I wish Mom were back.
My lungs tighten. “So, Mom’s home tonight?” I have to see her, if not meet her, look through the windows for some hope she hasn’t transformed into another person.
“Yes. We always had such lovely evenings, so I offered to keep her company. But she refused. Can you believe it.”
As soon as I hang up, Josefine’s by my side with a curious look on her face. “Want to meet up after work and talk about it?”
I’ve been avoiding her as much as I can. “I’m busy.” It’s not a lie; I have plans. I just don’t want to share them with her.
When I finish my evening shift at The Bluebird, I walk through the forest and tiptoe over to our house. My heart is racing. Mom, as I know her, will sit in the living room with her cup of tea, overlooking the water. So I’m relieved she’s in her lounge chair. But she has her back to the sea, writing something down. My breathing seizes when she lifts a tall glass of red wine to her lips and gulps half of it down.
This isn’t right. Mom doesn’t drink.
She will taste wine at the restaurant but spit it out. I’ve seen her have a glass of champagne on special occasions, but nothing like this. Drinking alone? She gulps down the remaining wine in the glass.
What?
I watch Mom head into the kitchen, and I have to grab on to the windowsill not to fall when she returns with the bottle to pour another glass. In her other hand are fabrics and what appear to be wallpaper samples. I remember these. Oh no. These are the samples grandmother forced Mom to bring home. Why is she looking at these? Is she redecorating our home? She told me she'd never do that. I peer through the glass. I hadn’t noticed it until now; she’s already ripped some of the old wallpaper off the walls. Mom is erasing our home.
BROWN SPOTS
That night, I lay awake in bed, staring at the moon outside my window and fighting the urge to go back to try to talk to Mom. When I get to Skar’s, I can’t concentrate, staring at the clock, counting down the hours. Will Mom be at The Bluebird when I arrive? How will she act towards me? Will I be a stranger she doesn’t like? I close early and put my phone number on the door in case a customer shows up.
Driving to The Bluebird, I cringe at the thought of her gulping wine. It was like watching another person.
I’m both relieved and disappointed she’s not at the restaurant when I arrive. Josefine is there, of course, with a thousand questions about William, which I try to ignore. “You’ll have to ask him,” I say, wishing she’d stop bothering me.
An hour later, Mr. Jensen’s car parks in front of The Bluebird, with Mom by his side. Mom’s wearing red lipstick, and a fancy red dress I’ve only seen her wear once before. She reminds me of a younger Mrs. Skar, which can’t be a good sign. Taking the last orders from my table outside, I race towards the restaurant, halting inside the door. The shock of seeing my mother dressed up this way makes me forget to close the door behind me, and the wind blows it shut with a bang.
“I’m so sorry,” I say.
“First you bother me at the hospital, and now here. Don’t tell me you’re employed here?” Even though her question doesn’t come as a surprise, it still hurts.
She struts slowly forward and keeps walking until the heat from her breath hits my face. I step back, recalling how Nana makes fun of people who act like this. “They’re scared,” she’ll say. “If not, they wouldn’t need to try to control others.” But when I glance up at Mom’s face, she doesn’t seem scared. She looks strict and detached.
But I trust Nana, and it makes it easier for me to stay calm with her words in mind. “Yes, I’m a waitress, M..., Celina.”
Her voice whispers. “You will refer to me as Ms. Vogt! And is it too much to ask that our waiters move without it sounding as if the building’s being torn down? No.”
I swallow. What’s happened to her? I want to shake her and tell her to behave like herself again or laugh it all off as a prank. Instead, I bow my head.
“I'm sorry, Ms. Vogt.”
I cringe. What can I do to better her impression of me? Mom always loved her tea. That will cheer her up. “Can I get you a cup of peppermint tea?”
“Tea? Hardly. Espresso, double.”
What? You hate coffee.
