Welcome to the Family
Forget what you’ve heard about Valhalla. I’ve seen your mortal depictions. They’re all wrong. You’re missing its bellow of vitality. The miles of walls hung with chain-mail rippling like a silver sea. A roof of beaten gold pulsing like a blazing summer sun. The clamor of the fallen warriors and battle cries of the Valkyries. Valhalla, hall of Odin. Odin the High King. Odin the terrible.
Odin soon to be related to me by marriage.
The High King rose from his throne at our approach. He was broad-shouldered and firm, but there were lines on his face and his hair was iron gray shot with silver. He fixed me with his one fjord blue eye. The eye that some say can tell truth from lie.
“High King.” I dropped to one knee like a warrior. I don’t curtsy.
“Rise, Inga, daughter of Gymir.” Odin commanded. “Is this not a glorious occasion, the marriage of your sister to Frey? Does it not speak of further peace among our realms?”
“A glorious occasion,” I echoed.
Odin frowned. “Are you certain she is yours, Gymir? She offers so few words.”
My father fidgeted beside me, obviously regretting his previous admonition. Well, maybe he shouldn’t have said our lives depended on my ability to hold my tongue while in Valhalla. “You are gracious to honor us with this feast,” I offered, trying to match the King's formal tone. My gaze slid to Odin’s sword.
His eye gleamed. “Balmung,” he said, though I knew its name. Give me some credit. I live in a realm of ice, not under a rock.
A lot and forever
The gist of the story takes shape in my head. Sentences form themselves, and words pour from my pen onto the paper. My right arm starts to ache, so I let it rest for a while, close my eyes and inhale. The sultry smells of a sun-warmed city drift through the open window. Newcastle, Australia. After six weeks, this place is still so impossibly exotic. The sound of cars driving by blends in with Mundy’s raw voice from the CD-player. Everything’s good. I’m in flow. When the phone rings, I let it go to the machine. It won’t be for me.
“Louise, are you there?”
And the spell is broken.
“Pick up, will you.” The euphoria fizzles away as my mother’s voice reaches me from the other side of the world, like magic, the dark kind. She never calls to make small talk.
I stumble over to the stereo, put Mundy on pause and grab the phone. “Hi,” I say, brazing myself for what’s to come. “What’s up?”
“Laura had an accident.”
Ghost fingers trail down my spine, defying the warm spring air. In my mind cars crash and glass shatters as Gran’s body flies through a windscreen. I swallow hard. “What?”
“I said Laura had an accident.” My mother always calls Gran by her first name. Never mom. Not even mother.
“But is she all right?”
“Yes, she’s fine…
“Thank God.” I drop down on the couch and feel myself fall back into place, as if I was the one flying.
“…ish. It was only a fall, but she’s in hospital...”
“But she’ll be ok?”
“If you’d just let me finish my sentences. She’s not dead or dying, but she’ll need proper care for some time.” My mother never was one for sentiments.
“And you’re there with her?” I say.
“I am. For now.”
For now? I let it go. Instead I ask: “What happened?”
“She fell on one of her stupid walks, and according to Mr. Petersen it’s not the first time.”
Mr. P is one of Gran’s closest neighbours. I think he’s one of the few people my mother ever respected – maybe even feared. He probably caught her scrumping his precious pears or some other produce. That was the impression I got when he caught me doing it a decade ago.
“She’s much too unstable to live up there by herself,” she continues. “I don’t understand how you could leave her like that.”
Well, that’s rich, coming from you. “But,” is all I get in.
“Yeah, yeah, the neighbours have been looking in on her, but that’s not enough. They’ve got lives of their own, you know, and none of them lives close enough to be actual neighbours if you ask me. Besides, she has dizzy spells, and you know she always was a wanderer. It’s a miracle she hasn’t hurt herself before, climbing around the grounds like that.”
I smile to myself, picturing Gran in her wild garden, the late autumn sun colouring everything light orange to go with the foliage of the birches.
“But her old body is flexible as a kitten’s, or so it seems,” my mother says. “She rolls herself into a ball and tumbles down the heather. This time, however, her bones weren’t that complying. She broke her hip, and she also hit her head on a rock or something. She was wearing Vuk’s old boots – don’t ask me why, they are much too big for her. No wonder she lost her balance.”
“She misses him,” I say, smile tightening. My nostrils burn and tears prick my eyes. Grandpa passed away a year ago. I miss him too. “She finds comfort in walking around in his shoes…boots…whatever.”
