by Isa Hansen
An odd feeling gnawed at her.
The bright orange mug.
Yellow daffodils on the wall.
Floorboards, gnarled and rough, shining gold in the sun.
She was taken over by the sense that she’d been here before. The kitchen was smaller than it seemed then, and she remembered it to be warmer, cleaner.
Celia strained her mind, trying to pinpoint a specific memory.
“So are you in?” Ebba was watching Celia expectantly.
“What?”
“Let’s make it our project: renovate!”
“Oh…” Celia tugged at a rip in the wallpaper, pulling off a long strip. She asked Oskar, “How much do you think the renovation would cost?”
“It’s a little soon to say. We may need to make serious repairs, but hopefully most of it will be on the surface. The material won’t cost too much. I can get a lot of it for free at my job.”
“Let’s do it together,” Ebba said.
Celia rolled up the wallpaper into a flimsy ball. “Yeah,” she said. “If you guys are up for it. Let’s do it.” She would have been more excited if she hadn’t been distracted by the lingering feeling of déjà vu.
Since this was her grandfather’s old cottage, it was possible she’d been here before. But then why did her uncle not know about the place? And even more confounding—why did the airport driver bring her here?
With those questions echoing through her, she strayed after the others down the hall into the bedroom. The room was darkened by branches from the tree outside. Celia recognized the bookshelves from when she peeked into the window a few days before.
“Nice sized bedroom,” Ebba said, nodding, as though she were a real estate agent trying to make a sale. “Take away the dead branches and you have good light, too.”
“Looks like a child was here.” Oskar tapped his sneaker against a crayon scribble on the wall as they were on their way out of the room.
Last stop was the bathroom at the end of the hall.
It was a dinky little room with a tiny shower space. Celia opened the shower door. “Ooh…” She took in the sight of mold and rust. “Not sure I’d be taking a shower here anytime soon.”
From behind her Ebba said, “At least there is a shower. A lot of summer houses don’t have them.”
“So where would you shower then?”
“You’d go down to the lake and wash up.”
“Huh,” Celia said. “Rustic.” She shut the door, shifting her gaze to the grimy bathroom window. Through the dirty glass she glimpsed the pine trees in the backyard and a small spot of overgrown lawn. Her body went still.
Ebba noticed her attention shift. “What’s out there?”
“A shed, I think.”
Celia spoke before she even made out what it was: the corner of a small, wooden structure peeking out from between the trees.
That creeping familiarity was back, tugging at her senses. She could almost picture herself out there in the backyard, playing in the grass, although still, no specific memory came to mind.
“Want to check it out?” Ebba asked.
“Not much else to see in here,” Celia replied. They reversed course and headed back down the hall.
Stepping outside, Celia shivered, wishing she’d thought to bring a sweater. The afternoon winds had picked up, the cool air signaling the upcoming change of season.
They rounded the house, the small outbuilding becoming more visible as they trampled through the tall grass. Celia located a second smaller key on the ring.
“That explains what this key was for,” she remarked after it clicked inside the shed’s lock.
She maneuvered the door and ducked into the cramped space. There was a strong odor of rot and damp earth inside. She surveyed the shed, her eyes adjusting to the dark. It stored gardening tools, an old lawnmower, and further in, some wood troughs. She coughed into her arm, noticing in the far corner a large chest.
Celia approached it with curiosity. Ebba moved up closer as well, sharing her interest.
“It’s a treasure chest,” Ebba said, drawing her hand over the stained wood.
Celia unhinged the clasp and tugged at the heavy lid.
The chest was filled with plastic bags.
She opened one of the bags and pulled out a red and white striped tank top. She held up the top—it was about her size.
“It’s a bunch of clothes,” Ebba said, poking around at the contents. She lifted up a pink sweatshirt to her face and wrinkled her nose. “Old clothes.”
Celia stared at the bags.
Why would her grandfather have stored girls’ clothing in his shed?
“Hey, look at this.” Oskar bent down and picked up a leather-bound book. “Do you mind if I—”
“Go ahead,” Celia said.
Oskar flipped through the handwritten pages. It appeared to be an old diary.
A yellowed envelope that had sat underneath the book caught Celia’s eye. She leaned into the chest and fished it out. Inside the envelope was a small stack of photographs.
The top photo was of two young boys with blond hair. She recognized the house in the background. It was where her dad used to live as a young child; where her grandmother resided until just recently when she moved into a home for the elderly. She turned the photo over. Erik och Jonas, 1967.
The photos that followed were all of the two boys. A few of them taken at Christmas along with several more summer photos. In one of the photos the boys’ mother sat with them. Celia’s grandmother, then young, sat in a yellow and orange bikini with a broad smile, golden shoulder-length hair spilling over her shoulders.
“My dad and uncle and grandmother,” Celia explained and held out the picture for Ebba and Oskar to see.
“There’s a photo in the book, too,” Oskar said, handing it to Celia.
It was an old photograph of herself.
She moved the photo closer: she appeared to be about three years old. She was standing alone, smiling, a mop of dark bangs framing her face.
