Dandelion Girl

by Isa Hansen

  Later that night Oskar, who had spent the day at his mom’s place, came back to stay with Celia. Then on Christmas Day they both went to Oskar’s dad’s house. Both Simon and Stella gave Celia big hugs and welcomed her in as though she were a long-lost relative.

  There was more food, more drink, and a whole clan of good-natured relatives of Oskar’s, including his tiny little grandmother who was so delightfully charming it made Celia happy just to be around her. They sat around a large dining room table eating and drinking and later moved to the living room where the festivities continued late into the evening.

  Sometime after dinner, Celia found herself by the fireplace mantel, looking at the photographs on display. There was a picture of two little boys standing together, around three and five years of age, ear-to-ear grins on both of them. It was a photo she hadn’t paid attention to during previous visits to Simon and Stella’s house.

  Oskar came over to where she was standing.

  She pointed to the taller of the two boys whose hair was redder. The younger boy was more blond. “Is that one you?” she asked.

  A nod from Oskar.

  “Is the other one a friend, or cousin?”

  “Brother.”

  “Ah.” Celia never knew Oskar had a sibling. She’d always thought he was an only child like herself. “What’s your brother’s name?”

  “Lukas.”

  “Is he in high school? First year? Or last year of junior high?”

  She had just spoken those words when it dawned on her, the pieces snapping together. Too late.

  “He’s not with us anymore,” Oskar said.

  “I’m so sorry. I should have…” she mumbled, “I didn’t—”

  He gave her a rueful smile. “It’s OK.”

  She reached out and touched his hand.

  It was then that Oskar’s grandmother joined them by the fireplace. “Such fine boys,” she said, gazing at the photograph. She peered up at Oskar and beamed; she was about half his size. “And look at you now. All grown up. So handsome and so well-mannered.”

  Oskar stuck his hands in his pocket and shuffled a little. At which point his grandmother turned to Celia. “And such a pretty and very nice girlfriend,” she said, smiling with approval, clasping her hands together. With a twinkle in her eye, she slanted toward Oskar. “Ni skyddar er väll?”

  “Farmor!” Oskar exclaimed, his face flushing scarlet.

  Celia smiled. He was cute when he blushed.

  “Is she giving you hassle?” Simon asked, approaching the group.

  “No more julmust for her,” Oskar said.

  Celia had to laugh. It was the first time she’d met Oskar’s grandmother, and she already adored the lady.

  This was someone who was used to stirring up mischief, being the center of attention and being doted on. But she was also someone who made things right. Someone who was a source of strength for those around her. Celia could tell by the way the woman kept a keen eye on everything going on in the room, and in the way that she engaged with every single person, not leaving anyone out.

  Celia stopped to take in the room herself. Everyone was having a good time, laughing and smiling, immersed in conversation. The young meatball artist was in the arms of his mother; together they were studying ornaments on the Christmas tree.

  Celia found that both at Ebba’s and Oskar’s, she enjoyed being around people again. Friendly, good-willed people whom she had no reason to distrust. It filled her with a sense of joy and warmth that lately she’d been dearly missing.

  She and Oskar didn’t get home from Simon and Stella’s Christmas party until late that night.

  After they got in, they kindled a fire in Celia’s fireplace and placed themselves on the rug in front of it. She was wide awake and he was in a chatty mood, so they stayed up and talked, drinking mulled wine with almonds and raisins and eating thin homemade gingersnaps that Stella sent home with them.

  “What do you and your family do for Christmas?” Oskar asked.

  “Well,” Celia said, after dipping a ginger snap in her mulled wine. “My mom comes from a really big Catholic family. And things would get kind of messy during the holidays. Because there were some pretty diverse political views within the family and there was always way too much drinking. People say Swedes drink a lot but you guys have nothing on American Midwestern Catholics. Holy crap, they throw down.”

  “Diverse politics and a lot of drinking probably isn’t a good combination,” Oskar commented.

  “The worst,” Celia laughed. “It was bad. It was so bad. I’ll spare you the details, but we ended up not going anymore by the time I was nine. My parents couldn’t stand the bickering and the politics, so from then on we stayed in Seattle. It was just the three of us. Just a quiet little holiday. The nice thing about it was we always got to do exactly what we wanted. Whether that was to bake something, go on a hike or drive, watch a movie, cook, eat.”

  Oskar said, “That sounds perfect.”

  “It was nice,” Celia said, reminiscing. “It was really nice. Even though I always liked the big get-togethers, too, with all the aunts and uncles and cousins and everything. I had such a nice time with your family tonight. It reminded me of the old days, just without all the dysfunction.”

  “I’m glad you came along,” he said.

  She looked into the fire, turning her gaze away from him.

  “Oskar…”

  “Yo.”

  Her stomach dipped right before she said it, as though she were about to parachute out of a plane.

  “I’m in love with you.”

  She hugged her knees close to herself.

  There was a silence.

  She didn’t look at him but she could feel his eyes on her.

