by Gina Azzi
Anguish and despair roll off of Torsten in surges that threaten to drown me. I feel his disappointment in my throat. I carry his hurt in my stomach. I can barely look at him for how much it seems to destroy him when his eyes meet mine.
Lars drives us through the city streets and I pretend to gaze out the window with interest, as if I’m taking in all the sights of Oslo. In reality, I don’t see anything but a blur. I assume we’re going to a hotel, but we stop in front of a mansion on the outskirts of the city that has anxiety crawling through my veins like fire ants.
Lars opens the door for me and I stumble out, catching myself at the last moment by grasping the door. Lars glares down his nose at me. In perfect English, he says, “Welcome to Hansen Manor.”
“Thank you,” I sputter, clearing my throat. I follow Lars up the steps to a huge wooden door that swings open before we reach it.
Staff members bustle about inside as Lars leads me into a foyer that rivals the one in my childhood home, with a sweeping staircase and blinding crystal chandelier.
The back of my neck tingles and I know Torsten has entered the home and is standing behind me. More than anything, I want to turn, wrap my arms around his hips, and bury my face in his chest. I want to feel his fingers in my hair, let his warmth seep into my chilled skin, let the sound of his heartbeat slow the racing of mine. I want to know that we’re okay.
Instead, I shuffle back a step. Torsten wraps his arm around my shoulders, guiding me forward. His touch is hesitant, as if he doesn’t know how to act around me now that we’re in his childhood home. The wall he seems to erect between us is confusing and hurtful. I try to lean into his touch but he straightens, his arm slipping away as his fingers press into the small of my back.
I smile politely at the staff as Lars leads us to a room. Torsten shuffles along slowly and I know from his breathing that his leg and shoulder are causing him pain, to say nothing of the concussion he’s battling. He needs rest and care. The last thing I should do is pile more stress on his already overflowing plate. So I bite back my questions, swallow down my hurt, and vow to do what is in his best interest.
Once we cross the threshold into our room, Lars closes the door behind us. Our room is more than just a room, it’s like a hotel suite, with a sitting area, a desk, an en-suite bathroom, and I wager, a closet larger than my old apartment in Southie.
“Rielle.”
I look at him, searching his eyes for something to latch onto, some emotion to help me feel closer to him and not like we’re on opposite sides of the Atlantic, about to sink.
“Say something,” he demands. “The first thing that comes to mind.”
I hold back all of my questions about us, forcing myself to bury my fears regarding our relationship. Instead, I think of Farmor and her request. “Make things right with your dad.”
Torsten jerks back as if I slapped him. A shudder drops over his eyes and I realize too late that he was trying to connect with me too and I ruined it.
“Torsten, wait—” I reach for him.
But he holds up an arm and turns his back, gesturing that he needs to use the bathroom. I watch him limp across the room with apologies dying on my tongue and tears filling my eyes.
19
Torsten
I hate myself for involving Rielle in all of my family drama. Over a month ago, she warned me she didn’t want to lie to a sweet, old lady’s face and that’s exactly what I made her do. On Farmor’s deathbed no less.
The anguish in Rielle’s face haunts me. The hurt in her eyes lances at my chest, cutting me wide open. The way she looked at me and told me to make things right with my father, like I’m some spoiled, overindulgent child, landed like a jab to the jaw.
I can barely look at her without disgust and shame for myself welling in my throat, clogging my ability to breathe.
Early this morning, I went to the hospital to sit with Farmor. She’d already slipped into unconsciousness but the rise and fall of her chest soothed me. Just knowing she was still here calmed some of the erratic thoughts fighting for room in my mind. After an hour, I kissed her forehead, thanked her for giving me a beautiful childhood, for believing in me when no one else did, and blessed her spirit. I slipped from her room, casting one last look over my shoulder. But Farmor asleep in a hospital bed isn’t how I want to remember the woman with mischievous eyes and a too-big heart. When I arrived back at the house, Rielle was still asleep.
