Mom sighs. “Mom, please. Let’s keep this civil.”
“I always am. Amalie will do anything to please you, Hermann. I wish for her to have dreams, follow them, and truly live her life.” She turns to Mom, then to me.
But before she’s able to continue, Dad cuts her off. “Like you have lived yours?”
Silence.
Dad takes a big bite of egg. Nana opens her mouth to speak, but Mom raises her hand signaling for her to stop, and we keep quiet until Dad finishes his plate.
“Well, this was lovely, but we’re running late. If you don’t mind, I’ll wait in the car.” He leaves the table. The door shuts behind him.
Mom takes her plate to the kitchen while glaring at Nana. “Do you have to agitate him?” I eat the rest of the food off my plate as I follow behind her.
Nana closes her eyes. When she opens them, she exhales, so we all hear. “I will not keep quiet and watch his controlling, toxic ways without speaking up.”
“It’s not his fault,” Mom says.
“You cannot close your eyes to this anymore. He will never…”
Mom raises her hand again, shutting Nana down. “You know how he gets before dinner with his parents. It’s not easy for him.”
I clear away the leftover food and dishes while smiling to myself about my dress waiting upstairs. At least I’ve done everything I can to make this year’s May 17th dinner with my grandparents easier for Dad.
Before, whenever I’ve asked about Dad’s relationship with his parents, he’s told me it’s impolite to pry. Since he’s not here, I jump at the chance. “Why does Dad get so upset by them?”
Nana lifts her nose to the sky, noticeably mocking my grandmother. “Because their values make it impossible for your father to be his true self. They need to get their priorities straight.”
Mom hands us our newly ironed flags. “That’s what they say about us.”
I laugh. “It’s true.”
“Of course it is,” Nana says.
Outside, Dad waits in the car. Although he seems upset, I can’t think of anything to say that will help.
“Clean your feet off before getting into my car,” he says. Mom and I do as told. Nana does not. “I am too old for entertaining façade.”
Dad’s judgmental eyes rest on Nana’s face in the mirror before driving us down to the harbor and The Bluebird. It’s the same look that’s scarred into my mind from my disastrous purple dress at last year’s dinner with his parents. Only then, the look was his father’s.
“Balder! My old friend.” Dad shakes Mr. Jensen’s hand firmly and pulls him in for a hug. They’ve known each other since kindergarten. Dad introduced him to Mom when they were dating at nineteen years old. Mr. Jensen shakes his hand out after Dad’s harsh grip and notices my disappointment. He isn’t wearing his bunad, but a white suit and vest.
He hands me a flute of champagne and whispers. “It was too small. My planning was dreadful this year, let me tell you. Sad. Yes, sad.”
“You have to lay off the soda, my friend. It’s not good for your health.” Dad laughs and pats his friend’s belly. Mr. Jensen shrugs in reply.
Nana clinks her glass to his. “Speak for yourself, Hermann.”
“You too,” Dad says.
The last of the dressed-up children in the parade march down the street. Only three children remain in the marching band, holding trumpets and a tuba, tooting charming but false notes to the best of their ability, tired from walking all day. It’s a tradition for the local parade to finish here. Parents line the street and parking lot outside The Bluebird, enthusiastically waving their flags while cheering for their children who by now are sick of waving theirs.
I know every face, even though I’ve mostly kept to myself all these years. I have seen the children grow up here, and grown familiar with newcomers, one of which now stands out to me. It’s a man in a black jubilee Oslo bunad, its silver buttons glimmering in the sunlight. His hair is blond, he’s a few years older than me, and he’s cheering along with the Sand family and their two Weimaraner’s. Of course, it’s the same man I met outside of Mr. Dahl’s Bakery yesterday. So he was telling the truth, he didn’t need directions, he’s here to celebrate with his family. I knew there was something familiar about him. That’s William Sand, every girl’s crush in primary school. Josefine is, of course, next to him in a low cut, neon pink dress, chatting away.
Pink today? What is she thinking?
