by Isa Hansen
The girl was already moving and the guy stood and pedaled to gain traction.
“I hope I’m not too heavy,” she called to him.
“Not at all,” he called back, over his shoulder. “I can barely feel you.”
Celia focused on her balancing, thinking how she’d gone from never taking a ride from strangers to having done so twice in one day. Not that this was a ride in the traditional sense.
She raised her voice so she could be heard over the tires on gravel: “So, are you both in school here?”
“Yeah, we go to Björkby gymnasium,” the girl said, slowing so she was in line with Celia.
“That’s where I’ll be going this year.”
“Cool!” The girl gave her a bright smile. “I’m Ebba, by the way.”
“I’m Celia.”
From in front of her, the boy half-turned. “I’m Oskar.”
Most of what she could see of him was some reddish-blond hair sticking out from underneath his cap.
She said to the back of his head, “Hi.”
They went quiet and biked.
Ebba sped up and turned off the gravel road and onto the main road. They were at the old railway station, and this time headed in the right direction—toward Björkby.
The ride was faster and much more even on the pavement.
Within a few minutes the town of Björkby spread out in front of them, the outskirts residential with wide leafy streets and rows of tidy wooden houses. The steeple from the ancient church in Old Town towered off in the distance.
“Do you guys live around here?” Celia asked.
Oskar replied, “I live in Gnosta.”
“I don’t know the area too well.”
“It’s nearby, just a small village.”
“And I’m from Björkby,” Ebba said. “I live pretty close to the street we’re taking you to.” She angled herself toward Celia. “How old are you?”
“Eighteen.”
“You’re eighteen, too,” Ebba said eagerly. “That means we can go to the pub together. Do you want to go tonight? Göken is a good place to go on Wednesday nights.”
“I think I need to sleep tonight. I just flew in from the States actually. But another time.”
They didn’t ask her why she was out wandering random country roads if she’d just flown in. She was glad they didn’t. Despite the offbeat and not so comfortable mode of transportation, she felt her mood lighten. She was soothed by the sunny friendliness of the girl and the boy.
After another little while, they both slowed. “We’re here,” Ebba said.
Celia immediately recognized the mustard-gold house with its white-paned windows and wooden flower boxes, spilling over with late summer flowers. The yard was green and lush, surrounded by a neatly trimmed hedge.
Oskar steadied his bike and Celia gingerly got off, the stiffness catching up with her.
“Thanks for the ride.”
He gave her a shy smile. “It was nothing.”
“See you around!” Ebba waved.
And just like that they were off.
Celia wished she’d thought to take their numbers. Hopefully she’d see them again at school. She turned to the house, glad to be home. Or at least what would be her home for the next year. She knocked on the door and was met a few moments later by Anette, Erik’s wife.
Anette was a handsome woman with auburn hair and a kind face. Her eyebrows immediately shot up. “Celia! You’re here!”
“Uh, yeah…” she frowned.
“Erik, she’s here already!” Anette called while relieving Celia of her backpack.
Erik appeared, looking a little older and quite a bit rounder than she remembered him. He had a ring of brown hair around a bald spot, round glasses, and a round ball of a stomach that filled out his cotton vest.
He gave her a welcome hug. “We were just about to leave to pick you up.” His startled expression matched Anette’s. “How did you get here?”
“I tried calling you.” The stress and unease from Celia’s ride returned, lodging itself in the pit of her stomach. “There was a driver at the airport.”
“A driver?”
“I just assumed you had sent him; he had my name on a sign and everything.”
“No, we didn’t—”
“Oh, shoot,” she said, remembering. “My suitcase. It’s back at the house.”
Erik stared at her. “What house?”
“The man, the strange driver. He took me to a house by the tip of the lake.”
“You said your suitcase is there?” Anette asked, perplexed.
“Yes, that’s where he dropped me off,” Celia said. “I’m pretty sure the lake is Torsjön. We used to go swimming there. It was so strange, he said it was my house.”
Erik looked stunned. “That house,” he said, hesitating, “you said it was at the tip of Torsjön?”
She nodded.
“Could you describe it?”
“It was mint green. Small and rickety.”
He gave Celia a long glance. “And it was overlooking the lake from a hill?”
“Yes, that’s it.”
Erik scratched the back of his head where his hair met the bald spot, his face creased with bewilderment. “I don’t know who that man is, but he’s right.” He paused for a few seconds, brows knitted, then said with resolve: “That is your house.”
CHAPTER 2
The rain pattering on the roof slowly pulled Celia out of her slumber. The smell of coffee drifted through the air. She smiled and hugged her pillow. She drew her hand over the pillowcase. It felt rougher, harder. And the coffee smelled different.
A shrill sound rang from somewhere close by. She opened her eyes, a sense of realization dawning on her; she wasn’t listening to the Washington rain on the roof over her old room.
The space around her was Scandi elegant with whitewashed wood floorboards and soft gray linen curtains that framed a wealth of deep green outside the window.
The phone rang for another two rings and fell silent.
She saw her open suitcase on the floor. Then she remembered everything. The strange driver. The house. Her house.
