Let Go

by Alexandra Winter

  “What?” There’s a pause. “Okay, I’ll stall. But please, hurry. I can’t bear to look at this awful window display anymore. This cute guy laughed at it today, in my face. It’s mortifying.”

  With every second closer, my heart beats faster. I get the sneaking suspicion I’ve forgotten something. “You’re sure your father wanted me to make this?”

  Josefine laughs. “What are you talking about? You’re amazing. I’ve seen the menu you designed for The Bluebird. Don’t chicken out.”

  Her last comment provokes me. I’m no chicken. “I’ll hurry.” I hang up. Frozen grass fields become pine forest around me, and the road markings stop as two lanes narrow into one.

  Driving down to our small-town harbor, seagulls soar above the fishing boats at the dock. Through the open square, I pass the grocery store and The Bluebird before parking in front of Mr. Dahl’s Bakery. It’s a small wooden house, painted white like every house around. In the window is the hand-scribbled poster for buns and coffee Josefine complains about, yellowed over the years by the sun’s harsh beams. Behind it, she waves frantically before running out to greet me, her brown hair bleached so much that it appears white in the sunlight. Her heavy blue eyeliner takes away from her ecstatic facial expression making her look angry somehow. Only the chirpy tone of her voice assures me she’s not.

  “Hurry,” she says. Her tramp stamp tattoo peeks out between her tight top and jeans. Dad would faint if I ever got a tattoo or dressed like she did. I almost faint myself thinking about it.

  I lift the canvas out of the trunk, and my mind spins with what Mr. Dahl might say. I’ve been so focused on getting here on time that I forgot to prepare myself for how to react if he doesn’t like my work. I’ve followed every instruction Josefine gave me from him, but it won’t matter if Miss Ask, Mom, or even I approve if he won’t. I’ve forgotten something with the poster; I’m overcome with this suspicion. But I can’t place it. What is missing?

  Think, Amalie.

  “Wow,” Josefine says. Her eyes sparkle looking at the poster. “Cool.”

  “Do you think it’s what he’s looking for?”

  Josefine laughs. “Who knows.” She pulls me into the bakery, the bell above the door jingles and I stumble in after her hiding the painting behind my back.

  What does she mean, who knows?

  I’ve followed the instructions he’s given her.

  The scent of freshly-baked bread makes my mouth water. It looks the same as it did the first time I was here. Worn floorboards, light green paint on the wall and Mr. Dahl behind the counter smiling with deep dimples. He had hair back then, but now he’s bald.

  Chills creep up my spine. Did Mr. Dahl even ask me to make this or has Josefine tricked me to believe it was his idea? Shit, I hope not. No, she wouldn’t do that.

  “Amalie’s made a new poster for you,” she says.

  What? It wasn’t my idea!

  I stutter. “I thought...Josefine told me that…”

  She holds out her arms in my direction like a game show host would show off a prize, but when I don’t take the poster out from behind my back, she pulls it out to show Mr. Dahl.

  Shit. Please like it.

  He wipes his hands off on his green apron and grabs it out of my hands. “So you don’t think the one I have now is good enough, do you?”

  He never asked for the poster, she did. He’s got no idea why I made it.

  I step back. “It’s not that, I just…” I’m grasping for excuses when Josefine interrupts.

  “Of course she doesn’t. Nobody does, Dad.”

  Holding the poster high, he frowns. At the same time as Josefine yells out, “This is perfect,” her father mumbles, “This is too modern for us. Something a city bakery might use.” He hands it back to me.

  It’s as if Mr. Dahl’s punched me and I have to support myself on the back of a chair to regain my balance. I should have asked him if he wanted a new poster first, discussed design, involved him in the process.

  How could I assume she was talking for them both?

  The design is good but what does that help if he doesn’t like it? I’ve been so flattered Josefine asked me to design it that I forgot the most important thing: understand the needs of Mr. Dahl. I should have thought about this, been smarter about it, and used my brain, not acted like an idiot. Dad’s judgmental voice scoffs in my head: “You’re allowed to use your brain.” I’m not smart enough. My voice falters. “I’m sorry to have bothered you.”

