by Saga Berg
She sighed, audibly. “Why do you ask, if you don’t believe me?”
“I'm trying to protect you. You know that. You know what will happen if you break the rules...”
She swirled around. “No. I don’t. I know something will happen because you keep telling me but I have no idea what.”
Trym slouched. “Svala...”
“No. Don’t ‘Svala’ me, I'm sick of this! They took my child away from me, they kept us apart for six years and gave us three lousy weeks together. They keep toying with us. I don’t know what could possibly be worse than this!”
“You can lose him.”
She bit her tongue before she said something that would reveal she had been in contact with him.
“Svala, please.”
She took two steps up the stairs.
“I don’t want you to go through what I went through,” Trym said.
She stopped again, and turned abruptly. “And what exactly was that? What exactly happened to Alrik?”
Their eyes met for a second. Trym evaded her gaze but she kept staring at him, challenging him. He said nothing.
“I thought so.” She shook her head, then hurried up the stairs.
***
1971
New Haven
Alrik and Trym fought constantly after they lost Freja. Svala escaped to her room on the second floor in their house in New Haven, blocking their yelling out with Cat Stevens or Led Zeppelin, depending on the volume of their arguments.
The fights usually ended with someone leaving the house in anger. A door slammed shut, and silence replaced the shouting. When that happened, Svala further increased the volume of her music, detesting the silence even more.
One time after a fight, Alrik came to her room. He knocked softly on her door and waited for a few seconds before he entered. Svala sat on her bed, The First Cut is the Deepest bursting out of the speakers, creating a slight vibration in the floor. Alrik walked up to her record player, lowered the volume, then frowned and shook his head at the cover of a Led Zeppelin album leaned against the bookshelf.
“You do realize there is no stairway to heaven, don’t you?” He offered a lopsided smiled.
Svala stared into space. Fighting the tears proved futile. Alrik pressed his lips together and walked up to her bed. He sat down next to her and pulled her into his arms. She abandoned her closed up position and welcomed the warmth of his embrace.
“At some point you have to stop crying, sweetie.” He pressed his lips against her hair line.
Alrik always sided with her. On a normal day, his comfort and support eased her pain. During this time, nothing did.
He tucked back her hair and let it fall over her back, then rested his chin on the top of her head. “It’s not fair,” he whispered.
She let him hold her for a while, then eased back. “Why are we being punished? What did we do?”
“I don’t know. They refuse to talk to me.” He offered a mirthless smile. “Same old same old.”
Four hundred years ago, Alrik had a protégé too but was disqualified as mentor as he ‘did not abide by the rules’. He never talked about it, and Svala showed respect by not asking.
“What are you two fighting about?” she asked instead.
He reached out to caress her cheek. “Nothing.” His green eyes wavered.
Most of the older Liosálfar had blue eyes. Green was uncommon.
“Alrik...”
He sighed. “We’re in disagreement.”
“Well, obviously.” She pursed her lips, waiting.
Alrik eased away, and his eyes lacked their usual energy. “I think he should be fighting harder.”
“He’s not?” Her voice pitched.
Alrik bit his lip and lingered before he answered. “He’s doing what he can, following protocol. He’s too afraid to do anything else.”
“Why?”
“He’s afraid he’ll lose you, or that you’ll lose Viggo if he pushes too hard.”
Her eyes widened and Alrik’s gaze changed. He arched his brows and nodded slowly.
“Yeah, maybe he’s right. Maybe it’s not worth risking all and losing all,” he said.
Her body went cold. She stared at him in horror. He took her hand in his and added. “Don’t worry, sweetie. Lucky for you, I'm not in charge.”
***
1972
New Haven
Svala and Viggo waited one year to be together. When they reunited, Svala was fifteen, Viggo sixteen. For appearance they had to stay under supervision until Svala turned eighteen. This made searching for Freja far more difficult.
In the early seventies, tracking people was complicated -- tracking children, even more so. Without the internet there was no way to gather information for someone who was not of age. Going through regular channels required identification. Even then it was tricky to get anything released.