His eyes meet mine, so do Josefine’s, and I avert both of their gazes almost losing my balance trying to be discreet. To save myself from the near tumble, I continue walking over to our table in the garden in front of The Bluebird, pretending it was on purpose, but Josefine grins to herself.
It’s Mom’s day off, but she assists the kitchen running to and from our table. Salt from the sea lingers in the air.
The Sand family sits down at a table next to ours and like us, orders Norwegian-style shrimp. William sits with them, behind me, while Josefine gazes at him from three tables away.
Peeling shrimp is a tradition here, so when Ms. Berg balances a big bowl of cooked shrimp on our table, Mom finally sits down.
Nana takes her time, preparing her bread first with butter, mayonnaise, and red onions. Mom and I dive straight into the bowl knowing Dad views it as a competition for speed and system.
Dad nudges his elbow into my arm, pointing at William while continuing to peel. “Now there’s a man who knows how to peel. Amalie, look at his plate. That’s how you should do it.” I glance as fast as I can. He sorts his peels precisely like Dad, heads on one side of the plate, tails neatly stacked next to them, and the shrimp lined up on his bread resemble a military march.
He passes his prepared plate to Mrs. Sand, rinses his fingers in the water bowl before reaching over to shake Dad’s hand. “I’m William Sand.”
I knew that was him.
Dad, unprepared, brushes his hands on a napkin before shaking William’s. “So, you’re the pride of the family?”
Of course, he’s the real-estate genius my grandfather talks about. No wonder Dad’s impressed.
William ignores Dad’s question. Instead, he stands up and shakes hands with our entire table, Mr. Jensen, then Mom. My palms sweat and I wipe them on my napkin under the table. Nana notices and holds his hand in hers until I’m ready.
I love her.
But when she lets go, and his hand touches mine, it’s moist already. “Nice to meet you again.” I blush.
Dad swallows down his bite. “You two know each other?”
I shake my head, but William nods. “We met briefly outside the bakery yesterday.” He looks even better today, not like a city snob but more like one of us.
I want to say something to make Dad forget because he’ll tease me about William, but I can’t find any words, when Mr. Dahl stops by our table to greet him as well. I immediately fear he’ll tell Dad about the poster I brought him.
He leans down and whispers to Dad. “Your daughter offered me a poster yesterday. It seems she disapproves of the one I have.”
“Don’t worry.” Dad scowls at me across the table while answering him. “Amalie won’t bother you with her drawings again.”
My mouth goes dry.
I wasn’t trying to bother Mr. Dahl. I thought he’d ordered the poster.
William stares at Dad, then me, Nana seems ready to argue, and Mom’s gaze falls to her lap.
Mr. Jensen clears his throat. “I have to say, my friend, you might underestimate Amalie. We haven’t painted together for a while since she started her classes, but from what I recall, she’s quite talented.”
I smile at Mr. Jensen. He means well, but Dad won’t change his mind, neither will Mr. Dahl.
Nana continues Mr. Jensen’s comment about me. “Her teachers praise her, so you’re talking out of terms here, Hermann.”
“I respect your thoughts, Balder, but if you had children of your own, you’d know how difficult they can be. Amalie needs to know not to
bother adults,” Dad says.
What will it take for Dad to consider me an adult?
“I’m sorry. It won’t happen again.” I excuse myself from the table.
I’m in no mood to hear Dad’s views of my work shared out loud, especially in front of William. Instead, I bring a few napkins, a pen, and walk out behind the restaurant, into the grass field, to the oak tree where I used to dream of playing with the other kids. No one’s there and I stare up at the grand branches stretching out over the grass wider than the tree is tall. I sit down next to it and draw it from the foot of the trunk. I want to climb it.
It’s a bad idea; my skirt will get dirty, probably my shirt too.
I look around while tucking the napkins and pen into my satchel. I’m alone, so I kick off my shoes and slip my pantyhose off so as not to ruin them. Grabbing onto the bark, I pause and glance around me again before I lift myself off the ground.