Her uncle had driven her to the shoddy cottage to pick up her suitcase last night.
Right before leaving, Erik and Anette told her the story behind the house. The explanation was simple, yet left a perplexing mystery in its wake.
Just a week ago, they were cleaning out their home office to convert it into Celia’s bedroom. In a folder, Erik found a set of documents and a key. Among the documents was a note: an addition to his father’s will.
Celia’s grandfather Lars Lindberg had passed away several years prior. All had been settled with his will, but the documents gave information of something that Erik wasn’t aware of: that Lars had owned a summer house by Torsjön. The note requested that his only grandchild, Celia Lindberg, be the sole beneficiary of the property upon her 18th birthday.
“There was no explanation to accompany the addition to the will,” Erik told Celia, deep frown lines appearing on his face. “Just the legal documents for the property and the key.”
When they went to pick up her bag they hadn’t gone inside; it was dark and Celia was exhausted. Also, Erik assured her, there wasn’t much to see. When he found the key he’d gone to see the place for himself. It was rundown, hadn’t been lived in for years.
A soft knock on the door brought Celia back from her thoughts. Anette’s voice: “Celia, are you awake?”
She jumped out of bed, her bare feet cold against the hardwood floors, and opened the door.
“Sorry,” Anette said from the hallway, “I’m running late for work. There’s breakfast ready for you in the kitchen.”
“Thank you,” Celia said, blinking, still a bit drowsy.
“And the phone is for you.” Anette motioned toward a stark red telephone that stood upright in salute on the window sill.
Celia eyed the phone. It looked like an over-sized joystick.
An
ette laughed, “It’s vintage.” She clicked the door shut behind her.
Celia picked up the strange phone.
“Hello?”
“Hi, it’s Ebba!”
“Oh, hi!” Celia responded with surprise. She was expecting the call to be from her parents. “How did you get this number?”
“Address and phone number is listed online.” Ebba’s voice was cheery on the other end of the line. “Have you had breakfast?”
“No—”
“Come on then, let’s go to Nystedts Café.”
Celia shrugged and smiled. “OK.”
“I’ll be right over. The café is just a short walk from your house.”
Celia said goodbye to Ebba and hung up. Despite everything, she found herself giddy over already having made a friend.
After quickly washing up, she wandered down the hall to the kitchen. It was a modern farmhouse-style kitchen; clean and crisp with light wood and sturdy beams in the ceiling.
Neatly laid out on the kitchen table was an assortment of bread, yoghurt, müsli, cheese, boiled eggs, cucumber slices, fruit and meat. Celia decided she’d have a second breakfast later.
She gathered the perishables to put away while she waited for Ebba. She paused at the fridge where several family photos were displayed.
A photo of Erik and Anette drew her attention. It appeared to have been taken several years ago. They both sat with colorful cocktails in a sunny locale with palm trees behind them.
Erik quite resembled her dad in this photo where he was younger and slimmer. Celia’s dad was an outdoorsy type who biked and ran marathons and whose build was rather different from Erik’s desk rat physique.
Erik and Jonas, nicknamed Jonesy by all his friends in the States, had lived very separate lives since early on. Their parents had divorced when Erik was seven and Jonas was five. That same year their father accepted a job offer in Washington. Jonas moved with his father to the States, and Erik stayed in Sweden with their mother.
It always struck Celia how her dad and Erik were so very different. They resembled each other in certain ways, but they very much acted like people who had grown up worlds apart.
Celia recalled one afternoon several summers ago: Erik and Anette came to visit her family in Seattle. Anette and Celia’s mother, Julie, were in the back garden chatting away. Celia’s mom got along famously with Anette, as she did with most everyone. Erik and Jonas were sharing a bourbon that afternoon and just in that simple act the two brothers were markedly different. Erik drank his bourbon with big gulps but spoke with reserve. Jonas sipped his drink and spoke animatedly, gesturing widely. Later, when their father entered the room, Erik’s shoulders stiffened, his eyes shifting. Jonas on the other hand continued the story he was telling with a carefree ease.
Celia’s dad with his easygoing nature was more immersed with the present than the past. Even though he still knew Swedish and returned to his birth country every so often, compared to his brother, Jonas was completely American.
Celia put away the cheese she was holding in her hand and as the fridge door closed, her gaze landed on the photo just beneath the one of the vacationing Erik and Anette. It was a faded photograph of her grandfather and grandmother. It must have been before they divorced and her grandfather moved to the States with Jonas.
Eastern European ancestry on his mother’s side gave Lars Lindberg dark hair and striking features. Jonas and Erik were both lighter versions of him, taking after their fair-haired mother, Maj-Britt, while Celia had the same dark features as her grandfather.
Looking at the picture, her heart panged a little. She still missed him. She’d always called him farfar instead of Grandpa. It made him seem more like her very own. Like he was different from everyone else’s granddad, foreign, more special.
Lars had lived his last years just a few blocks away from her family’s ranch house in their north Seattle neighborhood. The scent of him, mint and wool, was still distinct in her mind. He used to read to her in Swedish, speaking with his low melodic voice. The language fascinated her. Sounded like something straight out of a fairytale, set in the deep, dark woods.
