“Go ahead,” I say.
He smiles, so I smile back.
I’m falling in love.
The effect he has on me is insane. I can’t concentrate on anything. “So what do I do?”
“You make ads for the cars online,” William says. He’s about to run his fingers through his hair, and I hold my breath hoping he’ll dishevel it. But he stops himself.
“We have ads online,” I pull up Dad’s website and show him.
William rolls his eyes. “Who goes here to look for a car? You need to have the ads on the national car site.”
“Too expensive,” I say.
“Says who?”
“Dad.”
“Well, since your father’s done such a great job of running this shop down the drain, why don’t we stop taking his word for what’s too expensive?”
Excuse me?
I don’t know why I’m offended, if it’s for Dad or myself, but this feels out of line. “Fine.” I can’t deny what he’s saying is true. How else am I supposed to sell every car in three months? Dad hasn’t been able to do that in years. My head is pounding. William’s already out the door on his way to the shed to inspect the area, so I get to work, transferring every ad. At six o’clock, I finish. That’s every last bit of money this shop and I have now put into ads.
This must work.
“Any customers stop by?” William leans over me, pushing my chair backward and me with it.
“Nope.”
He leans down and kisses me, but I can’t enjoy it. My head feels like an old-fashioned ringing alarm clock ready to scream itself off the nightstand. “Let’s go home,” I say.
William grins. “My place or yours?”
Falling asleep next to him sounds like a dream right now. “I need to see Mom,” I say.
“That’s alright. I don’t have a place here yet anyways. Want to buy something with me? A cute house with a picket fence maybe?”
“Funny.” I’m too tired to laugh. Staring into ad after ad has drained the little energy I had.
When I don’t respond, he gets serious. “Let me drive you home. I have to pack my apartment in Oslo anyways, and finish up work there.”
Oh no, he’s going?
“So, I won’t see you for…how long?”
He kisses me. “About a week. So rest up well while I’m gone.” He winks at me.
Rest?
“Thanks, but I have to see if Mom’s better.”
I buy Mom a pot of lavender from the flower shop, and its scent lingers in the car driving to the hospital. It smells like Mom, like home, and somehow it fills me with hope and gumption.
Dr. Rose walks out of Mom’s room shaking her head. “It’s not a good time, I’m afraid. Celina found a newspaper with her father’s death announced. She’s upset.”
I look at Mom through the window. Tears are running down her face as she stares out the window. “Will this make her memory loss worse?”
“I don’t know, but it won’t help. She needs to feel safe, and with her father gone, it takes away from that.”
Knowing how much I’ve upset her the last times I visited, and afraid I’ll make it worse for Mom, I leave.
“Can you give her this from me?” I give the lavender to Dr. Rose.
She nods. “I’ll call you if we see any changes. Let a few days pass until your next visit. I’m afraid to say she gets quite upset when you stop by.”
Great.
Instead of driving straight home, I stop by Mr. Jensen’s. He lives by the sea, on the opposite side of Årøysund center from us, a five minutes’ walk from The Bluebird, and two minutes from Nana’s. Compared to ours, Mr. Jensen’s house is modern, Scandinavian minimalistic, the polar opposite from what I’m used to. His colorful art reveals his personality in the otherwise sterile house, with paintings in neon blues and bright yellow and a sculpture of an elephant in shards of mosaic tiles.
The throw pillows on his gray sofa are monochrome to match the gray painting above. I grab one and hug it in my lap. “Mom hates me. I have to find a way to spend time with her without her asking me to leave.”
Mr. Jensen nods as if he’s thought about this already. “I could hire you, to work at The Bluebird part time? Knowing your mother, she’ll be back to work as soon as she’s released. Cooking has always been her passion, and she makes the most beautiful dishes. Just beautiful. I never liked cooking, bored me to death.”
I let go of the pillow. That means selling cars at Skar’s, and I don’t know how long William will be able to help, and I’ll be working as a waiter on top of that. “That could work.”