I’m climbing.
I grab another branch and push upwards, then another, until I reach the thickest branch, my back against the trunk and lift my head to the sky. Dad doesn’t even know the whole story of Mr. Dahl's poster, but I don’t want to behave like Josefine, arguing with her father in plain sight. Be like her? Never. I respect him too much for that. I’ll talk to Dad when we drive to his parents later.
Two huge butterflies dance in circles, both in warm yellow colors with brown-black spots and one red. I pull out my napkins and pen and draw the details in their wings resembling a swallow’s feathers.
How lucky you two are. Free to float around, fly in any direction you choose.
Nana would say I was too, but their lives are uncomplicated. They can flap their wings from flower to flower all day, nobody telling them what to do or how to do it.
A bird dives from the sky and swallows one of the butterflies. The dance is over. Something so beautiful, gone. The remaining dancer stops midair before it flutters in between leaves, disappearing against the bark. The bird searches around to find it. I can imagine its terror, desperately seeking a way to safety. I hope I never have to experience anything like that. I wave my arms frantically to scare the bird away, and it flies to a branch further up the tree.
“Preparing for flight?” William’s white smile flashes up at me.
What is he doing here?
WILLIAM
He looks down at my shoes and pantyhose by the bottom of the tree.
Why didn’t I hide them before climbing up here?
All the blood in my body rushes to my face and my hands tingle.
“I told your father your painting was great.” He grabs hold of the lowest branch to climb up.
Great.
Now Dad will know more people have seen it. “Thanks.”
I wish I was like that butterfly and could flap my wings away from here. But the only way is down, past him, and he’s coming up.
He must think I’m insane for sitting in a tree.
“I’ve never done this before.” I straighten my skirt.
William climbs up to the branch I sit on. “What? Climbed a tree?”
I nod. “I’m usually more behaved than this. Where’s Josefine?”
He laughs. “She went to the restroom I think.”
Imagining he ran off when she left to avoid her following makes me smile. I try to hold it back but can’t, so I look away as he continues.
“My father started bragging about me to your dad, so I had to get away. It’s embarrassing.”
My smile vanishes.
Sure, that must be terrible for you.
Dad would, of course, brag back, hide behind praise and laughter to compete over having the best child. William’s father would be honest probably, like most parents are, and he’s got a good reason to be; his son is thriving. I wash cars at my father’s dealership, not worth bragging about. Why did William come here to get away? Why not go somewhere else? I welcome the distraction but dread the small talk.
My feet dangle on each side of the thick branch. It isn’t very ladylike, but changing my seating position now will probably end up with me on the ground, or even worse, revealing too much leg in the process. William’s lucky to wear pants. “You don’t think bunads are old-fashioned?”
“My friends in Oslo mock me for it. They wear suits, but I miss tradition. That’s why I’m thinking of moving back here. I love that you kept yours traditional, by the way.” William points to my silver belt details and the stitches on my vest. “The girls I know butcher theirs by modernizing with modern jewelry and alterations that don’t belong.”
The compliment wipes my mind of any reasonable thought, and I fumble to find a response. I stare up into the branches again, looking for the butterfly. I can’t see it. Me looking up in the tree must look silly, so I lower my head, trying to remember what he said. “So…So, you’re moving here? Are you sure you want to do that?” My tone is more judgmental than expected. I resembled Dad a little, and the realization knocks me off balance, throwing my arm out to the side to support myself on the tree trunk.
He laughs. “It’s that bad, huh?”
I blush and look down to hide it. Why am I behaving like this?
Get a grip.
“No.” I take a moment to try to calm my mind, think about how it would be for him to live here. He seems much more outgoing than I am and I want to give him the right picture. “Every summer, it’s too busy, and everyone’s annoyed about the boasting city tourists.”
Does he consider himself a tourist?
“No offense.”
Now I sound like Dad again.
“I’m sorry.” I speed up. “Out of season, during the winter, which is my favorite time here, it’s quiet, and everyone but me complains.”
