I seize the opportunity to run to my room where I open a new page and put pencil to paper. Grading the color from black behind Dad on the left-hand side into a warmer sunset yellow behind Mom and me makes it pop. I create illustrations of the three of us, focusing on the facial expressions where Dad appears angry, Mom is hopeful, and I longing.
In the family picture I’m copying, a detail I haven’t noticed before stands out. I hold a small rolled-up piece of paper in my hand. I lift the frame closer to my face to see.
What is that?
Three knocks on my door make me jump in my seat.
“Dinner is ready in a few minutes’ time.” Nana walks over to my desk to see, but I close the book. If she sees the color choices, she’ll ask why, and I’m nowhere near ready to explain or talk about what happened earlier today.
“It’s not finished.”
I give her my chair, and she slumps down in front of my desk.
I unlock my desk drawer to show her my updated version of the bakery poster. “I promised Dad not to bother Mr. Dahl but...”
I want to break that promise.
Nana holds it up towards the light, studying every angle before commenting. “I can practically smell the coffee from the steam rising off the page.” She caresses the poster with her hand. “It makes my mouth water. May I show this to Grandpa?”
“How is he?”
I should visit him soon.
“Why don’t you ask him yourself,” she says.
“I will.” I roll up the poster for Nana to take with her. As she takes it in her hand, it reminds me of the scroll from our family picture. “Do you know what I’m holding here?” I point to the frame.
“No. I do not. I do recall you talking about design from that day on so it might have something to do with that.”
Mom calls us from the kitchen. “Dinner is ready.”
With the poster in my hand, I follow Nana downstairs to find Mom waiting at the dining table. She’s lit candles and decorated with napkins folded into fans. Dinner is creamed chicken curry soup.
“Do you know what I’m holding here?” I put the picture down in front of Mom, and the tiny wrinkles next to her eyes come to life.
“That’s the first poster you ever designed. It used to hang on the wall by the staircase, but two years after you drew that, you took it down.”
I recall it now. Mom and Dad brought me to the party at The Bluebird. An elegant lady, with flawless tan skin and long blonde hair combed to one side in perfect waves, took me under her wing. I can’t recall her name, but her posh city dialect, knee-length gray dress, and matching high heels mesmerized me. She was the only one there who spoke to me like an adult, which I relished. Come to think of it, Erica reminds me of her.
“Design helps people,” she’d said, spending most of her evening drawing with me, teaching me the basic rules for designing posters. I was fascinated by her graceful movement of the pencil, how it danced across the sheet of paper. It took me years of practice to get that right. I fell in love with designing that evening. Glancing over to the stairs, I remember the family picture hanging where a framed dried dandelion now hangs, below Dad’s military portrait.
“Why did I take it from the wall?”
“I don’t know. Your dad brought you to work one day, and when you returned you pulled it off the wall and threw it in the trash. I picked it up when you weren’t looking, and hid it in the attic, hoping it could decorate our wall again one day.”
Mom leaves the table, and I hear her rooting around upstairs in the attic. When she returns, the small framed poster is in her hands. It isn’t much, but it follows a visceral hierarchy and leads the eye to the logo at the bottom: Skar’s Auto. It only takes me a second to switch it with the flower, to symbolize where I began.
By now, my soup is cold, yet it still tastes fresh, and the hint of coconut milk and coriander is lovely. “I drove to Oslo and had lunch with William today,” I say.
Mom is about to put a spoon of soup in her mouth but places it back in her bowl. “What about work? Your father?”
“How wonderful.” Nana continues to eat.
“Yes, he brought me to Teatercafeen.”
“Fancy,” Nana says.
I nod. “Too fancy.”
While clearing up after dinner, I tell them about the interior of the restaurant, the prices William paid, and finally, how I dodged his kiss while Mom sets the kettle on for tea.
“Why?” Mom plays with the teabag in her mug, staring into the swirling hot liquid. “I thought you liked William?”