  “I used to think if I just fell in love that things would stop being so confusing,” she murmured. “Now I’m in love and more confused than ever.”

  “I’m also confused and in love. If that helps.”

  She picked up her mug to take a sip but set it down again, restless.

  He asked, “But you’re still—?”

  “Yeah,” she said, facing him. “I’m pretty sure that I am.”

  Oskar was processing. “This is different for me, and kind of hard to wrap my brain around. I’m not sure what the right thing is for me to say or do.” He scratched his arm, rearranging himself on the rug. “I’ve never been with someone who is asexual. I was doing some reading up about it online, but I still don’t think I fully understand. On the forums people were arguing about what it actually is.”

  “I’ve found that as well,” Celia said. “And you know, just like with any orientation, experiences differ, too.”

  “What is your experience?”

  She leaned forward to poke another log into the fire. She watched it for a few moments while it crackled and took to the flames. “Some aces say they don’t understand the concept of finding someone hot or sexy. The thing is, I kind of do get that, or at least my own version of it. I’ll look at a guy and think, he has something interesting in his eye, I wonder how his mind works—cause for me there’s nothing so sexy as a person with a really sharp mind—or I’ll look at a girl and go, wow, she’s so pretty, she moves like a dancer. And I’ll find a ton of appeal in that, and I’ll want to just keep looking, because she’s so attractive. But it doesn’t turn into something physical for me. I’ll find the attraction aesthetic, sometimes emotional or sensual even, just not sexual.”

  She wasn’t sure how else to describe it, so she shrugged her shoulders and said, “That’s what it’s like for me at least.”

  He shifted his body. “Can I ask you a personal question?”

  “Yeah.”

  “How do you feel about intimacy? And sex?”

  She took her time answering. This was more than a curiosity question. This was relevant to him, to them. She’d understood from reading online that some asexual people were fine with sex, good with it even, but she wasn’t at all sure she’d fall into that
category.

  “I like hugs and closeness, but sex—” She stole a furtive glance at him and said quietly, “I’ve never had sex. And to be completely honest, I’ve never wanted to have it.” She stared into the fire. “I’m not saying I’ll never … I guess I don’t know where on the spectrum I am. Or how far I’d be willing to go.” Her cheeks flushed, she couldn’t help but feel ashamed, broken.

  She’d spent her teenage years learning that sex was everything: it was end-all. It was currency. Trying to date without it made her feel like a fraud, like someone trying to buy a car while secretly being broke.

  Maybe that’s why she’d never allowed herself to get close to anyone before. Because the relationship would inevitably lead to the type of intimacy she felt uncertain about, yet didn’t feel she had the right to decline.

  She ducked her head, wanting to move the discussion away from herself. She asked him, “Have you had sex?”

  “Yes.”

  “I thought so.”

  “Why is that?”

  She thought about it. “Because you don’t seem desperate to lose your virginity like some guys. Or maybe that’s just American guys.”

  “No, it’s like that here, too,” Oskar said.

  Celia nodded. “I wasn’t sure, because there are some pretty big cultural differences between Sweden and the States when it comes to this stuff. Like here, teenagers and parents talk openly about sex. It isn’t considered dirty or taboo. In the States there’s more of a don’t ask, don’t tell; we’re not talking about it, and you’re not doing it under my roof sort of mentality. I like how it is here,” she concluded, “the openness.”

  And with that she bit her tongue, because she realized what a hypocrite she was. Here she was going on about the virtue of talking openly about sex, and yet she was hesitant to share her own questions and thoughts and fears with Oskar.

  She wasn’t brave enough to start a conversation about what his expectations would be if they were to date or go out.

  How would he feel if they didn’t have sex?

  How would he feel if they did and she didn’t like it?

  She didn’t dare ask how they would move forward, considering sex wasn’t a given. That is, if they did move forward at all, which she didn’t at all assume or know that they would, because she didn’t dare ask him about that either.

  ***

  It was a long time coming, but Celia kept the promise that she’d made to Viveca.

  The holiday season seemed like the right time to visit Liv’s grave, so on Boxing Day she went to Fredrikskyrkan.

  She arrived just before the afternoon sunset.

  The cemetery was large, sitting at the edge of town. There was a wrought iron fence running along the perimeter of it.

  Celia had brought along a wreath for Liv’s grave. To show up empty handed seemed inappropriate. She knew there was no logic to that thinking, but even so, she felt reassured by the wreath in her hand.

  Now she walked on the street alongside the cemetery toward the gates—the sun gleaming in through the iron posts in flickers that patterned red and yellow against the corner of her eye.

  She entered the cemetery through the main gate. Not sure where to start looking for the grave, she followed a road that swirled up a hill. Toward the top of the hill she saw the contours of someone: a robust man wearing a long coat.

  Dark hair, slanting forehead.

  She saw him in profile and recognized him within a few seconds.

  Petter

  He seemed to instinctively know that someone was down below, observing him. He turned around and looked straight at her.