“Well, anyway, that’s what happened. The knock to her head has affected her memory. She doesn’t know who I am half the time.” My mother takes a short pause. I don’t fill the silence, so she goes on. “Laura was unable to look after herself in the first place, and now she can’t even walk for God knows how long. She’s staying in a rehabilitation centre for the time being, but she’ll probably be expected to go home in a few weeks. I don’t understand how they can send her home at all. But with you there it’ll be all right. And it’s not like you have anything better to do, is there.”
The last sentence is clearly not a question and its implications settle in my stomach as a dull ache. I don’t like where this is going. “But, I’m in Australia,” I say, stating the obvious. “And you’re there.”
“For now, I said.”
“But you live there. I assumed you were talking about being at the hospital.”
“Well, of course I’m not at the hospital now. Did you think I would call you in Australia on a pay phone? Anyway, she’ll need around the clock care, and I’m not in a position where I can put my life on hold for her.”
“But you think I should?” It slips out of my mouth before my brain has time to apply a filter. Of course she does. And if I wasn’t on the other side of the world, I would have without blinking. But I am.
“Come on, Louise,” she says. “Laura practically raised you.”
“I know,” I say, because it’s true. Gran did raise me. But what I want to do is yell back: Well, only because you didn’t want to. Or ask: And what about you, did you raise yourself? But I guess I know the answer to that. She probably thinks she did raise herself. Not that she ever grew up. At forty-five my mother still behaves like a petulant child.
From what I’ve heard she was a handful in her formative years. And I can believe that – easily. But I also suspect Gran had really small hands back then.
In any case, at the tender age of seventeen my mother spilled through Gran’s fingers and ran away with the travelling circus visiting our small town in the middle of Norway – or middle of nowhere as some would say. It was a melancholic clown that caught her eye, giving my mother the convenience of blaming any short-comings of mine on the fact I was fathered by a clown. Not that she often did. Whenever she was around, my mother preferred the role as the older sister or the naughty friend. I never met my father, at twenty-one my mother came sulking back home, carrying me in her belly.
She had an easy pregnancy. After having me she soon regained her ideal weight – my mother loves showing off the before and after pics. As her body discarded the physical ramification of pregnancy, any maternal instinct must have disappeared from her mind. She didn’t stick around for long. At twenty-two she met a musician and off she went, leaving me behind.
It’s not that I don’t love my grandmother. We drifted apart when I moved to Oslo at nineteen, but after Grandpa died, we reconnected, and at times I miss her like crazy.
But the thing is: I don’t want to go home. Like a child myself, I don’t want to leave this party. It is 1999, closing in on the new millennia, and it looks like the next century is going to treat me well. I have found my paradise. The climate is perfect, not too warm, nor too cold. The city is small enough to feel like home, but big enough to accommodate my every need. I’ve got an excellent beach only minutes away and, all though it’s still early days, I think I’ve met the one and only Mr. Right. I’m not a romantic so it’s not me, thinking along those lines, but Mathew Lester is everything I want in a man.
I moved in with him a couple of weeks ago, after a whole two weeks of dating, if you can call it dating. We spent almost every hour of those weeks together. I don’t usually move this fast, but it’s my gap year, a time in life where you’re allowed to make rash decisions. Since I was only staying at the near-by backpacker’s while looking for a flatmate anyway, Matt and I decided not to waste precious money on double rent.
I usually go with him on his morning surfs. It’s a wonderful way to start off the day, seeing the sun come up and the powerful waves hit the shore. Sometimes I’ll walk up to King Edwards Park and sit on the headland overlooking the Commandant’s bath. With the sun warming my face, I watch the ocean crash into the rocks and flow into the Bogey Hole, while Matt paddles out on his board to greet the other early birds floating about, waiting for their perfect wave.
But today I had decided was the day. Today I was going to start writing my book – my epic, my legacy. I have wanted to write for as long as I can remember, but I’ve always been shy about putting my thoughts down on paper, afraid too much of me would seep out and join them. Then I realised I’m allowed to lie, encouraged to lie, even. I can make up whatever I want. Nobody wants the truth anyway. The truth is too trivial or too cruel.
So I overcame my qualms. This morning I actually thought I could take on the world. I’ve spent the last couple of weeks re-reading my favourite novels, I’ve been listening to the soundtrack from Romeo + Juliet all morning, and I’ve invited my Damon to join me. I have huge ambitions. Inspired by the true Australian story of the Stolen Generation, and driven by a craving for big words and a bit of drama, I had set the scene.
