Josefine’s eyes shoot up and flicker between him and me. I glare at him. Saying that out loud, then leaving me to answer for it?
Great.
I want to be angry, but can’t. I want to see him again, especially now that Josefine knows he came to see me.
When they’ve left, Josefine squats down next to me and whispers. “Be careful, Amalie. He’s just like your father, I can feel it.”
What are you talking about?
Successful and handsome doesn’t sound too bad. “You’re just envious because he asked me and not you.”
“No. I protect my friends.”
I struggle not to laugh out loud.
So, you think tricking me into making a fool of myself makes you my friend? Of course you’re jealous. William asked me, not you.
“I’ll be fine.” I force a smile, and after lingering next to me for too long, she goes back to her table with Mr. Dahl.
That is one strange girl.
Nana’s glasses stick to her forehead from her grin, and she adjusts them down again. Mom beams from across the table. “A date?”
I shake my head. “I’m showing him around.”
Don’t be stupid, he grew up here, find another excuse.
“He doesn’t know anyone here, so…”
Mr. Jensen chuckles. “He defended your painting after you left earlier.”
As much as I try to hide it, I can’t stop smiling. I have only been on a few dates with immature and insecure boys my age. With William, it’s different, I think, he’s older. I grin back at Mom.
Dad snickers. “Make sure you don’t embarrass yourself. A man like that won’t give you a second chance.”
“Hermann!” Mom seems mortified, and Nana even more so, but Dad laughs it off. “I’m just being honest. From what his father tells me, you have a lot of competition from healthy girls in the city. I wouldn’t get my hopes up.”
I look down at my lap. My thighs fill the chair’s seat. Mom’s do not. She’s skinny, with a boyish figure, like Grandpa. Nana and me, we’re the same. “Don’t worry, it’s a walk, not a date.” Mom and I share the same blue eyes, though.
“Ignore him.” Nana shifts her position towards me and takes my hand. “There is a reason why he asked you and no woman accompanied him here.”
He did stand up for my painting.
Dad dabs his mouth with his napkin and gets up. “We don’t want to be late for my parents.”
Dad’s comment buzzes in the back of my mind. “I’ll walk home,” I say. On a day like this, with people around me all the time, I need space to breathe, far away from judgment, to just be. Even though I want to believe William can like me, he is out of my league.
I run up to my room and hang my bunad back on its hanger. There’s a mark on the skirt. Now I have to get it dry-cleaned for next year.
Why did I have to climb that stupid tree? Don’t be so stupid the next time you get an urge, think.
The skater-cut knee length dress beams at me, and although I want to hold it up, touch the soft fabric, I don’t dare touch it until I’ve showered. I brush my teeth, refresh my mascara and blow dry my hair. The bun I had planned won’t stay in place, so after my seventh attempt, my upper arms burn from holding them over my head. It looks so easy for the girl in the video. I should be able to do this. After one more try, I let my hair hang free, parted on the side. As I make sure the split is even, William’s hair comes to mind. His part is perfect, not a hair out of place.
Dad calls up to me from downstairs. “We leave in three minutes, with or without you!”
I steal a second to admire how the dress fits me in the mirror.
I look great.
I force a smile off my face to take my reflection in, but I can’t keep it down for long. Usually, dresses cling in all the wrong places on my body. They’re either too tight over the breasts or butt, or too wide at the waist, but this fits me perfectly, and I can’t wait to show it off.
“One minute!” Dad’s steps pacing back and forth in the hallway echo up to my room. With a spring in my step, I head down the stairs where Dad’s adjusting his red tie in front of the mirror in the hallway. His expression stops me.
He glares up at me, shaking his head. “Is that what you’re wearing? Come on, Amalie. Yellow is not your color. Your skin’s too pale. It makes you look sick. Don’t you care at all?”
My legs shake, and I want to sit, but that will wrinkle my dress, so I grip the railing. “Sick?” My stomach churns. I can’t move.