  She froze, her fingers tightening around the wreath.

  He could very well know that she had contacted Katja and that she’d also sought out Lottis. But there was no point in turning back now; he’d already seen her.

  So instead she just stood there, aimless.

  He was at Liv’s stone.

  She didn’t know why she was so certain of that.

  It could have been anyone’s grave.

  And him being there would’ve been the last thing she’d expect. He was hardly the sentimental type, and Celia wasn’t under the impression that he and Liv had ever been close.

  But still, she just knew.

  Several painfully long minutes went by. Celia was just thinking about leaving when Petter finally turned around and walked in her direction.

  She worried what he might say or do.

  He didn’t stop, though. He simply nodded toward her and kept walking.

  Celia turned around and watched him.

  The encounter left her nervous and anxious and a bit dumbfounded.

  She didn’t move until Petter was out of sight—his black coat becoming smaller with every brisk stride until he was just a blurry speck that disappeared.

  Not until then did Celia make her way up the hill and slowly approach the spot where he had stood. It was Liv’s grave.

  There was a simple stone in straight lines that read: Liv Sörensson 1968-1984.

  Celia placed the wreath against the grave.

  “Your mother says hello,” she said, and was hit by the same swift sorrow as when she’d left Viveca Sörensson’s house.

  But something else came over her, too.

  A thought—so small and intangible that she couldn’t capture it.

  She turned and looked in the direction where Petter had left. Something clicked in her mind, although it was still too distant and elusive for her to reach. There was a pattern there. One that her mind had detected. One that she couldn’t yet grasp.

  ***

  There was a missing detail when it came to the Liv mystery. Celia just knew it. A detail that had fallen through the cracks. But no matter how hard she set her mind to work, she couldn’t come up with what it was.

  In the days that followed, it kept clawing at her.

  She struggled to sleep because of it.

  Three nights before New Year’s Eve, the question was still bouncing around in her head.

  She’d gone to bed at the same time that Oskar crawled into his spot on the couch, immediately falling asleep. She envied his ability to crash like that. Meanwhile, she lay, twisting and turning, until she finally got up and snapped on the lamp over her desk.

  She decided to have another look at the newspaper articles that she’d printed out from the library.

  They were in the kitchen.

  She and Oskar had gone through them earlier in the day and while they still gave her nothing, the little gnawing sensation had strengthened. That there was a tiny kernel of information out there that could change everything.

  She grabbed the newspaper clippings from the kitchen table.

  On the way back, she passed Oskar asleep on the sofa. She slowed and beheld him.

  His face looked so peaceful in the glow from the Christmas candolier.

  She wanted to lay down next to him.

  Then she realized how creepy she was being, standing there watching him sleep.

  Silently reprimanding herself, she went back to her room, put the newspaper clippings on her desk, sat down and plodded through them, again.

  But she quickly gave up. She was just making herself more restless, when really, all she wanted to do was sleep.

  So she turned off the light and went back to bed. She finally did nod off. And was able to sleep rather soundly until she woke up from a sound.

  At first she was confused and groggy.

  It had sounded like a creaking, like the weight of a body moving across the floor. For a second she even thought she saw a flicker of light.

  Within an instant she was wide awake, her heart pounding.

  She lifted herself cautiously, propping herself up against her elbows, her pulse throbbing in her throat. She scanned the room. The shadows were still. Nothing moved. She cocked her head, straining her ears.

  The house was completely silent other than humming of appliances from the kitchen and Oskar’s deep breathing f
rom the living room.

  She moved into a sitting position.

  Something was pressing at her: indicating danger.

  The presence of someone.

  She rubbed her eyes.

  This was crazy.

  There was nothing there.

  And yet a slow prickle crept over her skin. She wasn’t able to expel the feeling.

  The radiating energy of a presence of some kind.

  Then she heard it again, the noise.

  A faint creaking.

  It was coming from somewhere down the hall.

  She pushed aside her covers and slipped out of bed.

  She listened.

  Again, the creaking.

  Soundlessly, she padded out into the living room.

  Oskar was still in deep sleep.

  She kneeled down in front of him, tugging at his arm, whispering, “Oskar, wake up…”

  He moved and blinked.

  She said into his ear, low: “I think there’s someone in the house.”

  CHAPTER 42

  Oskar sat up.

  Celia whispered, “Do you hear that?”

  His head angled in the direction of the noise.

  She rose while he pulled himself out of his sleeping bag.

  With her heart hammering wildly, she crept down the hall toward the sound. She should have brought a weapon, a knife from the kitchen. Now if it came to it, she’d have to rely on hands and nails.

  Silently she stepped toward the creaking sound, her muscles tight and springy.

  She stopped and listened. Oskar was close behind at her shoulder.

  The creaking came from the other side of the closed door to the veranda.

  Oskar put his hand up as a signal to Celia. It was too dark to read his expression, but she could sense his body bracing for a fight.