No, it won’t.
But I don’t care. “Are you sure you want her back?”
“She’s my partner, and I wouldn’t have that restaurant if it weren’t for her. She saved me years ago. Now it’s my turn to return the favor.”
If Mom and I work together, she’ll be forced to remember me. Her employees are like family to her. “When can I start?”
As soon as she’s released from the hospital, she’ll head straight to… “I should get my things before she gets home.”
“We’ll do it tomorrow, or whenever, I won’t decide that. You set a time.”
“Why don’t I start at The Bluebird tomorrow, then we’ll remove my things after that?” I barely finish the sentence before my eyelids droop from exhaustion. “Until then, I’ll go sleep.”
The last thing I remember is the softness of the pillow in my room at Nana’s.
REMOVED
I’ve danced to, eaten and discussed the summer menu with Mom during the last several months, so that gives me an advantage. Hopefully, I’ll be ready by the time Mom returns.
Entering The Bluebird with Mr. Jensen, Josefine welcomes me, her hair pulled back in a ponytail, revealing a small tattoo of a butterfly behind her ear.
I’ve always been an open book, and right now, frustration must ooze from me. “What are you doing here?”
She smiles. “I couldn’t work for Dad anymore. He’s an idiot. I figured The Bluebird might need help when they took you and your Mom to the hospital.” She stacks three plates on her left arm and sets them back down on the table. “You look terrible.”
Like I don’t know that already.
“Thanks.” I look over to Mr. Jensen who chuckles at the scene.
It’s not funny.
I can only imagine Josefine’s comments if William drops by. It’ll be like Dad buzzing in my ear: “There’s something strange about him. He’s like your father.” Which he’s not. He’s not even close.
She must misunderstand my expression since my eyes rest on the table where she put the plates.
“Don’t worry. You’ll stack plates in a day,” Josefine says, and I don’t correct her. “I’m so sorry by the way. Your father was always an asshole.”
Her comment catches me off guard. “No, he wasn’t.” I don’t know why I’m refusing to agree with her. “He worked hard, and I admire him for that.”
What am I saying? Do I? Oh my god, I do.
I recall his life lesson: “Life is always a war, and you have to do whatever you can to win.” Right now, I refuse to let Josefine win. “He was unlucky,” I say.
“Are you insane?” Josefine stacks the plates on her hand again. “He almost killed you and your mother.”
“I’m not discussing this with you.”
“At least you won’t have to work at that dealership anymore and can go to Portugal. How exciting will that be?”
I sigh. “I can’t leave. Mom’s not well. I can’t leave her.”
“What? She’ll want you to.”
You don’t know her!
“Can we not talk about this, please?”
“Are you scared? Is that why you’re not going? It’s a chance of a lifetime, Amalie. You can’t give that up?”
Is she seriously not stopping? Leave me alone!
“I’m not scared. I’m practical. Mom needs me.” And I’m economically ruined fo
r life.
“Do you speak Portuguese? That would scare me, moving to a country where I don’t speak the language.”
Of course I don’t speak Portuguese.
Really?
“No.”
“Do you want to learn?”
“I don’t know.” I walk towards the kitchen to escape her, but she follows me in.
“Sure you know. What do you want to do then?”
“Nobody knows what they want.” Why can’t she leave me alone? I’m not in any mood to discuss any of this. I don’t have any answers. I can’t leave Mom if she’s sick, that’s more important than any school. And I don’t want to think about Portugal or DAP. Nothing’s ready for me to go there. I don’t speak the language, and I don’t know anyone. “That’s what everyone says all your life, isn’t it? Follow your dream, do what you want. Nobody admits they have no idea how to do that.”
“What are you talking about? Lots of people know what they want, but they’re scared to go after it.”
“Oh my god, are you serious?”
“What?”
“Tell me then, what do you want? Or you know what? Don’t. I’m not interested. I can’t have this every day I go to work. Stop asking me things.”
Who does she think she is?
