they start to leave.
“Wait,” I spin around, and she pauses in the doorway. “It’s only three in the afternoon. Where are you going?”
“You need your sleep,” Eero says, not answering my question at all.
Then he closes the door.
I stare at it for a moment, part of me almost expecting it to lock from the outside. But, of course, it doesn’t.
I walk over to the window and peer outside. I’m looking right onto the parking lot which gives me a bit of comfort for some reason. Even though they seem hell-bent on me going to sleep right now, I’m grateful they put me in here instead of out in the forest. I already feel thoroughly creeped out, and for no reason at all.
I decide to lie down on the bed to test it out. It’s a queen and quite firm, but my body immediately relaxes into it.
I should unpack and then maybe find Noora, see if I can get something to eat. Text Michelle and Jenny and my mom and let them know I…
But the thought starts to drift away.
My eyes close.
* * *
* * *
My eyes open.
Darkness.
Complete and total darkness.
For a moment I think I’m dead, then I see a green light above me blink on and off and I realize it’s a smoke detector.
I fumble for my phone and it’s in my pocket. I’m still wearing my damn coat.
I bring it out and turn it on. The time is ten p.m., the light bright, making me wince, and the photo I have of my father and me as the screen wallpaper makes me want to burst into tears.
I manage to hold it together and shine the light around the room until I see the bedside lamp and switch it on.
Well I just totally passed the fuck out, didn’t I? This is exactly why I wanted to stay awake as long as possible. Now I’m wide awake when everyone else is going to sleep.
I sigh and get up. Use the washroom, splash some water on my face, then my rumbling stomach tells me I need to get something to eat. Even though I’m sure Noora and Eero are asleep (and I have no idea if they live at the hotel or elsewhere), maybe I can help myself to something in the kitchen.
I leave my room and walk down the stairs to the main level, heading toward the kitchen. I’m almost there when I notice another
room, just past the dining room and lounge. While there are only a few lights on in the hotel, and it’s eerily quiet and empty, I can see flickering candles dancing on the walls, hear the soft sound of music. The music itself is strange and becoming, like choir voices and low tribal drumming.
I walk toward it, feeling the need to be quiet for some reason, then stop.
There’s a casket in the room, lit by candles on either side, chairs lined up on either side of the room.
Oh my god.
This is where the funeral is being held.
I swallow hard as I walk into the room, my eyes drawn to the casket. Beside it is a blown-up picture of my father’s face, some smiling moment out in the sun when he was younger, and that’s when it hits me. I mean it really hits me, like I’m in the middle of train tracks and for once I don’t see the locomotive coming.
Tears spring to my eyes and I’m frozen, stunned by the immensity of it all, of the fact that life will keep going on without my dad in it and how fucking unfair that is.
I don’t even notice that my knees are buckling and I’m collapsing into the ground. I don’t even notice the strangled cry that’s ripped from my throat, filling the empty room. I don’t notice anything but the devastatingly cold and hard realization that my father is gone.
He’s gone.
He’s really gone.
He’s dead and he’s not coming back.
But it can’t be true. It just can’t. Why do I still feel him within my heart, why do I still feel that connection?
Because you’re delusional, a voice in my head says.
But it just can’t be true. People like my father, they just don’t die. They’re the type that live forever. They’re the ones that defy the odds. They’re larger than life, larger than death. My father can’t be living on this planet one minute, drinking coffee and listening to bird song, having the sun on his face and then…not. You can’t just stop being. You can’t stop what has started. How dare God take him like this, to just decide my dad’s time was enough?