But here I am, on the phone, sensing my perfect life is about to unravel, knowing I will let it.
I don’t argue, I do what I’ve always done when facing my mother, I cave.
Liked
Thirty-six. Two kids even Satan would disown. Squeezed into size 10 skinny pants while my hips beg for size 12. Attending a wake with a spread so large it puts all you can eat joints to shame and my size 10s to the test.
Even on the wrong side of thirty, this wouldn’t be the worst place in the world if I hadn’t killed the guy eternally sleeping under the closed mahogany casket.
Involuntary Vehicular Manslaughter.
Court’s words. Not mine.
Stupid woman posting on Facebook while driving a Range Rover would’ve been more accurate.
In my defense, people shouldn’t use social media to rehome puppies because they pee in the house. It warranted an immediate response.
Show some responsibility people!
“Thanks for coming,” a young twenty-something said. I think she put on her eyeliner while driving.
Bet she didn’t kill anyone while doing it, though.
Size 2. Kendra Scott earrings. Green Lily Pulitzer sundress. At a funeral? Tacky. One kid and that outfit will become a distant memory tucked deep in the huge guest bedroom closet of her sugar daddy’s McMansion.
But she has the body and no one even seems to care she’s not wearing black.
Of course, I’m jealous. I would kill for her body.
“Who knew my uncle was so popular. And you are?” She left a pink lipstick ring matching the off-year Rosé on her plastic glass waiting for me to answer.
The crazy bitch who ran over your uncle who wishes she could figure out how to change the past.
“Tessa Gilbert.” I offered a full hand, unmanicured nails and all. “I’m sorry for your loss.”
“Thanks.” She pinched my index finger between her fingers and thumb like I was a shrimp. Creepy. As if I weren’t uncomfortable already.
Can we get some cocktail sauce over here?
A flock of Vera Wang designer knock-offs swept her up in a flurry of selfies and Instagram posts and I found myself alone in a perfectly crowded room while Dan, my husband, huddled in the corner with five other men checking their fantasy football teams.
Remind me not to die during football season.
Dan led a chorus of collective groans from the men. Judging by his eye roll and grinding teeth, either the Steelers or his make-believe team was losing. I prayed it wasn’t both. Today was hard enough and I didn’t need him pouting until bedtime.
Service ended thirty minutes earlier and already half the arrangements wilted.
Seemed everything died around me these days.
A blast of over-zealous air conditioning cleared out the area around the casket offering me a chance to say my goodbyes alone. Goosebumps sprouted on my arms and I regretted handing my jacket off to Dan when we arrived. Like my pants, it didn’t fit any longer, but it matched my outfit.
Funeral Chic
It didn’t exist in my wardrobe. Hell, this was the first I attended in my life, but I wasn’t about to buy something to wear it to a funeral. I’m sure it’s bad luck to wear it again.
I laid my hand on the oak casket. Smooth. Clean. Peeling?
Veneer.
“You deserved better,” I whispered. “I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to. The rain. The wet road. Kids arguing. You know. Life.”
And death.
“Were you close?” The funeral director encroached my personal space. A bit heavy on the Old Spice, but I watched earlier as he glided from person to person, offering an ear and a kind word.
I yanked my hand off the casket, but my print remained. A ghostly handshake goodbye.
“I saw him jogging.” I inhaled deep, clearing the congestion in my sinuses. “Every day. Rain or shine. He never missed a day. At least, I don’t think he did.” I wiped a tear and most of my mascara from my eyes. “I didn’t even know his name until the day he died.”
“Paul—”
“I know it now!” I snapped. “Oh, my God.” My hand found his forearm. “I’m so sorry. I don’t know. I don’t…”
“It’s alright.” He patted the top of my hand.
His skin. So soft. Softer than mine.
“I’ve heard worse,” he said. “It’s an emotional time for everyone. It helps to talk. Can you tell me about the last time you saw him?”
Pinned against my front grill and a concrete barrier. You know, the barriers where they are doing road construction out past the Jiffy Wash and the new self-storage place. His head looked like a pumpkin after a Devil’s Night prank. I screamed at my kids to stay in the car. So much blood. I wanted to do CPR. I’ve taken classes. But his chest. How do you do chest compressions when the chest is already compressed? These folks are lucky they can’t see under this casket. It’s a nightmare. My nightmare.
