Dandelion Girl

by Isa Hansen

  Even in the dim light of the apartment, her wrinkles were deep, the skin roughly marked by time.

  “I’m sorry for your loss,” Celia finally said. “I’m sure it’s still very hard.”

  “It doesn’t get easier. They say it does, but it doesn’t.” Viveca exhaled smoke and contemplated Celia through the cloud between them. “Why are you here?” Her voice was deep and gravelly but not unkind.

  Celia tried to be as forthright as possible.

  She explained how she’d come across the photo of Liv and had found out that she had an aunt who’d died at a young age. She concluded her speech by telling Viveca that she was trying to find out what happened to Liv. Considering how Liv disappeared, she wondered if maybe her death was something other than an accident.

  Almost instantly after saying the last part, she cringed a little, silently questioning how appropriate the conversation really was.

  But Viveca just beheld her with a soft and sad and almost sympathetic expression. “What exactly are you hoping to find out?”

  It was a fair question. And one that Celia wasn’t sure how to answer. “I can’t stop thinking about her,” she managed. “I just can’t let it go; I need to know.” Not a great response, but at the very least it was honest and true.

  Viveca swayed ever so slightly on the sofa. Celia wondered if she had been drinking, and if so, how much. Viveca’s eyes were glassy, and under the layer of smoke, a faint smell of alcohol lingered in the room.

  “Do you think it could be true?” Celia asked. “Did someone go after her?”

  Viveca didn’t meet Celia’s eyes. “I don’t know,” she said. “A lot of Liv’s childhood was a blur for me.” Viveca’s face fell. “I was partying. Boyfriends, booze. And when she died, they deemed it an accident. I don’t know of anything that would contradict that, but then … I mightn’t have noticed.” Viveca stared at the floor. “I let her down. My baby girl. I didn’t protect her.”

  Celia focused her eyes on her clasped hands. “Is there anyone you know of who could have had a reason to harm Liv?”

  “No,” Viveca said wearily. “No one I can think of.”

  “Her boyfriend Hans? Did you get any bad vibes from him?”

  “No, Hans seemed fine. From what I could tell, he was good to Liv. There was another boy, though. I didn’t trust him.” Viveca’s face creased with recollection. “He seemed harmless enough when they were younger. Way back when he was small and scrawny. But then he grew big and intimidating. Had a temper, that boy. I saw him grabbing Liv’s arm once. I didn’t like it.”

  “Who was this?” Celia asked.

  Viveca swayed her head. “I can’t remember,” she said. “I’ve never been good at names.”

  Thinking back to the old yearbook and the Vi fem photograph, Celia went with a hunch. “Petter?”

  Viveca considered that.

  “Yes, I think so. Petter. That’s it.”

  Celia nodded. She’d attempted to research all the members of Vi fem. Petter Blom had been easy to find. He was a tycoon: had his hand in a series of social media and gaming companies and was currently CEO of a massively expanding startup in London.

  Judging by the Vi fem club photo and the recent press photos she’d seen online, she thought Petter had an intimidating look to him.

  “Do you think he hurt Liv?” Celia asked.

  “He was a troubled boy, there was no doubt about that,” Viveca answered. “But if he hurt her? I just don’t know.”

  Celia’s mind went to the article that Liv saved, the one about the fire. “Did Liv have any connection to Lindhultsskolan?” she asked.

  “It was her junior high school.”

  “Did Hans go there? And Petter?”

  “Yes, they all went to school together.”

  Celia stopped there. She couldn’t push it further without specifically asking about the fire, and it would be horrible of her to accuse Viveca’s late daughter of being an arsonist. She promptly changed course.

  “I heard from someone that Liv was saving up money for private swimming lessons. Did she ever get any lessons?”

  “She did, she went to a few lessons with a private teacher.”

  Celia sat up taller. “Do you remember who her swimming teacher was?”

  Viveca shook her head and let out a sigh of smoke. She focused on Celia with a long, probing gaze. “Your face … I can’t believe your face,” she said thickly. “Can I touch you?”