My skin feels warm from hearing his name. “I do. I don’t know why I wasn’t ready.”
“A kiss should never have a price connected to it.” Nana fiddles with the selection of tea bags in front of her. “May I please have some coffee instead, Celina? There are too many good memories connected to coffee to waste such a feeling only because you believe tea is better for me.”
Mom shakes her head, clearly showing she doesn’t approve. But I make Nana a cup of coffee, and when Mom isn’t looking, Nana sneaks in three sugar cubes from a small plastic bag in her pocket. She winks at me, realizing I’ve seen her. It’s our secret.
The next morning, I pack my drawing supplies and get on the bus at five thirty. I can work on my application at Skar’s until Dad shows up. Walking from the bus, up the dirt road, I let my hand play with the tops of the tall grass on each side, relishing the pure morning light filling the air with no shadows in sight.
When Dad arrives at a quarter past nine, he isn’t pleased to see me behind my desk.
“I need to talk to you about the letter from DAP,” I say.
With a grunt, he throws his blazer on his chair. “I need to concentrate today. Take the day off.”
“I need to talk to you.”
“I’m busy.” He walks out to the shed on top of the forest edge. I refuse to leave before he tells me what happened, so I wait.
Half an hour later, he returns with disappointment scattered across his face. “Don’t you have anywhere else to be?” He slumps down behind his desk.
“Tell me,” I say.
“What?”
The problem is, I don’t know how to ask. My question is more an accusation than anything else. I take a deep breath, and my mouth goes dry. “Did you open the letter from DAP?”
“No.” Dad pushes his chair backward through the room, stopping by the espresso machine. He makes himself a cup, then slides back behind his desk.
Silence. Wouldn’t he ask about it? If he hasn’t opened the letter, he can’t know I’m a finalist. “Are you sure?”
“Of course I’m sure. Stop bothering me with your stupid questions. Go do your job instead.”
You told me to leave!
“But…” I stop myself. There’s no use. It had to be him. Why is he lying about this? “I could have missed my chance if I hadn’t seen that letter.”
Dad rolls his eyes. “It won’t matter, don’t you get that? People like us, we don’t get lucky, so you might as well get your head out of the airplane you imagine will bring you to your school and get back to the cars. They’re dusty and need a cleaning.”
I glare out at the lot. Dust swirls around in the wind, making it impossible to keep the cars clean. For three years, Dad’s told me he’s been saving up for asphalt, but if he’s going bankrupt, it can’t be true. Knowing how upset he gets if I ask about it, I can’t help myself. “So, no asphalt this month either?”
“Don’t get smart with me, young lady. This is just the kind of attitude that shows me you’re not ready for more responsibility. When I have the money, I’ll order it done. Until then, keep the cars clean!”
DEATH
During the following days, I either clean cars at Skar’s or work on my essay. When I show up to my evening class, Miss Ask is eager to help me.
“Your parents must be so proud of you. A finalist, what an achievement.”
“Sure,” I say, focusing on what feels like my h
undredth sketch.
Her hand lands on my shoulder and I look up at her concerned expression. “Is anything wrong? You don’t seem like your happy self.”
“I’m fine.” I stare at the canvas and sigh.
“Don’t worry, Amalie. The school asked you to design your family the way it is today, so how about the three of you playing games together?”
“Dad doesn’t play games.” He never has the time.
She laughs. “I’m sure he does. He seems like a delightful man. How about a vacation then? Just paint your parents and you at the beach or somewhere you go on holiday together.”
We’ve never been on vacation or gone anywhere together as a family; it’s always just Mom and me. But she’s right. That is what the school and everyone else wants to see. A happy, smiling family.
“Thanks,” I say. Finally, Miss Ask leaves me alone.
I sketch a poster with Mom, Dad and I on the beach with palm trees around, perfect and happy on vacation. In the essay, I share the real story about what it was like to discover that Dad tried to sabotage my opportunity to get into the school.