  “What are you talking about?” Josefine snatches the canvas from my hands. “Are you blind, Dad? Summer tourists are from the city, they’ll arrive soon, and Amalie evidently knows what they want. Hers is a thousand times better than—” She reaches into the window display and pulls out the faded poster, waving it in his face. “—this ugly, unreadable, homemade, I don’t even know what to call it. Poster? And, admit it, the reason you think Amalie’s design fits in a city bakery is that you like it. You’re scared of change!”

  Mr. Dahl shakes his head. “We’re a small town. People here won’t relate to this.”

  Josefine throws her arms up in frustration. “You don’t relate. Don’t put that on us.”

  Without realizing, I’ve reversed myself away from them, and my back is now at the door. I’m tempted to take Mr. Dahl’s side to protect him from her harsh words. Around us, customers are staring at the scene she’s making, embarrassing her father in front of everyone. If I did anything like this to my father, I’d never forgive myself.

  Josefine drags me outside. “I’m so sorry. He’s an idiot.”

  No, that’s me.

  “How could you trick me like this? I was sure he asked for this poster, and I’ve worked my butt off to make it perfect when all this time he had no idea? No wonder he’s upset.” As I speak, we watch Mr. Dahl through the window write on the faded poster with a thick red marker before placing it back. What previously seemed like him punching me now turns into a knife twisting in my gut. I think of my bed at home and how I want to dive into it and never get out.

  Josefine screams out, “Now, it’s even worse!” She runs back inside and yells at her father. One day, probably not long from now, she’ll get pregnant and marry some man she’ll shout at like she’s yelling at her father. I can’t help but sympathize with both men, I think to myself as I walk back to Mom’s car. Mom would never shout at Dad and neither would I. It’s barbaric.

  A black Mercedes parks next to me and a man with blond hair combed to the side, looking a few years older than I and a city hotshot, gets out of the car. He’s wearing green pants and a designer coat. He smiles at me, and although I want to get away from here, I stop and smile back. He looks familiar to me.

  “Hey, there. Looking for directions?” Josefine’s flirty voice breaks my smile. Her hips bounce from side to side walking over to him.

  The man grins. “No, thank you. I’m meeting my parents here.” He gestures to the bakery behind her. Josefine grins. “I’ll help you. I work here.”

  I can’t bear to witness her slobbering over yet another man, so I let them be and put the painting back into the trunk.

  “Let me help you with that.” The man is by my side holding the trunk lid open. “Did you make this?”

  “Uhm—” I want to say no. It embarrasses me that I designed something Mr. Dahl doesn’t want. “Yes.” As my hand goes to my neck, I get a sense of how women feel around my father.

  “You can charge a lot for this, it’s great,” he says.

  I force my hand down. But can’t withhold the smile forcing its way to my face. I shut the trunk, getting one last glance at the canvas taunting me. “You should try the muesli buns, they’re great.”

  Josefine calls out. “I’ll talk to Dad.”

  I don’t see why, but I smile to make her feel better about me failing her father. She heads into the bakery holding the door open for the blond-haired man. “So, you’re here to celebrate May 17th?”

  I notice him nod. I walk o
ver to The Bluebird.

  Mr. Jensen, the owner, Mom’s partner and a childhood friend to both Dad and Mom, is folding napkins in the entryway. He wears a light blue blazer with a handkerchief in its pocket and a matching blue bowtie.

  His eyes light up through his round navy-framed glasses. “Amalie. I am so pleased to see you.” He holds up a folded swan. “Isn’t this tacky? I want to do something original, but nothing works, let me tell you.”

  My favorite painting hangs next to him. Mr. Jensen’s painted the garden behind the restaurant with the majestic oak tree in the background. As a kid, I saw other children climb that tree every summer and always wanted to, but never dared risking getting my clothes dirty.

  The comforting aroma of Mom’s fish soup, reminding me of late, carefree summer nights and cooking with her as a child, wafts from the kitchen in the back.

  “Your brilliant mother is doing what she does best, creating tasteful art.” Mr. Jensen chuckles at his own description.