Now, I’m dressing to meet with my father and Anders. We’re sitting down with my uncle Erik and his sons, Daniel and Johan. The lawyers are meeting us to go over Farmor’s wishes, things related to the business and the future, things that can be discussed given the current situation. More than anything, I want to race back to the hospital and be at Farmor’s side but Father demanded I attend this meeting and since I promised Farmor last night that I’d make nice during my time here, I’ve agreed.
The bathroom door opens and Rielle steps out. God, she’s beautiful. Her hair is a wild curtain of curls. It’s different than the sleek, straight style she rocked when she worked at Hendrix. She’s clad in jeans and a light sweater, casual boots on her feet.
I clear my throat. “I’m speaking with my father this morning.”
She gives me a genuine smile. “Good.”
“There’s horses if you ride?”
She shrugs. “On occasion.”
It strikes me just how little I know about her life, her past, her. It leaves me feeling more unsettled, more disjointed. I’ve brought Rielle to Oslo, to my family home, to meet my farmor as she passes into the next life and I don’t even know if she rides horses or where her family lives now or if she likes her meat cooked well done or medium. Another layer of shame settles in my chest, this one nearly reaching the base of my throat.
I run my hand over my head. “What are you going to do this morning?”
She picks up the DSLR camera I gave her and places the strap around her neck. “Explore.”
I frown. “It’s not safe to just wander—”
“Magnus is coming with me.”
The sight of my nephew, of Anders’ son, running toward me flares in my mind. Of course I knew I had a nephew but God, is he already four? Did I really miss his entire life, never once meeting him? My disgust with myself grows larger. Soon, it will eat me entirely. That is, if I don’t suffocate from it first.
“Don’t worry about me. I can entertain myself.” Rielle moves to pass me but at the last moment, I catch her wrist. The flash of blue catches my eye as I hold her tightly, my gaze drawn to the sapphire and diamond ring on her index finger.
“She gave it to you,” I murmur, shock racing through me. I promised Farmor, in addition to making things right with my father, that I’d give my future wife, the woman who owns my heart, her ring. I brought it back, hoping we could talk about it today, hoping I’d have some time with Farmor to explain that my relationship is complicated but not without deep feelings. At least, on my end. And yet, Farmor already knows because she gave Rielle her ring.
Rielle stiffens beside me. “Do you not want me to wear it? It’s just, while we’re here, after everything your farmor and I shared…” She shrugs and uses her other hand to twist the ring off her finger. She holds it out to me. “Forget it. Here.”
I back away from the ring as if it will burn me. In many ways, taking it from Rielle would. “No. Wear it. I want you to.”
She studies me for a long moment before sighing. Then, she jams the ring on her finger and walks toward the door. When her hand touches the knob, she turns and looks at me over her shoulder. Her eyes swim with hurt and shine with sincerity. “Good luck today, Torsten. I’m rooting for you.”
Then, she’s gone and with her, the resolve I’ve been clinging to, to keep it all together, slips.
I lower myself to the edge of the mattress and try to get my head on straight. The room spins, making me nauseous.
Farmor is dying. Rielle is wearing her ring. Magnus called me uncle. I still
have to fulfill my promise.
Exhaustion sweeps through me, making my limbs heavy, my movements sluggish. My shoulder feels less sore today but my knee throbs from not resting it. Lingering effects of my concussion float on the periphery of my vision. The playoffs, the game, the hit all seem like they happened eons ago. Has it really only been two days?
I rub sleep from my eyes as a sharp knock sounds on my door.
“Come in,” I say in Norwegian.
Lars pops his head around the door. “It’s time. They’re waiting for you, Master Torsten.”
I sigh and pull myself up. It’s time to face the music. It’s time to come and do the thing I promised I’d do.
In many ways, my time is up and simultaneously, just starting.
I pull a sweater on over my button-up shirt and give myself a quick glance in the mirror. No matter how I look, Father will have a derisive comment tucked away. Blowing out a breath, I step toward the door.