Celia’s dad rarely spoke to her in his native tongue. Most of the Swedish she’d learned was thanks to farfar. Although a lot of the language was forgotten now which became obvious when she tried to speak Swedish with the driver and later with Ebba.
Celia looked up at the clock; Ebba would be here any minute now. She hurried to get the rest of the breakfast items back into the fridge. She had just put away the last of it when there was a knock at the door.
Ebba arrived wearing a polka dotted raincoat and green galoshes that nearly went up to her knees. She greeted Celia with a big damp hug, as if they’d known each other forever. Celia grabbed her windbreaker and they were on their way.
The rain had subsided and there was a fresh, earthy moisture in the air. Celia was glad that the rain had stopped because the “short walk” ended up being a twenty-minute trek uphill.
“Det finns inget dåligt väder, bara dåliga kläder,” Ebba said in response to Celia’s mention of the weather. “There is no bad weather, just bad clothes,” she explained after Celia gave her a blank look.
“That sounds exactly like something Dad would say.” Celia grinned at the thought of her dad and his almost childlike excitement over anything related to outdoor adventures. “I guess he still has some Swede in him after all.”
Her comment piqued Ebba’s curiosity about her family’s roots. She had just finished briefing Ebba on the Lindberg family tree as they reached the café grounds.
They had arrived at an inviting countryside cottage. They passed an outdoor terrace on their way to the entrance and were welcomed by a waft of spice and sugar and a bell that jingled at the door.
The café was whimsical; pine floors, flowery wallpaper, and mismatched colorful chairs brought an old-world Scandinavian charm to the place. A few of the tables were occupied. Customers sat chatting, some were reading newspapers, others were slumped over computers or phones.
Ebba strolled up to the cash register and gave her order to a boxy-framed lady. Celia gazed longingly at a plate of cinnamon rolls on the counter. The smell in the air and the buttery soft look of the buns gave the promise that they were freshly baked. Maybe she’d have one later for dessert. “I’ll have a cheese sandwich and a cup of tea,” she said in English. She decided to let herself play the American tourist until school began.
“What for a tea would you like?” the cashier asked. She gestured toward a shelf full of tea containers and rattled off a trillion different varieties.
“Um, I’ll try rhubarb and cream,” Celia said.
Soon she and Ebba were seated at a wobbly table with an orchard view. The place was getting busier: a line had formed at the counter.
Celia settled into her seat. Even though she was just getting to know Ebba, she was bursting at the seams, wanting to tell her about all the strange things that had happened in the last 24 hours. “Ebba, can I tell you stuff? Like, super weird stuff?”
“Of course.” Ebba put several lumps of brown sugar into her coffee. “I really want to like coffee, she said matter-of-factly. “I’m almost there.”
Celia blew on her tea and took a sip of the drink that felt hot and floral against her lips. She put her cup down and lowered her voice.
Ebba leaned in and listened as Celia told her about the mystery driver who picked her up at the airport and dropped her off at the old house that was owned by her grandfather and now apparently belonged to her.
“And your uncle has no idea who that man was?” Ebba asked.
“No!” Celia exclaimed.
“Then how did he know to pick you up?”
“It makes no sense!”
“And what about your grandfather? Why did he have a secret house in Sweden when he had his life in America?”
“It must have been a vacation home for him, but I don’t know why he kept it secret. I guess he was always pretty ecc
entric.”
Ebba thought for a moment. “That’s so unfair,” she said and scrunched up her nose. “I’ve lived in Sweden all my life and I don’t own a house. You’ve been here less than a day and you have one.” Her features brightened into a smile. “This is so exciting.”
“The place is a dump, though.”
“My friend Oskar, the guy whose bike you were on yesterday, he’s in the construction and carpentry program at school. He’s a geek for renovations. Maybe he can come along and see it?”
“Sure, but my uncle thinks I’d be better off just selling the property.”
“Let’s look at it first,” Ebba said. “Promise you won’t go see it without me.”
“Promise,” Celia vowed.
Satisfied with the response, Ebba rose to get more milk for her coffee.
Just seconds later, a boy who appeared to be around Celia’s age had sauntered up and claimed the seat across from her.
He was slender and tanned with brown tousled hair and hazel eyes. Celia thought his face would have been considered aesthetically perfect had it not been for the slight slant to the nose and a somewhat crooked grin. He leaned back, flashing a smile, proving that the crookedness worked for him, made him look all the more confident.
She raised her eyebrows at him.
“I feel like I know you. Have we met before?” His accent was a mix of Swedish and American.
Celia had observed that when Swedes spoke English, they sometimes spoke with an American accent, probably due to the high presence of American television and culture in Sweden.
“Not unless you knew me when I was eleven,” she said. “That was the last time I was here.”
She knew his type from back home. The impeccably good-looking and charming boy who’s used to girls falling all over him, becoming bumbling, red-faced shells of themselves.
He peered at her with a curious glint in the eye.
“I overheard you talking. Are you Canadian?”
She shook her head. “American.”
“I knew that,” he said with a casual shrug. “I was just being polite.”