Trym and Alva refused to help, so they turned to Alrik.
They ambushed him in the laundry room one day when Trym was out. The rhythmic buzz of the tumble dryer shifting their clothes around had to suffice to drown out their voices in case Trym returned. Alrik folded the last turtle neck shirt when they came inside.
He offered an apologetic smile even before they said anything and once they’d presented their request he backed up against the counter and pushed his hands into his pockets. His shoulders slumped. “I want to help you, but I can’t.”
“Please,” Svala begged.
Viggo ran a hand through his hair with a frustrated sigh. He shook his head and tightened his lips as if to tell Svala he’d already suspected they’d get nowhere with Alrik.
Alrik’s gaze shifted between the two of them. “I’m sorry. I promised Trym I wouldn’t get involved. If I did, and they found out, things could get ugly. You could lose each other. Is that what you want?”
“We want our daughter back.” Viggo sneered. “That’s what we want.”
“I’m sorry. I wish I could help you, but my hands are tied.”
***
Svala and Viggo drove to their old house in Hampton. A married couple with two children, lived there now. The mantelpiece was cluttered with framed pictures of the whole family on various vacation trips, or posing for a Christmas picture. On the side table stood head shot photos of a little boy and girl, smiling happily into the camera.
The woman, Mrs. Wilson, invited them in for coffee under the pretense they came searching for a previous owner.
“We bought this house from an old lady. I should have her number somewhere,” Mrs. Wilson said.
They sat in the kitchen, waiting for the pot of coffee to brew. The gurgling of the machine broke through the silence as Mrs. Wilson rummaged around in a drawer. In the background, the waves rolled onto the shore in soothing strokes. The sound enhanced Svala’s anxiety.
“I was sure I put it in here.” Mrs. Wilson lifted a paper and shook her head, then put a hand on her hip and pursed her lips.
The kitchen, along with the rest of the house, had been remodeled to more contemporary standards. They sat on uncomfortable wooden chairs around a brown, round dinner table, surrounded by the kitchen’s new and hideous orange cabinet doors. The wallpaper matched the cabinets in color with traces of orange in the otherwise brown and yellow flowers. Nothing connected to Svala’s memory of the place she’d last seen her daughter.
The Wilsons had even painted the facade of the house from modest grey to a bright yellow color. The markings of Freja’s height in the hallway were gone, probably removed with a fresh layer of paint. She hated what they had done to their home, the place where they had been so happy raising their daughter.
The new kitchen table stood in the exact spot Freja sat when it shifted. Svala had trouble hiding her resentment to the nice lady, who in all fairness could not be blamed for anything. She must have failed to hide her feelings as Viggo smiled and reached under the table for her hand, squeezing it tight.
“Do you know how long
the previous owner lived here?” he asked.
“No, I’m afraid not.” Mrs. Wilson closed the drawer, her gaze clouded. “I might have left the number in the study, though. I’ll go look.”
Left alone in the kitchen, they both exhaled. Viggo squeezed her hand again, lifting it to his lips. “We’ll find her. I promise.”
“Then what?” Svala asked. “What do we do when we find her?”
He let go of her hand. “Well, at least we’ll know what happened to her.”
Mrs. Wilson found the number to the previous owner, a Mrs. Gerda Johansson.
Outside, Svala gazed up at the house and shook her head, her lips pressing tight together. ”Our beautiful house. They’ve ruined it.”
Viggo nodded and gazed up at the yellow house. It looked more like something out of Pippi Longstocking than the home they’d grown to love.
They went over to Mrs. Rowan next door, relieved to find she was still alive and well. She invited them in for tea and biscuits.
“The previous owner only lived there for a couple of months,” Mrs. Rowan said. “Before that a lovely young couple and their daughter lived there. They died in a tragic accident. I hope that’s not who you’re looking for.”