As I pass Lars, I remind him for the umpteenth time, “It’s just Torsten.”
As always, he doesn’t respond.
I walk through the dark mahogany hallways of my father’s house and a million memories of my childhood ripple over my skin. Like skipping stones, some skirt the surface of my consciousness, not requiring additional consideration. Others cause ripples in my mind, stirring up past mistakes and scabbed-over wounds. And still others sink deep, piercing my soul.
Father’s disappointment in me is well-known and well-documented. Anyone who worked in the Hansen employ over the past twenty-something years can recall the tension between us, even an ocean apart. But Father is Farmor’s son and I love Farmor so here I am. I take a deep inhale and force myself to stand as straight as my sore shoulder and bum knee will allow. Right before I push inside Father’s office, where we’re meeting, Anders enters the hallway. He lets out a low whistle and I can’t stop the grin that splits my face.
It’s a thing we did as kids, when on the lookout for Father. After our mother left us, Father spent the following year in a fog, oscillating between periods of darkness and depression and anger and rage. On the nights we knew better than to cross his path, Anders and I would whistle a low, three-note melody, similar to the Common Rosefinch which could be found in these parts.
I glance up at him as he strides toward me, his hands in his pockets, a boyish expression on his face.
“My son is enamored with your wife,” he says, with more warmth in his tone than yesterday.
“She’s pretty easy to fall for,” I agree.
He looks me over and nods. Lifting a hand to his face, he scrapes it along his jawline the same way I do when I’m in uncharted territory, uncertain how to proceed. “Listen, brother,” he begins in our native tongue, “I love Farmor just as much as you.”
“I know that.”
He rocks back on his heels, stuffing his hands back into his pockets. “I’m tired of holding a grudge for reasons I no longer care about. It’s been too long.”
I frown. “What do you mean? The reasons are clear. I left the family fold, I turned my back on the Hansen name, I didn’t step up the way I was supposed to and instead, booked it to America.” I tick off the reasons on my fingers. What else have I done for my family to despise me so much?
Apparently something because surprise washes over my brother’s expression. “That’s what you think?” he asks in a low voice.
“What?” I narrow my eyes at him, trying to connect dots that aren’t lining up. “What else have I done?”
“You mean, you didn’t skim money from the business to pay for hockey? For the ice time and the uniforms and the travel?”
My blood turns cold as ice spreads through my veins. My chest nearly caves in on itself as I stare into my brother’s eyes and realize he truly believes the accusations he’s leveling me with.
“Skim money?” I hiss, the muscle in my jaw ticking frantically. “Steal from my own family? Steal when we all know there was enough money to pay for my hockey?”
“Shh,” Anders says, a warning in his eyes. He grabs me by the arm and pulls me around the corner, away from Father’s office door. “I thought that’s what, that’s what Father and Uncle Erik told me.”
I drop my head back and let out a chuckle that sounds more like a growl. “I can’t fucking believe it. All this time, I thought I, I thought you felt like I abandoned you guys, chose hockey over our family, over our stupidly privileged lives.”
When I meet Anders’ eyes again, he shakes his head. “No. Never. I was always proud of you for hockey. Why do you think my son knows all of your stats? Not that Father knows that but…” He trails off and sighs. “I’m sorry, Torsten. Truly. I wish I reached out to you years ago. When you first left and Father told me about the skimming, I was too angry to reach out. Furious really. By the time my anger simmered, I’d been working with Father and Uncle Erik for a couple of years and by then, honestly, I resented you for leaving. I hated that you got away, out from under all of this…” He tosses his arms wide and I wince at the hurt in his tone. “Then I met Elin and my life shifted. I was too wrapped up in her, in our future, to go digging into the past.” He shrugs. “I let too many years go by.”
I shake my head. “Nah, Anders. It’s not all on you, man. I could have picked up the phone too and I didn’t.”
“After Elin left—”
“Left?”