Staring at the front door, I scan through my options. There are none. My bunad is wrong; the Skar’s don’t like bunads. My old dresses don’t fit me anymore, so it’s only the purple dress I wore last year.
I can’t wear that again.
Dad throws his coat over his shoulder. “I’m only saying this to help you. Your face looks green.”
My hand goes to my heart when Mom comes in from waiting in the car. She’s also changed out of her bunad and is now in a knee-length white shift dress. She looks stunning. “Amalie, are you all right?”
No, I’m not all right, but I can’t tell if she notices because the dress makes me look sick or because I’m panicking over what to wear.
What do I do?
Dad turns to Mom. “Let’s go. We’re late.” He points to the door, and I follow them to the car.
THE SKAR FAMILY
I hold the seatbelt away from my lap so as not to wrinkle my dress.
Mom notices and turns to me from the front seat. “You look lovely, don’t worry.” She looks at Dad. “Doesn’t she, Hermann?”
He smiles back at her, but doesn’t reply, which in some way is relieving. He has already made his opinion clear to me. Lying about it to Mom will only make it worse. She knows it too, so she doesn’t push, but sits back in her seat and looks at the road ahead.
I don’t need to see Dad’s face to know the look of disappointment he wore last time I tried to dress up. It’s etched into my mind like a name on a public toilet door.
The sun glares in my window giving me no reflection to assess how bad I look. I plan an excuse for my grandparents, but the only thing left I can think of to talk about to take their minds off my appearance is William, whom I don’t want them to know about. “Please don’t mention William tonight?” I picture my grandparents’ reactions. It will be positive, too positive, knowing who he is and that he’s successful.
“Of course we won’t,” Mom says.
“Dad?”
“Why on earth should I say anything about that boy? Shit, we forgot flowers.” Dad turns into the first gas station. “Make yourself useful and go buy some roses.” He hands me his credit card.
Outside the entrance are buckets of tulips, daisies, and carnations. “Is that grandmother’s favorite? What about daisies?”
“It doesn’t matter. Roses are the most expensive. It must be roses. Red.”
I leave the car and inspect the flowers. No roses. “They don’t have any.”
Dad storms out of the car and snaps his card from my hand. “Do I have to do everything myself?” He heads inside. When he exits, he’s got two bouquets of red roses in his hands.
“I’m sorry.” I get in the car and turn my attention out the window again where the last pine tree passes outside my window, and with it, my hometown disappears behind us. Crossing the drawbridge connecting us to the mainland, we head into the mountain tunnel. There, in the darkness, my reflection appears in the window and I see Dad is right, as usual. My skin is pale, and my face looks drained, washed out. I should have seen it. The fabric that felt so soft now itches for me to take it off.
My reflection disappears, and the industrial buildings outside replace my view. It’s all blurred out, replaced with flashing images of Dad’s disappointed face, his words, and comments about people he’s found ugly in the streets before that I don’t want to look like, but now do.
“We’ll be late,” Dad says.
Mom strokes his arm. “It’s only
a few minutes, darling.”
“Late is late.”
My grandparents’ brick house is a story taller than the wooden houses surrounding it. It’s the only house on the street with an undisturbed view of the city sparkling below.
Dad parks the car in front of the double door entrance. I quickly unbuckle my seatbelt, get out and smooth the wrinkles in my dress. Freezing wind forces every muscle in my neck to stiffen, but I lift my head, shoulders back.
Be confident.
Dad presses the brass doorbell; three loud chimes ring. The sharp sound of heels clank on the marble tiles from inside.
Smile.
Grandmother opens the door. She’s wearing a green tweed dress and a matching jacket with a gold snake pin on it. Her hair is flawlessly layered, smelling of argan oil. The scent of her perfume stings my nose. “Oh, do come in, we’re letting the cold in.”
While we scurry into the hallway, I make a mental note to copy her attire for next dinner.
“Sorry we’re late,” Dad says.