“Jogging.” I inhaled deep. “Jogging. The day he died.”
“Well, take comfort in knowing he died doing something he loved.” The funeral director pulled his arm free. “We should all be so lucky.”
My Coach handbag vibrated against my thigh. I regretted skipping Pilates this month, too busy feeling sorry for myself and worried what women in my class were saying under their breath.
Gah! Stupid Facebook notifications. I always forget to silence them. Dan says it’s going to get us kicked out of the movies one day.
One-hundred Seventy-three?
I didn’t think the little number on top of the Earth icon could show triple-digits. The irony being all one-hundred seventy-three of those notifications were comments from people in my kids’ school district.
That hussy posted a picture of me at the casket. Could she have gotten a worse angle?
Dan slipped his hand onto the small of my back. His touched made me smile. I pulled it off my face when I realized this wasn’t the best place to be caught smiling. People were watching.
“Don’t look, ’hon.” He peered over my shoulder.
“Let’s see what the world has to say about Tessa Gilbert.” My thumb trembled above the iPhone’s screen.
“Looks, it’s Cedar Lake’s Most Wanted.”
Liked twenty-eight times.
“How come she’s not wearing orange?”
Liked sixteen times.
“Bet she’s only there because the court is making her.”
Liked nineteen times.
“Her fat ass should have been the one out there jogging.”
Liked one-hundred two times.
Are you kidding me? One-hundred and two people, one-hundred and two neighbors, think I’m fat.
{{{Vrrr}}}
One-hundred three.
{{{Vrrr}}}
One-hundred four.
{{{Vrrr}}}
{{{Vrrr}}}
{{{Vrrr}}}
“Remember how I said I just want to be liked?” I silenced my iPhone and shoved it deep in my purse. Dan nodded and pulled me in closer. “This isn’t what I meant.”
Everyone in the funeral parlor exchanged glances between their phones and me. The funeral director wiped down his arm where I had been touching him.
“Take me home, Dan.” I crumpled in his arms. He was my grill, my concrete wall, holding up what was left of me. “Please, take me home.”
Rain and Cigarettes
I came home smelling like rain and cigarette smoke and teenage love and my mother grabbed me and said "you better not fall in love" and so I smiled and touched your number that you had slipped in my pocket earlier that day when you said that you were 32 degrees Fahrenheit and I was the sun and I could melt you with my fingertips.
I came home smelling like a hurricane and tequila and lemonade and the lavender flower you tucked behind my ear the night before and the way your shirt hung off of me, lopsided, almost like we were. My mother said to me "you better not fall in love" and I twirled the cheap necklace between my fingers and I smiled to myself, the clasp was broken but I could still feel your cold fingers as you tickled my neck when you first put it on me.
I came home smelling like thunderstorms and fire and breakup songs and rose thorns and cheap vodka that would make me throw up blood and smudged makeup. And the girl you chose had laughed and said ti would always be her and never me. And my mother just looked at me with pity.
For four months I smelled like overcast drizzles and fog and cheap takeout pizza and dirty clothes and tear stains on pillows and broken songs about love. I hadn't left the house since you left. And my mother stayed outside my room to make sure I stayed alive through the night while I cried myself to sleep.
Three weeks later I met a boy who wasn't so cold and gave me some inner peace and offered me his shirt so I could sleep in and hold tight and smell his scent lingering on it when I missed him. And I came home smelling like fresh rain after a long drought and clean laundry and happy music and laughter. But I told myself I better not dare fall in love.
But I did anyways.
For nine months I came home smelling like a sense of security and everything safe and good and happy and hopeful. This boy stuck by my side and gave me the world and the stardust in his beautiful brown eyes melted my heart and his laugh was music to my ears. Some days I still come home smelling of gloomy weather and dragging feet and downcast stares avoiding the world. And my mother reminds me I fell in love and I smile because I fell hard and broke all my bones and he was there to pick them up for me.
And one day he came home smelling like pot and bourbon and nothing good and he told me he no longer loved me. And my mother looked on as I asked him to take his hoodies and love notes and good morning texts and all the memories we had made.
For one week I smelled like downpours and broken music and unkempt hair and shattered hopes and torn up love letters. It hit me then, what my mother had been warning me, that she had left out the last part of her cautionary advice. "Don't you fall in love... with anybody but yourself."
Now I smell of messy art and soft music and burning candles and forgotten hurts.