I hurry into the kitchen to find Ms. Berg rinsing apples for her famous pie. When she sees me standing there, she puts the apple down, and walks over to me, not saying a word before she hugs me tightly. Mom notices, and snaps her fingers at me, motioning me to move faster. Like a beaten dog, I wiggle out of Ms. Berg’s arms, make her coffee and serve her. My hands are shaking when I present the cup to Mom, who gazes up at me, her lips pursed.
“I hope you realize that if you intend on prioritizing your personal needs before our guests like you made me wait now, you must find yourself another place to work. Consider this your warning.”
Is she serious? I can’t speak heading back into the kitchen in a state of confusion and disbelief. What is making Mom behave like this? Mr. Jensen had warned me, but how can I make her warm up to me if all she does is order me around?
In the kitchen, Ms. Berg hands me a slice of apple to nibble on. “You wait, she’ll be back to her old self in no time.” She continues peeling apples but pauses. “She’s quite…” she raises her shoulders, “different.”
I inhale deeply. Different is not the word I would use to describe her, but it works. “I can’t believe she snapped her fingers at me, who does that? Mom would never behave like this.”
Watching her sip her coffee is like watching some exotic animal. Every movement fascinates me, scares me. I can’t make any more mistakes. If I keep my head down, do what she tells me, this can only get better.
At dinnertime, the restaurant’s busy, and I hurry outside to serve Mr. Jensen and Mom their drinks, while they enjoy the sun with a few regulars out on the deck.
City women wear white lace dresses and the men bright polo T-shirts. Neon pink and screaming orange seems to be this year's colors, unlike last year's turquoise variants.
“Like peacocks, they all try to stand out. What a waste when they all look the same,” Josefine says. She’s on her way out with a bottle of champagne. I laugh at how they all look alike as I head inside to pick up an order of lemonade and espresso.
Sunbeams block my view on my way out, and I don’t see Josefine backing into me. She knocks into my tray. I gasp, desperately trying to shift its balance to catch the espresso cup and glass of lemonade dancing across it. It’s too late. As if in slow motion, lemonade slushes into Mr. Jensen’s lap, dip-dying his previously light blue pants into a navy color. The glass bounces six times on the deck, ice cubes shoot out like confetti, and it ends its performance in a pirouette before it crashes into a thousand pieces between tables.
Mom sits next to him, and the espresso cup lands smoothly in her lap, splashing a cow-patterned brown spot onto her dress.
The silence is deafening. Josefine looks at me with horror and mouths, “I’m sorry.” Mom stares at me like I’ve done it on purpose. It’s the same expression Dad would give me when displeased.
Mom shakes her head disapprovingly, making sure only I see. She’s already given me a warning, what does this mean? I ponder for a second whether I can dive into the water and swim away, but instead, I gather glass shards, mop up coffee, and lemonade. I need a bucket and water to finish, and start rising to my feet when Mr. Jensen leans down under the tablecloth so Mom won’t hear him.
“Not to worry. No one dies of a little lemonade or coffee. Tomorrow, this will be yesterday’s news, my dear.” The shirt buttons stretch around his stomach, praying for him to get up again. He takes my hand and helps me up so I can get water and a scrubbing brush to remove the sugar left behind from the lemonade.
In the kitchen, Josefine waits for me. “I’m so sorry, Amalie. I’ll tell her it was my fault.”
Mom’s already standing in the door, pointing at me, her voice slow, silent, like a snake. “Pack up your things. We cannot have thi
s level of incompetence here.”
Mom is actually firing me.
When I don’t move, she snaps her fingers, but her voice doesn’t change. “Snails move at a faster pace than this.”
On Ms. Berg’s radio, Norwegian summer songs play, and I recall dancing with Mom right here, on this floor to the beat only weeks ago. I glance back at Mom; my body feels flustered with every memory and emotion running through me. There’s no anger or sadness. I feel empty as if a specter of emotions is trapped in a prism and has no light to exist on. I want to tell her she needs me, that spending time with me will help her regain her memory, but I don’t know if she wants to anymore. She’s so different from Mom, and Mr. Jensen told me she used to act like this. I can’t help but fear that she’s happy to be her old self again. So instead of saying anything, I place my apron on the counter.