I hope he never reads it or visits if I get in.
When Friday arrives, my essay and poster are in my bag, which I’ve hidden under my desk. I watch the clock all day. At six in the evening, I glance out the windows, down the empty dirt road. William will be here in only a few minutes to take me to the post office. “I’m leaving.”
Dad doesn’t look up but mumbles something into his folder I can’t make out.
I grab my bag and run out the door. If I get to the end of the road before William arrives, I won’t have to deal with Dad or his comments about us.
My feet slip in the deep tracks. Like basketballs in a net, my breasts jump around before I lock my arms in front to keep them in place. When I finally reach the end of the road, I’m out of sight from Dad and out of breath. I slow to a fast walking pace when William’s Mercedes lights up the stretch of asphalt in front of me.
His green knitted sweater highlights his eyes and I have to concentrate on not staring as I climb into the passenger seat, the soft black leather warm underneath me.
“I put the seat heater on in case you were cold.” William leans over for a hug.
I don’t shy away this time. Thrilled to see William, I hug him back, and can’t help but smile. “Thanks. It’s this way.” I point to where he came from, and he turns the car around.
“You didn’t have to meet me. I was looking forward to picking you up with your father present. Get his blessing to take you out.”
That’s why I hurried.
I watch that scene unfold before me. Dad warning William he can do much better than me. “Next time.”
Hoping that will never happen.
He glances at my bag with a grin. “Can I see the poster you’re sending?”
If he doesn’t like it, showing him will cause me to dissect every detail I should have changed until the school replies with their verdict. “It’s already wrapped in paper.” I did that last night when Mom and Dad were asleep.
William appears taller behind the wheel than when I met him in Oslo, his masculine hands gripping the leather. I want to touch them; instead, I fold my hands in my lap. “How did your interview go?”
“They offered me the job on the spot.” He shrugs. “We did a toast to humility last, but the interview was a formality really. I’m pretty sought after.”
I roll my eyes. Not knowing if William’s referring to work or him as a bachelor, I let it lie. I don’t need him to confirm either. “So, you’re moving down here?”
William parks the car outside the entrance to the post office. “We’ll see.”
Inside, Mr. Jensen waits in line wearing a pink summer hat and a neon blue suit. “Amalie! What a pleasant surprise, what are you doing here?” He shakes his head. “What a silly question, what would you be doing at a post office besides mailing letters or receiving...” He notices William. The tone of his voice changes to that of a talk show host. “Well, hello again.” Mr. Jensen holds out his hand. “I think we’ve only met through your parents at the restaurant. And a friend of Amalie is, of course, a friend of mine. I’m Balder Jensen.”
“A pleasure to meet you, sir. I only tagged along to see Amalie send her finalist papers.” William shakes his hand firmly when the slender man behind the counter calls out the next customer in line. “Number seventy-two.”
“Ooh, that’s me. Such a rush, every day, a rush I tell you.” Mr. Jensen shows his number tag. “But, oh how marvelous. This is an important moment in your life. You must cherish every moment of it.” Then he strides up to the counter.
William eyes Mr. Jensen from behind and whispers, clearly skeptical. “You know each other well?”
I want to remind him that he’s the artist of the gallery we visited, but recall how not even I knew about it. “He used to babysit me at The Bluebird when Mom was working. He’s like a backup parent to me,” I say.
“Him?” William glances over to Mr. Jensen who’s gesticulating and explaining how important it is that they “handle this package with the utmost care.”
“Number seventy-three,” the man calls out. I pull out the box containing my poster and essay, my future, from my bag. My hands shake, and I tighten my grip on it before placing it in front of the postman who studies my hand-written address with care.
“Travelling far this one,” he says.
William leans in to study the address, and his eyes pause on Portugal. But without saying a word or showing any reaction, he steps behind me.
