He's got it coming: Love is the best revenge

by Alexandra Winter

  I don’t make it past our hallway. Dad’s snoring stops me.

  Doesn’t he have a morning meeting?

  I hurry over to my parents’ bedroom contemplating whether to wake him or not. If I do, he might get angry because I’m interfering with his day; if I don’t, I risk him being furious if he oversleeps and misses his meeting.

  My knuckles echo with each knock on the door. No response. I open the door and whisper, “Dad? When’s your meeting?”

  He grunts then pulls the duvet over his head; his black hair is sticking out above. His muffled voice says, “I’ve got it under control. Go open Skar’s.”

  “Let me know if I can help out with anything, all right?” I pause. “You’ll be there before noon, right?”

  He sits up, rubbing his eyes. “What kind of question is that? I told you yesterday, twelve o’clock at the latest. And what are you wearing? Use your brain, Amalie. Red makes you look pale. Do you think that sells cars?”

  “I’m sorry. It’s my…”

  Dad rushes me out of the bedroom, and I run upstairs to change into a white shirt, shoving my sweater in the back of my closet. I’ll miss that sweater. I sigh.

  On my way out, I stop in the hallway to tell Dad I’m leaving. But the door to their bedroom is closed.

  Did he trick me to give him a few more hours of sleep?

  No. He wouldn’t do that.

  “See you soon, Dad.” I lock the door behind me. He’ll be leaving soon too. I certainly hope he keeps his promise. He knows how much I’ve looked forward to a day off.

  THE POSTER

  Remaining spots of snow crunch beneath my shoes on the short path leading across the lawn to the driveway. Like any unpredictable Norwegian May, the cold returned last night, freezing Mom’s car windows. I press the start button on her electric Volkswagen Golf and turn the heat up to full capacity before getting out again to scrape the ice off the windows. I prefer Mom’s car; it’s quiet, and it doesn’t crave attention like Dad’s Porsche does. My breath resembles white fog spewing out of me. When I glare back at our house, the lights are still off.

  “Dad will come,” I tell myself and drive away.

  The sun is in my eyes as I turn out of town, onto the main road. I tell the car to call Josefine.

  “I have to open Skar’s today. Dad has a meeting, so I’ll run a little late. I can stop by with the poster at one o’clock?”

  Through the line, Josefine, the bakery owner’s daughter, talks fast while smacking her gum. “I hoped you’d be here already. I can’t stand to look at it anymore. It’s so faded. I don’t want to explain to every handsome man arriving this summer how much the coffee is again. It’s embarrassing. But my father will be here until three so be here before that.”

  Typical Josefine to worry about men. According to Dad, that’ll be her downfall, and it’s hard not to agree after watching her for years strut around town, desperate for attention.

  Thirty minutes later, on the neighboring peninsula, across frozen grass fields, the glass box Dad built for a shop years ago gives me shivers. Slowing down, ice cracks beneath the tires revealing how fragile it is and that I’m the first person to drive here today.

  The dealership resembles a block of ice. With me not allowed to drive any of the fifty-two luxury used cars surrounding it, they might as well be icepicks chipping away at the frozen surface Dad keeps. Every day I watch him stare at me from his glass cage while I clean and polish, never lending a hand.

  Now that he’s not here, the windows on all sides let anyone see right into what I’m doing without me noticing them. No matter which way I turn, someone can always be behind me, lurking around, making me exposed. A state I do my best to avoid. He’s built the toilet in a shed behind the shop on top of the forest stretching between Skar’s Auto and the fjord. There are no lights up there so when the sun goes down I bring a flashlight. With the wind rustling the walls, I keep away from that building as much as I can. Mom told me once that Dad planned to build the glass box on top of the hill in the forest, cut down all the trees. Since the land is higher there, boats would see it from the fjord. But that was many years ago, and apparently, it wasn’t possible.

  Yesterday, I made sure every car was clean for my day off, so there’s nothing to do but wait. To occupy my attention, I pull my paint, brushes and sketchbook from my bag and make a poster for a brown Mercedes station wagon Dad has struggled to sell for a whole year. I paint the car on a camping trip wondering what it would be like to camp with Dad. I put smiling faces on the family and add a golden retriever following a young girl into the back seat. Has Dad ever gone camping?

  The clock ticks in the background, eleven then twelve. My nails drum on my desk. No customers and no Dad. I stand. No sign of him. I pace the floor; my heartbeats increase with the minutes passing. Twelve thirty. He should be here by now. I pick up my phone and dial his number. No answer. I sit in his office chair and swivel it around to get a quick view of the lot. Only cars and a darkening sky with gusts of snow-filled wind are visible through the glass. He keeps his desk drawer locked and today is no exception. What does he hide in there?