Anders’ shoulders dip. “She took off on us about a year and half ago. Said it was too much. The family drama, the constant posturing and positioning among father’s generation. Daniel and Johan aren’t like that. They’re like me. Us.” He taps me in the chest with the back of his hand. “It was too much for her.”
“Shit, I’m sorry, Anders. I didn’t know. Farmor never said a word.” I frown. Why didn’t Farmor tell me? Why didn’t you ever ask?
“It’s fine. I have Magnus and he’s”—he grins suddenly, a little sheepishly—“he’s my world.”
“He’s pretty incredible,” I agree.
Anders glances in the direction of Father’s office. “Let’s go in there and lay it all out, Torsten. You don’t want this life, you never have.”
“True,” I agree, frowning at him. “What do you have in mind?”
“I don’t want this life either. Not the way Father runs thing. Constant manipulation and pitting family member against family member. Plotting and scheming, creating dramas. You think I want this to be my legacy? What I leave for Magnus?”
I narrow my eyes, seeing my brother through a new lens. “Fatherhood’s changed you, Anders.”
He shrugs. “You think it won’t but trust me, it will change you too.”
“Nah, Rielle and I, we’re not—”
He chuckles and clasps my shoulder. “Trust me, you are. You just don’t know it yet. Come on, we better get going. You with me?”
I whistle back our three-note code and Anders grins.
Mixed feelings tinged with nostalgia wrap around me as I follow my brother toward Father’s office. Decades of hurt and anger and tension could have been avoided. If Anders is telling the truth and I strongly suspect he is, then Father concocted one hell of a story to get my family to despise me. But why would he do that? What is he after?
Anders storms into Father’s office like he owns it and I jump when the door slams into the wall, another childhood memory rolling over me. But back then, Father was the only one throwing open doors.
Everyone is already seated around the conference table and look up in alarm. My cousins, Johan and Daniel, wear confused expressions. Uncle Erik looks irritated. The lawyers appear surprised. And Father, well, he sneers at me and lifts his chin. “So the prodigal son returns.”
“Nice of you to greet me when I arrived,” I mutter, walking to the table.
He narrows his eyes. “What’s wrong with your leg?”
“Took a tough hit.” I lower myself into a vacant chair and Anders slides into the one beside me.
Father shrugs. “That will happe
n when you choose to work with your back instead of your brain.”
Anders glowers at Father.
I grin at the table. “The prodigal son, huh? An interesting comparison when you consider that I made my own fortune from my own skill, talents, and didn’t need to piggyback off the family name.”
Johan opens his mouth but Anders cuts him off before he can speak.
“You lied to us.” He points at Father.
Father frowns, gesturing with his hand for Anders to hurry up and say whatever he wants to say.
“Torsten never skimmed any money. He never stole from the business. He never did anything except follow his dream and have you badmouth his name, smear his reputation in Norway. You made our family turn our backs on him and let him believe it was his fault.” Anders’ voice shakes at the end. I sit up straighter in my chair, stunned at the length my brother is going through to right this wrong.
It dawns on me that Anders truly had no idea and is remorseful for all the time we lost. At one point in time, he was my best friend. My big brother. He protected me and right now, he’s doing it again.
Johan glances at me. “Is this true?”
Father sighs and glances at one of the lawyers who flips open his portfolio, signaling it’s time to begin.
“Hang on.” Daniel holds out a hand, and lifts his chin at Father. “Is it true?”
“Every word,” I respond.
The atmosphere in the room drops several degrees as a thin layer of ice spreads throughout the room.
Johan turns to his father. “Did you know?”
“The truth,” Daniel demands.
One of the lawyer’s phone rings and he excuses himself to take the call.
Father sighs and glances at the ceiling, as if the universe owes him something other than a swift jab to the jaw.
Uncle Erik clears his throat and nods.
Johan mutters a string of curse words as Daniel cuts me a look filled with apology.
“How could—” Father begins to berate his brother but the lawyer slips back into the room, his expression somber.