“The world’s next big graphic design artist,” Mr. Jensen says.
The man puts nine stamps on the front, then tapes on a notice to handle with care. “Anything else I can do for you today?”
I fish my wallet out. “That’s it. How much?”
“It’s already paid for,” he says.
I glance at Mr. Jensen, who is grinning. “A small contribution to your lifelong career.”
William steps forward to the counter and puts his arm around my waist. “Let’s not get carried away here. I’ll join in on celebrating the package sent, but you’ll stay here, even if you do get the scholarship. Right?”
Very funny.
Sure, I’ll give up my dream in Portugal to stay behind in tiny Årøysund, working for my Dad for the rest of my life.
Never happening.
Before I have a chance to respond, Mr. Jensen throws his arms in the air. “Nonsense. Of course, she will go. This is her dream. You pompous city men, dictating everyone around you.”
I remove William’s arm, scared I’ll offend any of them. “First, thank you for paying for my application, Mr. Jensen. I will pay you back in designs later.”
He laughs. “You already have. The Bluebird’s menu designs didn’t make themselves.”
I’d forgotten about that. “Then I’ll throw in something else later.”
I turn to William. How can I get this conversation away from a discussion on whether I’ll move to Portugal or not and instead look forward to it? “Second, I refuse to think of anything but to be present in this moment. And at this moment, I just sent an application to the school of my dreams. What comes next, nobody knows.”
“Point taken. Let me take you to dinner to celebrate that...” William puts his arm around my waist again. “…and to you becoming the greatest designer in Norway, here with me.” He winks at me.
I laugh. “Not the best in the world then?”
“Fine. But based in Norway,” he winks.
“You’re cute. How about I buy us a cup of coffee, and we’ll take a walk instead.”
“So, you don’t want to jump at the opportunity for a free meal?”
I smile. “You can’t buy me, Mr. Sand.”
“Of course not,” Mr. Jensen says.
The man behind the counter gestures for us to move, so we walk out together.
“At least allow me to buy you the coffee then,” William says.
/> Overhead, dark clouds gather, so Mr. Jensen gives me a quick hug goodbye before he drives off in his electric Kia Soul.
I turn back to William. “Fine, we can drive to Mr. Dahl’s. I’m sure Josefine will be thrilled to see you again.”
“Who?”
Thank god.
“Never mind.”
Raindrops descend on the car windows, hammering on the roof when my phone rings. It’s The Bluebird restaurant. On the other end, Mom’s heavy breathing is only interrupted by sniffling sounds.
“Are you all right, Mom?”
She never cries.
William slows the car down as if sensing something’s wrong and parks it in a pocket by the road. I want to run out, get more space around me than what the car offers, but the rain is like a wet wall holding me back.
What is this about?
Mr. Jensen’s on his way to The Bluebird, Dad’s at work, Nana’s visiting…Oh no, Grandpa. I haven’t visited him in ages; he can’t be gone.
“Mom?”
Staring out the window to hide my face from William, I hear Mom’s voice quiver with the bad news. “The hospital called. While reading to Grandpa, Nana noticed him slipping away. It all happened so suddenly....”
William places his hand on mine. I can’t look at him, that makes it too real. Sadness alone, hidden, is one thing, but sharing it makes me even more vulnerable. I fight the urge to shake his hand off mine to try to control myself.
I got so used to Grandpa going in and out of the hospital that I forgot to think he might not return one day. Mom and I haven’t been there to say good-bye.
William shuts the engine off, not saying a word while his soft fingers stroke my hand.
Stop it.
I clench my teeth together.
Mom clears her throat, and I can tell she’s putting on a brave persona. “He died with Nana by his side today, so although we weren’t there, he...”
I don’t think before speaking. “Let me come get you,” I say. Then remember, I don’t have a car.
As if reading my mind, William squeezes my hand to get my attention and whispers. “I’ll drive.”
Let Go Page 11