  “Uh…” Celia’s chair creaked under her. “OK.” She heaved herself up and moved toward Viveca. Stiffly, she sat down next to her on the sofa.

  Viveca disposed of the cigarette butt, lifted her hands and stroked Celia across the cheeks. Her fingers were rough and calloused and smelled of tobacco. She cupped Celia’s face in her hands.

  Then Viveca leaned forward and hugged Celia, rocking her, tight.

  Celia was a bit shell shocked by it all; she let herself be cradled by Viveca for a very long minute.

  After the embrace, she gingerly got up and returned to her chair.

  She felt like disappearing, moving out of view from those solemn, searching eyes. For a second it looked like Viveca might start to cry, but instead the woman dipped into her cardigan pocket for another cigarette.

  After lighting up, she said with her gravelly voice, “Liv looked so much like her father.”

  “What was your relationship like?” Celia asked cautiously.

  “With Liv’s father? He was charming. Oh, so charming. We had a grand time while it lasted, but when I became pregnant with Liv he made himself scarce.”

  “I’m sorry he did that to you. And to Liv. I think he was sorry, too.”

  “Did he pass?”

  Celia gave her head a nod. “Was he … were he and Liv in touch at all?”

  “Liv sought him out when she got older. They spent time together … I didn’t get involved. After all, I wasn’t the one he wanted to have a relationship with. But I was glad for Liv. Glad he made an effort to see her. Though their time together was limited since he lived abroad.”

  The account matched what Katja had said. That Liv spent time with Lars. It explained why her grandfather had Liv’s things stored at his cottage, but an uneasiness was coming over Celia. And what she said next startled her. It was a question she hadn’t meant to ask.

  “Do you think Lars could have hurt Liv?”

  She felt strange saying it out loud.

  And ashamed. She couldn’t believe that she actually did.

  Viveca took several puffs before she answered.

  She was watching Celia carefully. “Did your grandfather do something bad to you?”

  “Oh, no,” Celia said quickly, swaying her head emphatically. “God, no. He was wonderful to me. But I keep finding out things about him that I never could’ve thought were true. And no one in my family knew about Liv. I’m trying to understand that.”

  Viveca said, “As far as I know, leaving was the worst thing he did to Liv.” Her voice went low and raspy. “Because I’ve known too many abusive men in my life. Your grandfather was a scoundrel, but I never saw any violence in him.”

  She took a deep drag and shifted her body. She now sat where a tiny sliver of light crept in through the drapes; it hit her between the eyes in a reflective little line. For just a flicker of a moment, a younger and more vibrant version of herself sparked across her features. Her eyes fixed back on Celia—they had become starkly sober. “Regarding your grandfather and Liv. What does the feeling in your stomach say?”

  Celia sat with the question, turning it around, feeling it out. Despite all her worries, deep down, she knew. Her gut feeling said no. She said, firmly: “He didn’t do anything. Nothing like that.”

  Viveca replied with a slight nod, “Learn to listen to that inner voice. I didn’t when I should have, and I’ve paid dearly for it.” She fumbled with the ash tray, drawing it toward herself. “But there’s nothing I can do about that now, is there?” She tapped some ash. “I’m ju
st a useless old hag.” Viveca pointed with her cigarette to a stack of boxes lining the wall. “See those?”

  Celia mustered an “mmm.”

  “I moved to this apartment more than ten years ago. I haven’t even bothered to unpack most of the boxes. Because, why does it matter?”

  Celia wasn’t sure how to respond. “I’m sorry,” she said.

  Viveca had the face of someone who’d been carrying heavy grief for so long that they no longer knew what to do with it. Someone who’d lost the ability to cry, to mourn, to live.

  The need came over her to leave, to let Viveca sit in peace.

  “Thank you for talking with me,” she said, rising. “I should probably…” her words trailed off.

  By the time she got to the door, Viveca had shifted her position in the sofa, angling her body in Celia’s direction. “Can I ask something of you?”