  Per usual for a seasonal menu, Mom and her sous chef Ms. Berg play loud Norwegian summer songs to get them in the right mood. With lyrics about dipping toes in the warm sea and sunshine glimmering on waves, it feels as though summer is already here.

  I remember Mom telling me Mr. Jensen made her partner yesterday and before I can stop myself, I hug him. “Congratulations,” I say.

  He giggles. “Thank you. Oh yes, I should have done it years ago, of course. I don’t know what I’d do if another restaurant stole Celina from me. Now, she can’t escape.”

  I follow Ms. Berg’s croaky singing into the kitchen in the back. She knows only a few words and makes up the rest. She and Mom wear matching yellow aprons, cooking to the beat.

  “Darling!” Mom dances across the floor while holding out a spoon for me to taste. “You have to try this.” The creamy fish soup fills my mouth before the subtle sting of chili strikes. Not too spicy, as I like it.

  “Isn’t it perfect? Ms. Berg added chili and what a perfect combination.”

  Ms. Berg, a short round lady, beams from the compliment but corrects Mom. “Your suggestion, Celina. I chopped and added it.”

  Mom throws the spoon into the sink and turns up the volume. “Teamwork.” A song with an upbeat tempo comes on, and Mom pulls me into a dance. “Tell me, can we see your poster in Mr. Dahl’s window now?”

  No.

  I wiggle out of her grip. “I have to get home.”

  Mom looks at the clock. “I’ll join you. I was finishing up here.”

  When we get home, I check the mailbox. It’s empty, and I can’t wait to know. Waiting is almost worse than a rejection.

  I iron my yellow dress first. Then the bunad shirt, making sure I don’t create any creases, and polish my shoes and their silver buckles, jewelry and details on the bunad belt before I climb into bed. Tomorrow is Norway’s Constitution Day, May 17th, and I can’t fall asleep fast enough because that is a day guaranteed to be better than today.

  MAY 17TH

  On the car radio, cheers from the children’s parade walking past the palace in Oslo ring out for the royal family. Nana is waiting for me outside with a bouquet of lilies, her favorite flowers, in her hands as I roll up in front of her house at seven o’clock in the morning. She’s wearing the same bunad as Mom and me, an ankle-length blue wool dress with a yellow embroidered belt and hem, and white shirt with silver jewelry. It’s the only day during the year we wear them together, along with every other person in Norway owning a bunad. There are so many different styles to see, and we all proudly discuss our heritage using them as the perfect conversation starter.

  The only things not a part of her outfit are Nana’s light gray bucket hat, pulled down over her ears and forcing her big round glasses down her nose, and a white coat to keep warm.

  I jump out of the car and open the passenger door to give her a hand, but she shoos me off. “I have entered cars before.” She grabs the handle above the window and lowers herself with a grunt. “You see?”

  Nana’s deep steady voice has a unique ring to it. Most women I know end each sentence in a tone higher than the other words spoken, like asking a question. Nana always ends hers on a lower tone, as if concluding.

  “Happy birthday, Norway.” As usual, Nana’s smile is so big her high cheekbones hoist her glasses up to her forehead. She quickly pulls them down along with her hat.

  I drive down their street and turn onto the dirt road leading to our house. “How’s Grandpa?” Mom told me his cancer was getting worse and he had to stay the night at the hospital in Tønsberg. “Maybe we should visit him later? Bring some cake?”

  “He has his flag and a smile on his face. He needs his rest.” When the seatbelt alarm howls, she turns down the radio and fastens her seatbelt. “I recall your mother as a child. When the sounds of celebration sounded from our radio, she’d say, ‘The parade here is too small. I want to be in that one.’ She couldn’t wait to move to the city when she was old enough. Now I find myself visiting her in that very same house where she spoke those words.”

  The flag waves proudly in the crisp spring breeze outside every house we pass. I park the car in the driveway. By now, Mom has already placed small Norwegian flags along the trail leading over the grass field up to the house.

  “I’m glad she stayed.” The care Mom puts into every detail for us makes this celebration unique. There’s a unity in wearing the bunad Nana has made for me, showing we belong together. With any of it gone, it wouldn’t be the same.

  Inside the house, Mom has decorated in red, white and blue and ironed bows ready for us to wear.