They sat out on the veranda facing the ocean. Svala remembered the flower print on the cushions in the antique wicker furniture. Freja loved coming here, as Mrs. Rowan never had a shortage of cookies.
”They were such a beautiful couple.” She smiled at them. ”Like the two of you.” Mrs. Rowan put down her cup of tea; it clinked when it met the glass table. ”The father used to come over and help me if I needed anything done around the house. I didn’t even have to ask, he’d just come by and offer to help. He’d bring his little girl. She loved her father that one. Adored him. And she was such a wonderful little girl. Stubborn, but polite. I used to watch them from out here. They’d often sit out on their porch, the three of them, enjoying each other's company like they didn’t need anything else. I’ve ever met a happier family.” She trailed off and her gaze went distant. ”Curious, I can’t seem to remember their names, or how long they lived there.”
“How did they die?” Svala’s asked.
Mrs. Rowan pushed her glasses up the bridge of her nose, giving it some thought. “I think a car accident, but again, my memory is not what it used to be.”
“All three?” Viggo’s eyes widened.
“No. Only the parents.” She reached out for the blue ceramic pot on the table. “More tea?” she asked.
Svala shook her head and raised her hand. “What happened to the daughter?” Her hand trembled when she lowered it. She never expected to get this much information.
“Well, social services took care of her, I guess. She had no relatives. There was an uncle but I suspect he was not an appropriate candidate to care for the child. He had a male companion, if you know what I mean. Now, what was his name again...”
After their visit to Mrs. Rowan they sat in their car for several minutes outside their old house without turning the key. Svala considered everything that could have happened to their daughter. How did someone recover from such a tragic event so early in life? What happened to her and where was she now?
“They told her we’re dead.” Svala stared out over the ocean. “She watched me vanish before her eyes and then they told a five-year old her parents died. And they let social services take her.”
“We don’t know if that is what happened. Mrs. Rowan is old. She could hardly remember anything.”
“She could hardly remember anything because that is how it’s programmed! We sat right in front of her, she talked about us and she didn’t even recognize us!”
“Well, this is not the first time that’s happened. We know how it works. They're not supposed to recognize us.” Viggo reached for the ignition. “We should follow up with our only lead.”
He started the car and pulled on to the main road. Svala gazed out the window, only now realizing one thing she had chosen to ignore. Freja wouldn’t recognize them either.
Chapter 14
Present Time
Washington D.C.
Svala sat on Sarah’s bed and gawked at the adjoining wall. It was covered with pictures of Viggo, mostly posters and magazine cut-outs. The signed image from New York broke the messy pattern of overlapping images cluttering the wall. Placed in a gold-colored frame, it centered the wall of worship.
Sarah came out from her walk-in closet wearing the fifth dress change in less than twenty minutes. Svala tore her gaze from the images of Viggo while Sarah studied her own back in the full length mirror next to the closet.
“How does this look?” she asked. The green, short dress barely covered essential parts of her body.
Svala concealed her impatience with a smile. “It looks fine.”
“Better than the red?”
Svala nodded, not recalling there had been a red. She fingered her iPhone. The first text from Viggo had been the last, and she didn’t dare to text or call him back again. She shouldn’t even have saved his number in case Trym checked up on her.
Sarah scrutinized herself over in the mirror, smoothed her hands over her hips and bit her lower lip with indecision. “I don’t know...”
The boredom of waiting made Svala open the old text message from Viggo to stare at it for the hundredth time. “We’re just going out for coffee, you know,” she mumbled.
Sarah lifted her hands to pull back her hair but stopped in mid action. Svala looked up from her text. Sarah bit her lip again, then pressed a hand to her stomach and walked toward Svala. “Okay, you have to promise not to tell anyone.”
Svala lowered her phone. “What?”
“Okay, listen.” Sarah moved a few steps closer, her face flush, eyes glittering. “I saw something on Twitter this morning. Viggo Storm moved to D.C this weekend.”
Sarah’s smile widened while the blood drained from Svala’s face.