  She waited by the door. “Yes?”

  “Will you visit Liv’s grave?”

  Celia drew in a breath and nodded.

  Viveca nodded in return. “I like the thought of someone young and full of life visiting her grave.”

  “Where does she rest?” Celia asked softly.

  “The cemetery by Fredrikskyrkan.”

  Celia pushed down the door handle.

  Viveca spoke again from her smoke-filled corner, quietly this time. “Liv would have liked you. She would have benefited from having a friend like you.” Then the woman turned her head and the conversation was over.

  Celia closed the door behind her, trying to avoid making an echoing thud. She left Viveca’s apartment feeling heavy.

  She wasn’t ready to go home yet. Her mind was too cloudy.

  Without thinking about where she was going, she crossed through Björkby; passed the shops, restaurants, city parks and residential neighborhoods, until she was outside of town.

  It wasn’t until she was wandering on a gravel, tree-lined road with smaller houses and colorful summer cottages scattered on each side—not unlike the road on which her grandfather’s house stood—that it dawned on her where she was headed.

  She was walking in the direction of Björnsjön. Bear Lake.

  To the spot where Liv was killed.

  The road became increasingly woodsy until the lake came into view. The scenery before her was picture perfect; like a serene autumn postcard.

  Dark blue water rippled between trees that dazzled in color.

  She stepped across the sandy beach to the empty dock. Summer was now gone as was the splashing and excitement that was sure to happen all throughout the warmer months. Celia had been here once before, at the end of summer. She had to see it: the place where Liv took her final breath.

  She went out to the end of the dock and sat down.

  The lake wasn’t huge but large enough and deep enough that with some misfortune, a drowning accident was possible. She stared down into the water. The breeze tussled the trees, making a shhh sound.

  It was cold out there on the dock with the wind stinging her ears, and yet she remained there.

  Maybe she should have been relieved after her talk with Viveca. Listen to the feeling in your stomach. It told her that her grandfather hadn’t done anything to harm Liv. Viveca didn’t think so either. But instead of relief, all she felt was a mournful ache that burrowed deep into her chest.

  She stooped down and dipped her finger in the lake. The water was icy cold. She lifted her hand back up, though the raw chill stayed with her.

  Staring into the dark water, it occurred to her how truly alone Liv had been.

  Not lonely. She had a boyfriend and from what Celia had been able to find out about her, several friends. But alone in the sense that she was vulnerable.

  Liv had no adult protection, no safety net.

  She was forced into a fight for survival from a young age. She’d been completely exposed to the ills of the world: predators and anyone who’d wish to harm her. Celia thought about the line in Liv’s diary, where she wrote about over-eating in the school cafeteria. Not because of an eating disorder; because she was hungry. She wasn’t even getting her basic needs met.

  And yet the girl had been resilient. She’d been a true dandelion child. Pushing to get to know her father, pushing herself to become a better swimmer—pushing until the very end.

  A flock of geese honked overhead. Celia tilted her head up.

  The geese created a V-shape in the sky.

  She raised her hand and waved to them.

  Back when she was just a little kid, her family would take annual fall trips to Canada. Her dad had a longing for the crispness of the season that Seattle didn’t satisfy. He loved to watch the migrating geese. He’d lift Celia to the sky and say, “Wave to the geese, Cee. Let’s wish them a safe journey.” She would wave and laugh: “Bye, geese! See ya in the spring!”

  It was strange to see the flighting birds—the image a reminder of the steady predictability of nature while her own life was changing all too rapidly.

  The geese honked onward, leaving the landscape below silent like a whisper.

  The trees around the lake were bright yellow, rays of sun filtering through the leaves, catching against the crystal water—making everything look bright and luminous. Making it seem like there were still hours of light left in the day. But Celia knew it was an illusion. It wouldn’t be long before it was dark.