Josefine opens her mouth to speak, but I discretely shake my head for her to let it be.
Mom points at me demonstratively. “I’m sure you’re easily replaced.”
My entire body feels numb. As if moving on autopilot, I walk towards the door.
Ms. Berg steps in front of me, ushering me to stop before turning to Mom. “You can’t fire her. That could have happened to anyone. It was a mistake, Celina.”
Mom stares at her in disbelief. “Not to me! And I certainly hope not to any of you.” She glares at Josefine and Ms. Berg, letting them know it’s their warning. Behind Mom, Josefine is trembling in frustration. I shake my head again, warning her not to make a scene of it. I recall the doctor’s warning about stress. “Don’t” I mouth to Josefine, but it’s too late.
She stamps her foot on the floor like a disobedient child and screams at Mom. “You cannot treat your daughter like this!”
I gasp. The room goes quiet. Mom stares at me, hatred oozing from her eyes. It looks like she’ll explode, and I don’t dare to move in case that will set her off, but a veil of carelessness soars over her as if whisking away every crummy thought.
Her fury turns into a smile. “We’re finished here,” she says.
As Mom exits, her joyous voice proclaims to guests, “The next glass is on me.” A cheer erupts until the closing door mutes the sound leaving Josefine, Ms. Berg and me in shock.
What just happened?
It looked like Mom had a seizure of some kind.
“Are you insane?” I glare at Josefine. “She’s sick, and more stress only makes it worse.” I replay Mom’s change in mood and shudder at the transformation.
Josefine swallows and tears brim in her eyes.
“Oh, seriously. Now you want me to feel bad for you?”
I should punch you.
Of course she wants this to be about her. And Ms. Berg puts her arm around her, comforting her. I can’t watch this charade.
Grow up.
“We’ll do what we can to help,” Ms. Berg says.
“I know you will,” I say, refusing to look at Josefine.
I place my hand on Ms. Berg’s shoulder and attempt to smile, to show my appreciation for her, but I can’t find joy in me to force a smile, so I nod instead and walk out the door.
I march up the street towards Nana’s house trying to block out children screaming from the gardens, Mom’s reaction which scares me, and Josefine who I’m glad to never have to work with again.
“Amalie, wait,” Josefine calls out to me while running to catch up. “I didn’t know I could make it worse. I’m sorry.”
You must be the most selfish person I’ve ever met.
“Why can’t you mind your own business, huh?” First Dad, then William, and now Mom. It’s like she’s on a mission. “What’s next, Nana? You have something bad to say about her too?” It’s as if she’s out to get every person that’s ever cared about me. “Leave me alone.”
“But I…”
“Don’t you get it? This isn’t about you. Please, leave me alone.”
Walking into Nana’s street, I listen to hear if Josefine’s following me. When I turn, she’s on her way back to The Bluebird.
Good-bye.
A black Mercedes drives up behind me, and its window glides down. William grins through it. “Hey, sexy. Need a lift?”
He couldn’t have come at a better time. Josefine sees me get into the car.
Hah.
He’s here, and he’s all mine, so I jump into the passenger seat, grab his head and pull his lips onto mine. “Yes. Please take me as far away from here as possible.”
“Wow. With that welcome, I’ll take you anywhere.”
“Oslo.” I point up the street. “Let’s go to your apartment.”
His grin widens. “Are you sure you’re ready?”
We both know he’s asking about sex and after today, the answer is clear to me.
“Yes.”
SEX?
The entire drive up to Oslo is foreplay. Around us, people are driving home from work, while I hold onto his arm; he strokes the insides of my thighs. My skin is boiling. Every motion his fingers make flushes over my body like tidal waves of raw lust. At every stop light, we can’t keep our lips apart. The anticipation is building in me along with the blistering electricity that’s forming between us. I try as hard as I can to stay in the moment, but the voices in my head are driving me insane.
“What will you do when he finds out you have no idea what you’re doing? How could you take off and leave your mother? You saw that she changed, that something was wrong.”