“I’m sorry, I’m just curious. And I wanted to ask if I can help out.”
Yeah right.
“You can help by not asking questions.”
When my shift ends, my heart beats faster getting into Mr. Jensen’s car at the thought of driving over to my old home. Taking orders has given me a headache. Josefine did most of my lifting, but I can’t rely on her for everything. So, after carrying plates and glasses, my body feels like it did when I woke up at the hospital the day after Dad’s attack.
I don’t know what to expect. As we get closer, I’m scanning everything around us. No movement in the trees, not a ripple on the fjord. It looks like nothing has happened. I imagine Mom waving from the kitchen window, waking me up from this nightmare. But no one is here. The police must have been, searching for clues to find Dad. Will there be crime scene tape?
The third step creaks on the stairs leading up to the front door. It smells like home with Mom’s lavender bushes on either side. I turn the knob and push the door open. I can’t make myself walk inside, even though the familiar scent of the hallway tells me I’m home. It’s changed. It feels haunted.
“Have the police found Dad yet?”
Mr. Jensen shakes his head. “I’m afraid not.”
Chills run through me. What if Dad lied about leaving the country and is still here? I look to Mr. Jensen who signals for me to go in first. I don’t bother taking my shoes off. Dad isn’t here to berate me anyway.
Mr. Jensen locks the door behind us and searches every room downstairs. “At least Hermann’s not here.”
Dad could be hiding upstairs. A part of me wants him to appear so I can hit him, strangle and kick him. Make him scream in such agony that his body forces him to forget. My back hurts with the thought.
“Do you mind checking upstairs?”
He nods, and after hearing him walk around for a few seconds opening and closing doors and closets, he calls down. “Happy to say he’s not here either.”
Dad’s gone, but the evidence of the attack is all over the house. The dining room resembles a crime scene. It’s like it’s happening all over again, right in front of me. Mom’s blood trickling out on the carpet, the chair breaking on the wall, and Dad tilting the table to chase after us.
In the kitchen, the remains of the steak dinner reeks, and flies hover around the food. I wave them off and scrape it all into a plastic bag, close it, and throw it out on the front steps.
I haven’t thought to ask Nana if she’s been here, but now that I think of it, why hasn’t she?
It’s not like her.
In my room, the yellow suitcase taunts me from the bed, and I pop it open to find the picture of Mom and Nana. My throat thickens. The family portrait of Dad, Mom and I slides out from a side pocket. My finalist inspiration. My jaw hurts, but I still pinch my lips together, desperate to hold myself together. I can’t look at it, so I close it, and limp downstairs to put the suitcase in Mr. Jensen’s car trunk.
Drops of rain descend from above, hitting the suitcase like a drum. I whisper to myself, “If I had only kept my mouth shut.” Dust blends with the water when I wipe the lid dry, creating a mud-like swirl on the yellow leather. It makes it look dirty. My pulse quickens as I stare down at the brown stripes. The suitcase is new; no one has ever used it.
Have I ruined this too?
Tears press as I pull my sweater down over my hand and rub the suitcase again with my sleeve, but I only make it worse. I use my other sleeve to wipe too. Still, I only spread the mud around. I lift the suitcase and hug it to my chest. Rain streaming down my face hides my tears. To a stranger, it might appear like I’m hugging my suitcase out of love, but I’m holding on for dear life. “I’m so sorry, Mom,” I whisper.
I’m soaked when I enter the house. I find a towel and clean the suitcase before placing it in the hallway.
On the inside of my bedroom door, Mom marked her height when she grew up here. Two centimeters below her every year, are mine. I begin at the bottom and paint over year one. It feels like I’m erasing my history, my life. Year two. Three, four. My chin quivers. Five, six. Why couldn’t I just keep my mouth shut?
I pack my things in boxes, and Mr. Jensen carries them downstairs for me.