“A few others confirmed it, writing they’d seen him in various places around town.” She bounced from foot to foot with a muffled whimper.
“He moved to Washington?” Svala asked.
Sarah stopped bouncing and clasped her hands together. “Yeah, isn’t that amazing? Now there is a real chance I'll run into him, and that means I have to look my best. Like, always.”
Svala bit her tongue and forced a smile. Sarah swirled around and went back to the mirror next to her closet.
“I’m changing into the red. I’ve read somewhere that he likes red and this is no time to be modest,” she said.
While Sarah disappeared into the closet again, Svala gave in and texted Viggo.
Did you move to Washington?
Three minutes passed without a reply. Sarah came out from the closet, adjusting her cleavage. She stopped in front of the mirror and studied herself from every angle. Obviously not happy with her appearance, she adjusted her bra again and checked herself over in the mirror once more before satisfied with the result. “Come on. Let’s go look for Viggo Storm.”
Svala checked her phone every other minute on their way to the coffee shop but Viggo hadn’t returned her text. Sarah was preoccupied searching the crowd in hopes of spotting Viggo on the street, and didn’t even notice Svala’s obsession with her phone.
It was Saturday afternoon and the streets were crowded. Even if Viggo walked past them, they would probably miss him in the sea of faces. Regardless, the whole thing was ridiculous. Unless Viggo was following Svala around, it was unlikely he would show up where they were.
The thought made Svala slow down and glance over her shoulder.
“What?” Sarah stopped, grabbed Svala’s arm and followed her gaze. “Did you see him?”
A couple of feet behind, a guy wearing sun glasses and a blue sweater with the hood pulled over his head slowed down. He lowered his head but Svala had already caught the visible parts of his face and she certainly didn’t have to look twice. She lied through a smile.
“No. Let’s hurry b
efore Jen and Megan get tired of waiting.”
The coffee shop was crowded. A murmur of voices and clattering dishes filled the room and then the whirr from the frothing machine cut through the buzz. Svala gazed through the full-length windows but no longer spotted Viggo in the crowd outside.
“I see Jen and Megan. They’re sitting with Jayden and Noah over there.” Sarah pointed toward a table by the windows facing the street.
Reluctantly, Svala followed Sarah over to their friends, keeping an eye out for Viggo. Jayden searched Svala’s attention as they approached in and slid further in on the black couch to make room. Svala forced a smile as she met his gaze, willing herself to stop looking for Viggo before anyone caught on.
Jen eyed Sarah with a cocked eyebrow. “What are you all dressed up for?”
“No reason.” Sarah smirked, then made a quick survey of the room.
The general customer group in the coffee shop consisted of teenagers, mostly girls. A group of girls from their school waved a friendly hello before returning to their conversation in the end of the room. By the table next to them sat four girls, all staring into their iPhones, not talking to each other at all.
Jayden patted the empty space next to him. “Hey, Svala. You can sit here.”
Behind her, Viggo walked through the double doors and into the coffee shop. She didn’t have to turn around, she felt his presence throughout her entire body, like a heat wave surging through her. Even so, she glanced his way, to make sure. He shot her a quick glance, his hoodie up and his sun glasses still on. Her heart raced.
“Svala?” Jayden asked again.
Her face was flush when she met his gaze. “Yeah, I...” Her eyes darted back to Viggo.
Viggo stayed undetected by anyone else but she recognized every little movement he made, the way he walked up to the counter, the way he reached up and scratched his neck once he stopped and waited for her to come to him. She knew every bit of him as well as she knew herself and she ached to go up to him and have him put his arms around her. She needed to feel him so much it was all she could think of.
Giving in to that urge would be disastrous on so many levels, so instead, she focused on resisting him, eased out of her jacket and sat next to Jayden.
The black leather imitation in the seating squeaked when she moved. Viggo tensed and crossed his arms over his chest. She fixed her gaze on Jen, but kept an eye on Viggo from the corner of her eye.