But there was something about the picture that wasn’t right.
She’d seen a lot of photos of herself when she was little. She’d never had a hairstyle like that. And the photo was faded and sepia-tinted, matching the other photos in the envelope—like it had been taken some time in the 60s or 70s. She flipped to the back of the picture.
In the same handwriting that captioned the other images, a date was scribbled: 3e juni 1972. And there was something else written. Celia wasn’t able to make it out.
She pointed to the word. “What’s that?”
Ebba leaned in: “Maskrosbarnet,” she said. “It means ‘the dandelion child.’”
“Dandelion child?”
Celia’s thoughts were jumbled with confusion. The girl looked so much like she had as a young child, and yet it wasn’t her. She couldn’t think of any girls in the family who’d be her dad’s age either.
“What’s wrong?” Ebba asked. “Who is that?”
“I’m not sure.” Celia flipped the photo back over and stared at the image of the little girl who stood smiling in the sun.
CHAPTER 4
“Are you happy to start school?”
Anette smiled up at Celia from where she sat on the wicker sofa next to Erik. They were in the glassed-in veranda at the back of their house. Anette was sipping on a martini and Erik sat with a honey-colored beer in a tall glass.
The midday weather was gorgeous and blue-skied with a bright sun casting rays of light across the wispy trees that surrounded the veranda.
“I’m excited,” Celia said. “And nervous.” Although in truth, she had expected to be more nervous than she was now. She found herself too distracted to think much about school, which was starting already tomorrow.
“You’ll be great,” Anette said with a comforting tone. “You have friends already,” Erik agreed. “You’ll make many more.”
She nodded absently.
Anette asked, “Would you like something to
drink?”
Celia gestured down at her jogging attire. “I’m actually going for a run.”
“You’re a health nut, just like your dad,” Erik laughed.
She gave him a wan smile and lingered by the door.
A very specific question was at the tip of her tongue: who is the dandelion child?
Since finding the chest, she had wanted to ask her uncle about the photo and the old clothes. And yet she was hesitating to mention any of it. Despite her growing curiosity, her instinct was telling her to keep mum. Instead she asked, “Could I visit my grandmother sometime?”
In part it was filling the gap with something to say, but she also genuinely did want to see her grandmother. She’d never had the chance to know her father’s mother in the same way that she had known her grandfather.
“She’s always glad to have visitors,” Erik said, “and she might know who you are depending on her state of mind when you visit.”
“You don’t think she’d remember me?” Celia frowned. She knew her grandmother suffered from memory loss. She was told it had become worse in recent years—she just hadn’t realized how much worse.
“Hard to say. She has good days and bad days.”
“She’s staying at the Willow Warbler, just on the other end of town,” Anette piped up. “I’m sure she’d love to see you.”
Celia nodded, “Well, I’m going now. See you in a bit.”
“Have fun!” Anette waved.
“Good luck,” Erik chimed in.
Celia stopped at the road just outside the house. Her uncle and aunt lived on the outskirts of Björkby. In their neighborhood, the colorful wood houses sat in spacious yards full of shrubs and trees. She could take a left and head into town or take a right into the countryside.
Choosing the country road, Celia tried to jog at her regular pace, but her breath and body felt heavy. She forced herself to keep going despite the weight of her steps.
She was in the habit of going for a fast jog whenever she had a lot on her mind. Right now she was in need of a mind-clearing run but was unable to get her body to cooperate. So she gave up and slowed to a walk, taking in the scenery of alternating woods and meadows.
She passed old farmhouses, mossy stone walls, and tall red barns that didn’t look like they were in use anymore. A couple of fair-haired children played in the ditch alongside the road. Trills of bird song erupted sporadically from the patches of woods around her.
Next to the paved road, across from the ditch, a gravel path emerged. She slinked down into the ditch and up to the other side, getting her feet damp from the snarl of weeds and grass. She quickened her pace, taking deep breaths of fresh air, the gravel crunching in time with her steps.
Her mind trailed back to Erik and her grandfather’s house.
There was a reason why she didn’t bring up what she’d found with her uncle. She had meant to ask him already yesterday, but when she returned from the cottage, Erik was apprehensive and tense. He reiterated the same point he’d made before: that the house was in no condition to live in. There was pressure behind his words when he said I think you should sell.
He was negative about the house in a way that made Celia cautious. Sure, the place looked rough on the surface, but it wasn’t actually that bad. She thought Oskar’s proposal made more sense: fix it up and have a great waterfront property.
Erik usually had that common Swedish ‘we mind our own business’ reserve. It seemed out of character for him to meddle. She just couldn’t escape the feeling that he knew more about the house than he was letting on.
Another thing that kept niggling at her was the fact that a stranger had picked her up at the airport, and while her aunt and uncle had expressed dismay and concern, their handling of the whole thing seemed off. Shouldn’t they at least have said something to her parents?
Granted, she hadn’t said anything herself. When her mom and dad called to see how her trip had gone, she’d mumbled something frazzled and short in response.
She was so caught up in her thoughts that she only now saw that the road had darkened. The trees hovered thicker, blocking out the sun. She had arrived at a bend in the road.