  Nana swings her coat onto the back of the worn yellow kitchen chair overlooking the fjord. On the water, sailboats drift by with flowers draped from their masts.

  Mom, still in her dressing gown, goes to change.

  Nana gets out a big red-wine glass from the cupboard, fills it with tap water and sits down to enjoy the view. She always has water in wine glasses.

  Dad trudges into the kitchen, wearing a new black suit and red tie. “Can’t you use a normal glass, not drink from the wine glasses?” He fills a glass we usually use for water and exchanges it with her wine glass. “These are for wine, not water.”

  Nana snatches the wine glass back from him and grins. “So true. And now it is for water.” She turns to me. “So, have you heard from your school?”

  I shake my head.

  She smiles, knowing they inform declined students first. “Good.”

  Dad’s eyebrows furrow. “What school?”

  My pulse increases, but although I don’t want to discuss this today, I’m not able to stop Nana.

  “Truly, Hermann. Your daughter has applied to her dream school. Show some interest in her life for once.”

  Don’t irritate him.

  “Nana, it’s all right,” I say.

  Nana says calmly, “No, it is not.”

  “Of course, I am interested.” Dad’s voice is higher now as he throws his arms out in frustration. “I don’t want her to be disappointed.”

  “I won’t be,” I say. That’s a lie, but Dad is upset, and it’s my fault. It doesn’t matter. What are the odds again? Two out of three thousand?

  Nana frowns. “How about supporting your daughter, Hermann? Not only focus on the challenges. She should be excited, curious about new people, job opportunities.”

  I am excited.

  And, I’m doing what Nana’s asked of me. I haven’t done anything wrong now, at least not to her.

  Nana takes a deep breath, seeming to calm herself. “You have one interest, Amalie, and that is design. Still, I had to force you to take classes and apply to a school you dream of attending.”

  Dad sneers. “Sounds like you force your dreams onto my daughter.”

  “Please stop.” I wave my arms between them. “I love designing, but I don’t want to bother anyone with it. I don’t want to be in anyone’s way, and…” My mind blanks out as it always does when it spins off into too many thoughts abo
ut what I should do, try to figure out what I want, and what the people around me want at the same time. “Can we please not discuss this today? It’s Norway’s birthday. We’re here to celebrate, not argue.”

  “Agreed. Let us save it for when the letter arrives.” Nana pulls out a book from her bag and places it on the table. “Later, you two could read this together.”

  It’s The Book of Joy by Desmond Tutu and the Dalai Lama. The cover shows the two men looking at each other in profile. Tutu’s smile makes me laugh. I have never seen Dad with a book in his hands. “It takes too much time,” he’ll say. Nana bumps her shoulder to mine, ignoring Dad peering down at her. “You might learn something, Hermann.”

  “You think a monk and a priest will teach me something I don’t already know? Hah.”

  “I think they could teach you to wear your bunad,” she says.

  Dad waves Nana’s comment off. “It’s too warm. Besides, bunads are old-fashioned. No offense.” He spins around like a rock star peering down at me. “What about me?”

  Inhaling with closed eyes, I try to shake the urge to change to my yellow dress upstairs in my room. “You look great, Dad.”

  Mom returns after changing into her bunad matching Nana and me. Dad sits down at the dining table which she decorated last night and plays with his fork. Mom makes scrambled eggs, then takes out a tray from the refrigerator with smoked salmon, shrimp, sour cream, cucumbers, red onions, and caviar prepared the night before. “Breakfast is served.”

  I’m the last to sit, and as I do, I inspect everyone’s expression. Dad is apparently upset with Nana, she with him, and Mom is trying her best to keep the mood cheery. “The forecast said it would be sunny today. I’m sure it will be lovely at The Bluebird.”

  It doesn’t take long before Dad addresses Nana, overlooking Mom’s comment about the weather entirely. “You’re in my house now, so you will respect my wishes for this family.”

  As usual, I keep silent. Nana pushes her chair back as if to stand but folds her hands on her lap instead. “Don’t forget this was my house once, too, until we gave it to our daughter, so I will speak my mind.” Her voice is calm, as it always is, but firm.