  CHAPTER 20

  November covered Björkby with its opaque wings, casting long shadows and a hue of bleak over everything in sight. The days were gloomy, and the nights were growing endlessly long. Celia had heard about Sweden in the winter and shrugged it off. She was from Seattle: she knew dark and dreary. But this was different, this was dreary on steroids. And it was getting to her. The darkness clung to her, pulled her to the ground—made her want to go into a state of hibernation.

  Although the season did offer its comforts. Anette and Erik’s country-style home was cozy and snug, and she enjoyed kindling a fire in her own little fireplace and curling up in front of it with her books and computer.

  With the dark season there was also a magnificent deep blue light that arose in the afternoon and stayed until nightfall. The light was magical and hazy and made the landscape feel like part of a fairytale during the transformation of twilight into night.

  And Celia had her friends who brightened up her life.

  She loved Ebba and Zari, and she and Oskar were steadily becoming closer.

  One evening near the middle of November, Oskar invited Celia over for dinner. They were routinely hanging out more often now, a lot of times without any of their other friends.

  “Come over for SOS,” Oskar said in school a few days prior.

  “And that is?”

  “Smör, ost, sill. Butter, cheese, and herring. We’ll have it with knäckebrod and potatoes and some aquavit.”

  She was now at Oskar’s father’s house having just that.

  On the kitchen table Oskar had set up a wood board crowded with traditional Swedish specialties: jars of herring in the flavors dill, mustard, onion, and sherry. There was also an assortment of sharp and nutty cheeses, a bowl with potatoes, sour cream, chives, and a basket full of crispy rye bread. They both had little glasses of aquavit next to them. The warmth and strength of the drink was settling into Celia’s bloodstream.

  “You’re eating herring like a Swede,” Oskar said with admiration.

  “We have a lot of herring back home. There’s a big Scandinavian community in Washington,” Celia said. “But we’d usually eat the herring with crackers.”

  “What kind of crackers?”

  “Just regular soda crackers.”

  “I’ll check if my dad has some.” Oskar got up and poked his head into one of the cupboards. He scored a box of saltiner and had just returned to the table when his dad and girlfriend came home from having dinner in downtown Björkby.

  “So this is the American girl we’ve heard so much about,” Oskar’s father said. A fresh cool breeze followed
them through the front door into the warm homey kitchen. He shook Celia’s hand. “Simon.”

  With sandy hair and blue eyes that were kind and bright, Simon was an older, more distinguished version of his son. His partner Stella reminded Celia a bit of Anette. She was around the same age and had a similar bubbly pleasantness. Stella was blond and fit and had slightly crooked front teeth that made her smile seem all the more genuine.

  Simon put a hand on Oskar’s shoulder, greeting him. Noting the aquavit bottle, he said to Celia, “You’ve tried our Swedish snaps?”

  “I have now,” Celia replied. “I think I only need one.”

  Simon laughed—an easygoing and good-natured laugh. “That’s very wise.” After which, he leaned down to make eye contact with Oskar. “And you, take it easy with that, OK?”

  “Jaja,” Oskar said.

  Simon and Stella stayed and talked for a bit, then headed up to the second floor. A little while later chatter from a television was heard from upstairs.

  When they’d left, Celia said to Oskar, “They’re so nice.”

  Oskar nodded. “I’m glad my father found Stella. She’s good for him. He’s happier than I’ve seen him in years.”

  “Was it a bad divorce? Between your parents?” Celia asked.

  She knew that Oskar lived with his mother in Gnosta most of the time but sometimes stayed with his father in Björkby.

  “They were never married, but yes, it was a bad separation. Although it was good that they split. They weren’t happy.” Oskar pulled the aquavit bottle toward himself and scraped at the label. “At least not for as long as I can remember.”

  Celia sensed he’d rather talk about something else so she steered the conversation away. “So, I have detected an inefficiency in the Swedish language,” she said, her words trilling out a notch too perky.

  “Is that so?” Oskar said, leaning into his chair. It was an awkward change of subject, but he seemed grateful for it. “And that is?”