Instead of following the path she was on deeper into the woods, she opted to stay in the light open air. She turned onto a road that trailed alongside the wood into a clearing. But when she turned the bend she found that the road was in fact a long driveway.
A majestic creamy white manor house stood at the far end of the road. Off to each side were two smaller buildings in the same color. She kept walking, her eyes on the large building in the middle.
The three-story house had a steep, slanted black roof, a balcony over the front door, and tall, stately windows. The driveway up to the house divided an immaculate lawn. There were bushes on each side, trimmed with bonsai precision.
She was getting Downton Abbey vibes from the building’s towering grandness and thought that this had probably been a Swedish big house back in its day; a herrgård.
Despite the perfectly manicured lawns and shrubbery and the pristine houses glowing in the sunlight, the place made her feel tense. Like she was being watched. Maybe because the rows of tall, dark windows gave the appearance of gaping eyes.
In a way, the manor reminded her of a house at the end of her street in Seattle. It was a two-story Cape Cod style house that was falling apart, abandoned, and rumored to be haunted. Sometimes when Celia and her friends felt adventurous or were seeking a thrill, they’d sneak in through a hole in the fence. It was the sort of place where you felt like you were in danger just by being on the premises; where you’d see shapes moving from the corner of your eye, but when you turned your head there was nothing there.
A hoarse schk schk schk called out from somewhere close to her. A magpie. The bird ended its perturbed tirade in a series of quick cackles. Celia sensed something focusing on her; instinctively she lifted her eyes.
In the top left window she spotted the shadowy contours of someone behind the darkened sheet of glass. An instant shiver ran through her, as though she were staring up at a ghost.
But this wasn’t an elusive shape that faded away. This was obviously a real person. A person whose property she was trespassing upon.
She trailed around to head back. Glancing over her shoulder, she thought she now saw two darkened shapes in the window.
Moving back to the gravel path she gave running another try. The adrenaline rush helped. This time she was able to pick up her pace and didn’t stop until she was back home.
***
Early the next morning, Celia stood at her neighborhood bus stop. It was just light out—the sky a mellow blue, dew drops on the grass, a bite in the air still lingering from the night.
The bus stop was a short walk down the road from where Anette and Erik lived. Celia waited for Ebba who promised she would board the bus with Celia even though Ebba would normally get on two stops later.
While still being a small town by American standards, Björkby was large enough that residents had access to reliable public transportation within the town and to the nearby communities. The bus hub was part of a smaller town center with a grocery store, pizzeria, pub, and a café. To get to the businesses and shops of downtown Björkby, you either took the bus or a brisk fifteen-minute walk.
Right before the bus arrived, Ebba showed up pedaling a rickety, old-fashioned bicycle with a basket up front. It was a different bike from the other day. She steered herself into the commuter bike stand, parked and leaned down to lock the bike.
Most of Celia’s friends back home wouldn’t be caught dead on a bike like that. Olivia would though. Olivia was raised on an urban farm by hipster parents and had always done things her own way; she didn’t give two flips about what anyone thought of her. Celia wondered if Olivia and Ebba would get along if they met. Probably they would.
Celia paid the fare in cash, since she didn’t yet have her local travel pass.
She and Ebba moved toward the back of the
bus that was quickly filling up.
Once they were seated together, Ebba scooted close to Celia: “Did you find out about that picture, or the other stuff we found?”
“Not yet,” Celia said. “But I’m talking to my parents after school.”
Erik had left for a business trip early that morning, and she was having an online chat with her parents later in the afternoon. That gave her the perfect time to do some probing since she was more comfortable doing it while he wasn’t around. She was hoping her parents might be able to clear up at least some of the confusion.
Ebba said, “The girl must be a relative, right?”
“Yeah, but I can’t think of anyone who’d fit.” Celia shifted in her seat. “Let’s say she was three years old in 1972, and it’s now exactly forty years later; she’d be 43. It’s no one I’m aware of.”
Ebba suggested, “Maybe she’s someone who moved away?”
“Maybe so,” Celia said.
As there wasn’t much else to say about it, they moved on to an eager conversation about the year ahead and everything they would do together. Ebba had already started a wish list over all the things she wanted to do with Celia: she referred to it as the epic Ebbelia bucket list.
Soon the bus was climbing up a long hill. In the distance, several official looking buildings appeared, set in a grassy green campus. “Is that our school?” Celia asked.
“Welcome to Björkby gymnasium,” Ebba said affirmatively. “It’s really not that bad of a place. I think you’ll like it.”
***
The school was larger than her old high school back in the States. The main building was built in a modern craftsman style with large windows covering the full length of the entry hall. The premises of the school was vast and parklike with multiple buildings situated between sloping hills.
Celia had just been to the administration office to sign the last of her paperwork. After finishing signing, the administrator handed her a welcome booklet for exchange students and a shiny new silver MacBook. The computer was hers to use during her two semesters at Björkby gymnasium, the administrator informed her after seeing the look of surprise and delight on Celia’s face.