“So people like me, city snobs, don’t stay for the winter?”
I don’t know if he’s teasing me or setting a trap. He seems like a typical party boy, the type that knows every person at every event. Whereas I hide behind the curtain, afraid someone will engage in a conversation, and count the minutes until I can leave. Like I am now. I must be making a complete fool of myself, and soon Dad will know, it’ll be the subject for tonight’s dinner. “I should go back.” I ease my leg over the branch carefully, making sure I don’t lift it too high and accidentally show him my underwear.
“Why don’t they stay?” William descends from the oak.
How am I supposed to get down with him staring up at me?
When I don’t respond, he continues to talk. “I think it sounds wonderful living here. The city is full of shallow people. All they speak of is their success, money, or almond milk lattes.”
I frown. Maybe William will leave if I don’t descend. “I like almond milk lattes,” I say, recalling Mr. Dahl’s comment about my poster fitting in a city bakery. “We’re scared of change here, so that won’t be a problem. Most people despise it without ever having tried.”
The bird has disappeared, having given up the hunt for butterfly number two. Yellow hues from its outstretched wings flicker between the leaves before it flies off. Do butterflies remember traumatic experiences, or has it already forgotten what happened? I choose to believe it forgot.
From a distance, Dad’s whistles for me scream through the air. William doesn’t notice it, but I recognize the sound. It puts me on high alert immediately. “I have to go.”
“I’ll catch you.” William reaches up toward me.
Never happening. Looking down at my shoes and pantyhose, I can’t see any way around this. “Please turn around.”
He does, and I descend, pull my pantyhose back on and slip into my shoes.
“Would you like to take a walk with me tomorrow?” William brushes off his pants.
More small talk.
“Why?”
“I don’t know anyone here anymore besides my family,” he says.
“You know Josefine.” She seems like she’s dying to get to know him.
William strokes his fingers through his hair. “Meet at The Bluebird at eigh
t o’clock?”
Dad whistles again, and this time William notices my reaction. He tilts his head to listen. It’s the same piercing sound someone makes when hailing a taxi. “Was that for you?”
“It’s Dad. He doesn’t approve of yelling.”
“So he whistles for you, like you’re a dog?”
“Of course not.” Or, did he? I hadn’t thought about it like that before.
William raises an eyebrow. “It’s the same sound my parents use for their dogs.”
Do others make this connection too? He’s always done it, so to me it’s normal, but William has a point. “I’m not a dog.” I stride towards the restaurant.
Behind me his feet jog lightly on the trail, the sound of thin twigs breaking. “Of course not. You shouldn’t let him do that, though. If it were my father, I’d tell him it’s unacceptable.”
“So, you would prefer him screaming your name over and over when a short whistle can be heard so much easier? I don’t think so.”
William lets me walk ahead until he runs after me, grabs my shoulder and jolts me to a halt. “I didn’t mean to offend you. Meet me tomorrow? I don’t want to ask you again in front of our parents.”
I frown. It’s something in William’s eyes, or maybe it’s the way he moved. I view him again, wanting to say no because we have nothing to talk about. But with him close to threatening me that he could bring it up in front of everyone makes me reconsider. “Sure. Don’t call me a dog again.”
“Promise.”
Back at the restaurant, Josefine almost falls out of her chair when she sees us walking back to our tables together, but the smile it puts on my face quickly falls. With her reputation, she probably thinks I’m like her, and William and I’ve had sex in the field. Not a reputation I want. “We climbed the oak,” I say, and her suspicious stare takes me off guard.
What is wrong with you?
William helps his mother out of her chair as they are leaving, and I sit to finish my shrimp. Sunshine has heated them, so I force a bite down before downing the next in lemon. Josefine keeps a keen eye on William as his parents finish saying goodbye to everyone and turn to leave. Her eyes are big with anticipation that he’ll notice her, but on their way out, William turns to me instead. “I’ll see you tomorrow then.”
Let Go Page 4