I want to scream back at them to shut up. That Mom doesn’t want anything to do with me. Besides, William’s done this before, so he’ll guide me. With the lust I have right now, I’m sure it will be great. I’ve waited long enough, so this is a good decision. Not like Josefine, who probably lost her virginity at thirteen or something insanely young. I’m better than that, and this will be my reward. My first time will be with this incredible man sitting next to me, and I can’t wait.
William parks in a tiny garage under his apartment building, and as soon as we exit the car, he grabs my waist and pulls me close to him. His growing erection presses against my stomach.
“Come,” he says, then pulls me by the hand with him towards the green door of the old elevator.
I certainly hope I will.
I imagine a king-size bed, how he’ll ease me down on the soft mattress.
The garage smells of wet concrete and dust, so I’m relieved when the elevator doors open, then shocked at its size. “Do we fit?” On the wall is a sign showing the maximum capacity of three people and they must be tiny to squeeze in here.
“Of course,” William says. He goes in, and it drops slightly which makes me hesitate. “Oh, come on. I live here remember.”
He pulls me in and turns me around, presses his stiffness against my behind.
The elevator jolts, then moves at a glacial speed up to the fifth floor, the top floor, according to the buttons in the elevator.
Or maybe that’s as high as it’s able to carry anyone.
He kisses my neck. “You smell amazing,” he says.
Shit.
I can’t wait to have his naked body on mine.
When the doors finally open, I escape as fast as I’m able to, pulling him along. He’s fiddling with his keys, and when the lock clicks open, he flings the door open with a bang and sweeps me off my feet carrying me into his dark apartment. Even though I immerse myself in his lips, his body, I stop when he flicks on the lights.
“Where’s your furniture?” We’re in the hallway looking straight through the kitchen and living room, stripped of everything. The images I had in my head vanish and I’m scanning the room for solutions to how we can do this.
“I’m moving,” William says, then closes the door behind us.
He puts me down on the hardwood floor and the clank from my shoes echoes through the room. I’m amazed by the size of the apartment. The ceiling must be three times as tall as I am, and the view of the fjord takes my breath away.
“So you’ve sold thi
s already?”
He moves fast.
“Of course not. I’m not an idiot. I’m renting it out.”
Why would that be idiotic?
The excitement for my first sexual experience drains from my body as we’re standing here, side by side, overlooking the empty room. I can’t get over how he brought me here when he knew it was empty. “Don’t you need the money to buy a new place, or are you renting in Årøysund?”
“Will you stop asking me about renting? Only idiots pay other people’s mortgages, and you’re getting me soft.”
William pulls me close, lifts me, and kisses me.
He’s right, stop thinking and feel.
I lose myself in his soft lips, wrap my arms around his neck, and he carries me through the room, through a walk-in closet, and into a master bedroom.
When he eases me down to the cold wooden floor, the skin on my back tightens. My pulse is racing, and I look at William for hints of what to do. Standing by my feet, William tilts his head studying me.
I take a deep breath to focus back on him. What will it be like? I think of movies where the characters fling themselves onto a bed, laughing. But he doesn't smile. Perhaps he’s as nervous as me. I hold my arms up toward him.
His brows pucker. “Wait here.” He runs out of the room. I sit up, wanting to follow behind, but lay down in case that’s wrong and straighten my hair out for his return. From another room, he rips off tape from what sounds like several cardboard boxes before he returns with a blanket tucked under his arm. “These things sound romantic until you realize the floor’s dirty."
I can’t help but smile because by now I’m already shifting positions laying down on the cold floor. William flings the blanket out, wraps his arms around me and drags me onto it with him.
The movement takes me off guard, and I pull back, out of his grip, wrap my arms around my legs, resting my chin on my knees, unable to look at him. "Maybe we should wait?" I glance at the door. There’s no way I’m sexy right now. He’s done this before; he must have. He’ll get us in the right mood. “I...Um, I haven’t done this before.”
Let Go Page 17