Grandmother folds one arm under her chest and rests two fingers under her chin. Her deep-set eyes inspect my hair before moving on to my dress. I hold my breath awaiting her judgment. Her head moves like a rainbow, spreading from me to Dad, arching over Mom who stands silently in the middle. “Oh, I’m sure you have a good reason, a meeting perhaps.” Her pointy nose moves up and down when she speaks. She wags her finger at me as if signing her name. “Amalie, I must take you shopping one day.” Meaning, I look terrible.
She gestures for us to walk in and Dad passes her first. “Don’t bother, Mother. Amalie doesn’t care how she presents herself. Or us.”
What? That isn’t true!
I raise my hand to intervene, but Mom takes it and gently eases it down again before I can argue.
I know. Stay calm, don’t show emotion.
As Grandfather rounds the corner from the second floor, ice cubes clinking in his whiskey glass, I decide to keep quiet. He’s wearing a black suit, white shirt, and dark green tie the color of money with a golden tiepin. His hair is black and like Dad’s, combed to the side with no movement, glued in place by hairspray. Above him, moonlight flickers through the crystal chandelier hanging from the glass ceiling.
He shakes Dad’s hand first, squeezing the knuckles white. “I thought the clock was a part of the curriculum in primary school.” He laughs. Grandmother chuckles along with him. When he stops, so does she.
“We’re only two minutes late,” Dad says, but Grandfather rolls his eyes. “I’ll remember that the next time I watch the countdown for Apollo.” He scoffs. “Only two minutes. Late is late, you’re old enough to know that by now.”
It’s like listening to Dad lecturing me.
On the wall below the staircase is a family portrait of my grandparents and Dad as a kid. They’re not smiling. In it, Grandfather has a beard and mustache. Clean shaven now, his dimpled chin and thin lips look off. After he shakes Mom’s hand, she retracts it, spreading her fingers after his harsh grip. I brace myself, but it still hurts.
Grandmother gestures for us to move and I’m happy to. “Let’s eat before the food gets cold.”
Their dining room is the size of our first floor. Two chandeliers with dimmed lighting create the illusion of candlelight hanging from the ceiling, and below them stands a dark oak dining table that will comfortably accommodate twenty, or even thirty people. It resembles the one we have at home, except ours is tiny in comparison, with only four chairs to it.
Grandfather pulls out his wife’s chair. Mom pulls out mine and Dad pulls out Mom’s.
“How lovely to have a proper family dinner.” Grandmother lifts a tiny bell next to her three glasses. Its high-pitched ring reverberates through the room. The door behind her springs open and their maid rolls in a tray with four gold plates of pâté. “I requested foie gras especially for today.”
I look at Mom before eating. Foie gras is on her list of unethical foods. Luckily, she nods in approval which can only mean the chef has prepared something that looks like foie gras and Grandmother is unaware, so I eat it.
Grandfather sips his drink while turning to Dad. “Well, my boy. Tell me about Skar’s Auto.” Ice cubes are pinging the crystal glass. His heavy cologne clings to my nostrils. The excessive sweet scent is giving me a headache.
Dad keeps his eyes on his plate before looking over to his mother. “Celina was promoted to partner.” I can’t withhold my smile.
Neither can Grandmother who leans across the table, eyes wide. “How thrilling for you to finally get out of that dreadful kitchen. How you’ve survived slaving away there for so many years is beyond me.”
Mom puts her fork down onto her plate and sits back in her chair. “I actually enjoy it.”
“Oh.” Grandmother’s brows pucker. “I don’t want to offend you, my dear, but you must feel dreadful coming home to your husband reeking of food.”
Mom shakes her head. “I make sure to shower before Hermann gets home.”
Grandmother lets out a sigh of relief, and a sense of pride spreads through me. Mom can handle anything, and right now, she’s in total control of her life with her greatest passion, cooking, in the driving seat.
I turn to Grandmother. “What are your passions?”
Grandmother cuts a tiny piece of pâté while answering. “My home, my husband and hosting our benefits.” Her face lights up. “I did enjoy dancing when I was younger. But your grandfather has a bad knee now.” She puts the pâté gently in her mouth and chews slowly.