I get a bucket with soapy water. On my knees, I scrub the blood-drenched carpet, glued to the floor. No matter how hard I try, I can’t get it clean. Blood is everywhere, coloring the bucket water red and now also my hands. I stop. My whole body shakes when I stare down at the blood on my palms.
I flinch when Mr. Jensen places his hand on my shoulder. “Let’s get this off,” he says.
He takes hold of me, walks me into the kitchen, now spotless, and cleans my hands in the sink. As the blood washes away, I gaze up at him. “You cleaned the kitchen?”
He nods. “And your mother will be fine without her carpet. It wasn’t here twenty years ago. Let’s throw it out.” Like a robot, I follow Mr. Jensen’s lead, roll it up and chuck it outside. The drumming from the raindrops has increased to what sounds like a waterfall on the roof.
“I’ve arranged for a company to pick up the garbage tomorrow morning. So by the time Celina returns, it will be gone,” he says.
While Mr. Jensen lifts the last box and my suitcase into the car, I take one final look at what has been my home for nineteen years. It feels empty, as do I.
Mr. Jensen pushes the button to start the car. The console lights up, and the tires roll us down to the forest, whisking me away and leaving my past life behind.
During the following days, I work at Skar’s Auto in the morning, watching the grass grow and answering calls from city people who want to buy the cars for a fraction of the asking price. Every evening, William updates me on his search for houses here, and we talk until I fall asleep.
I should spend more time with Nana and on my designs, but he’s so easy to talk to. Every problem in the world has a solution for him. It seems so stress free. When I complain about the opening hours at Skar’s, he tells me to change them. So I do. For me, the world is enormous and unpredictable, while for him, it’s as small as a playpen and as easy to navigate.
“I’ll be back in a few days, and I hope you have time for me,” he says.
“I’ll make time.” I grin, and the tone in my voice gives it away. I can’t wait to have him back with me.
School is out. Hedges are trimmed, the grass is cut to perfection, and Porsches fill the narrow streets with city tourists settling in for summer vacation. The Bluebird will be packed for two months until school starts again.
Soon Dr. Rose will release Mom from the hospital, and although she won’t know me, I want her to like and feel safe around me.
At five o’clock on Friday morn
ing, I meet Mr. Jensen at the jetty. He’s carrying a box full of shrimp from the fishing boats. It’s the day of Mom’s release from the hospital, and Nana has asked if Mr. Jensen can drive Mom home. I follow him into the kitchen where Ms. Berg eagerly waits to inspect today’s catch. He places the shrimp on the countertop, where she dives into the box, studying the shrimp thoroughly.
“Do you think Celina will remember me?” Ms. Berg pushes shrimp into a sieve to rinse. “She hired me when you were only two years old.”
I shake my head. “If Mom has deleted twenty years, anyone she’s met in that time will be gone too.”
We’re preparing for lunch and setting the tables when Mr. Jensen receives the call. “She’s determined not to stay at the hospital any longer. I’ll call you as soon as she’s home,” he says.
A rush of adrenaline spreads inside me. I’ve been preparing for this day, but now that it’s here, I’m not ready at all. I so want to drive her home, make sure she’s all right, that she has everything she needs. Still, every attempt I’ve made to approach her has resulted in her telling me to leave her alone.
I count the minutes.
When Mr. Jensen finally calls from his car about three hours later, his voice sounds strained. “Celina is not herself, I must warn you,” he says.
Recalling her cold demeanor at the hospital, I’ve prepared myself for that, but not for anything he should react like this for. “What do you mean?”
“She’s like…” He pauses, sounding as if he’s scrambling to find the right words to use. “Her personality is like she was when she was eighteen. Before she had you.”
“When she applied for the chef position in London?”
“Yes. It was quite a blow for Celina that she doesn’t work at Le Chancé, but at The Bluebird. Back then it wasn’t much, and if she can’t recall transforming it, she’s in for a treat when she stops by tomorrow.” He laughs, but I can tell he’s forcing it. I want to ask more, but I’ll see for myself tomorrow how she’s changed.
Let Go Page 16