“Can’t you dance with someone else?” I say.
She swallows. “Do that to my darling husband? Have someone see me? No, Amalie. My parents raised me better than that.”
I want to ask more. Picturing Grandmother gleaming while twirling on the dance floor, it seems sad she quit, but Grandfather cuts me off.
“These are all lovely conversations, but I suggest discussing your hobbies after dinner.” He turns to Dad again. “Now. Tell me about Skar’s Auto.” Grandfather sips his whiskey again when Dad doesn’t respond, and for some reason, my legs shift in the direction of the door as if wanting to escape the room. “You shouldn’t have locked up that much money in luxury cars. It can’t be going well. Real estate, that’s where you should invest your money.”
Dad still doesn’t respond, and the tension rises in the air around us when Grandmother rings the bell for the next course, beef tartar. With Dad still quiet, she looks to me. “Amalie, I must admit I found myself quite disappointed to hear from rumors and not directly from you that you’ve applied for an art school in Spain.”
Grandfather nods and shifts his attention from Dad to me. “You’re a Skar, you’re better than that. Art students aren’t the brightest kind of people. They also get pregnant too young. I’m sure you’ll be more respectful to your family than that, but there’s no point taking any chances. We wouldn’t want another scandal.”
Mom corrects her hair but doesn’t say anything, even though she must have taken his comment as an insult. My mouth goes dry. I want to defend Dad and her but don’t know how. If a child is a scandal, then I am that example he’s referring to, and Dad has told me too many times what a child does to a family. “Children cost too much money, and they wreck lives so if you ever find yourself thinking about having one, think again. The man you’re with might like the idea, but once that kid comes and you cast your partner aside, your relationship will suffer.” So, if I try to defend Mom and Dad, Dad might go against me, and I’ll have started a discussion between the Skar family and Mom and me. It’ll end up with Mom defending me like it always does, and I don’t want that.
Mom coughs to get Dad’s attention, but he doesn’t react.
Instead, Grandmother asks, “Do you need a cough drop?” and rings her bell for our next course.
“No, thank you.” Mom turns to Dad. “Honey? Would you like to join your daughter in this conversation?”
I wish he’d stand up, defend me as the greatest g
ift he’s ever received, but in the Skar family, affection’s never just given, it must be earned.
Dessert rolls in, flambéed crepe. Dad keeps quiet, we all do for a while. It’s clear he won’t join in on the conversation, and I’m relieved I didn’t start a discussion about children. Grandfather takes a big bite of his dessert.
I take the opportunity to go back to the first subject. “The school’s not in Spain. It’s in Portugal.”
Grandfather scoffs. “Doesn’t matter. Business school is a much better choice for you.”
Mom usually doesn’t eat wheat flour or sugar, but she, too, has a bite of crepe and as she does, my grandmother slides a napkin over the table at her. “Crumb’s dear.”
She didn’t spill anything.
After dinner, Mr. Skar pours two glasses of whiskey, one for himself and one he places in front of Dad.
“No, thank you,” Dad says.
Mr. Skar waves the comment away as if it were a pesky mosquito. “Nonsense, you said that last time too. And the time before that. Today, one glass won't hurt. You need it.”
“What do you know of what I need?” Dad takes the glass but doesn’t drink from it; instead, he sets it down on the table in front of him, much to Mr. Skar’s dislike.
“I hear the Sand boy is moving back? What a success that son is. His parents must be so proud,” Grandfather says.
“William Sand,” Dad says. “Apparently he and Amalie are going on a date tomorrow.”
What? How could you tell them?
Great, now they know. I stare at him, hoping he’ll understand how disappointed I am.
He shows no regret as he shrugs. “Oh really, don’t take yourself so seriously. It’s only a date.”
“Oh, what wonderful news.” Grandmother is beside herself.
Grandfather too. “A good choice in a man. I’m pleasantly surprised you had it in you.”
Let Go Page 5