  I call him again. He doesn’t answer, so I call one more time. The clock now shows one thirty.

  Come on, Dad!

  On the fourth attempt, after the seventh ring, he picks up, his voice harsh and sounding out of breath.

  “I’m in a meeting. Stop interfering. I’ll be there in thirty minutes.”

  “But…” He hangs up.

  Great. Time is running out to meet Mr. Dahl. I’m gripping my paintbrush so hard that sweat runs down my forehead. His meeting is more important than my poster, so I do my best to calm down and continue the painting.

  When I lay the last drop of paint, Dad parks in front. I collect my brushes and scan the shop for a paper out of place or anything he could get upset about. It’s spotless.

  The thud of his car door brings me to my feet. Dad stops in front of me glaring at the painting. My heart sinks in my chest as he snatches the poster from the desk; the paint smudges when he holds it up to evaluate it. “I love you, and I only say this because I want to help you. I don’t want you wasting your time painting. It’s a terrible use of the valuable time I pay you for.”

  You don’t pay me!

  Adrenaline soars through me. I want to scream back that he owes me money, but Dad’s arguments are already in my head: “I’ll pay you when you do a better job.” I don’t have time to discuss why he thinks I’m not good enough again. He’ll find something I haven’t done well enough anyway, he always does.

  He hands the poster back to me. “You’ve got to stop listening to your crazy Nana. She knows nothing about business. She’s a stay-at-home wife. Is that how you want to waste your life?”

  Nana is the smartest person I know. I pinch my lips together when my chin shivers and turn away.

  She’s not wasting her life.

  “Is it?” Dad pushes for a response.

  “No.”

  I want to yell at him. Instead, I head towards the door when Dad reminds me, “Please, please make an effort to look your best. I don’t want to see that purple bedsheet on you again.”

  “I will.” I glance up at the clock. Two thirty. It takes me half an hour to drive back down to the bakery. Mr. Dahl leaves at three o’clock. I’ll never make it.

  I run out to Mom’s car and call Josefine before steering out of the lot. Waiting for her to pick up, I race the car off the neighboring peninsula and back onto my road home.

  When she finally picks up, she talks even faster than usual. “Where are you?”

  “I’m on my way, be there in thirty minutes,” I say.

  “What?” There’s a pause. “Okay, I’ll stall. But please, hurry. I can’t bear to look at this awful window display anymore. This cute guy laughed at it today, in my face. It’s mortifying.”

  With every second closer, my heart beats faster. I get the sneaking suspicion I’ve forgotten something. “You’re sure yo
ur father wanted me to make this?”

  Josefine laughs. “What are you talking about? You’re amazing. I’ve seen the menu you designed for The Bluebird. Don’t chicken out.”

  Her last comment provokes me. I’m no chicken. “I’ll hurry.” I hang up. Frozen grass fields become pine forest around me, and the road markings stop as two lanes narrow into one.

  Driving down to our small-town harbor, seagulls soar above the fishing boats at the dock. Through the open square, I pass the grocery store and The Bluebird before parking in front of Mr. Dahl’s Bakery. It’s a small wooden house, painted white like every house around. In the window is the hand-scribbled poster for buns and coffee Josefine complains about, yellowed over the years by the sun’s harsh beams. Behind it, she waves frantically before running out to greet me, her brown hair bleached so much that it appears white in the sunlight. Her heavy blue eyeliner takes away from her ecstatic facial expression making her look angry somehow. Only the chirpy tone of her voice assures me she’s not.

  “Hurry,” she says. Her tramp stamp tattoo peeks out between her tight top and jeans. Dad would faint if I ever got a tattoo or dressed like she did. I almost faint myself thinking about it.

  I lift the canvas out of the trunk, and my mind spins with what Mr. Dahl might say. I’ve been so focused on getting here on time that I forgot to prepare myself for how to react if he doesn’t like my work. I’ve followed every instruction Josefine gave me from him, but it won’t matter if Miss Ask, Mom, or even I approve if he won’t. I’ve forgotten something with the poster; I’m overcome with this suspicion. But I can’t place it. What is missing?

  Think, Amalie.

  “Wow,” Josefine says. Her eyes sparkle looking at the poster. “Cool.”

  “Do you think it’s what he’s looking for?”

  Josefine laughs. “Who knows.” She pulls me into the bakery, the bell above the door jingles and I stumble in after her hiding the painting behind my back.

  What does she mean, who knows?

  I’ve followed the instructions he’s given her.

  The scent of freshly-baked bread makes my mouth water. It looks the same as it did the first time I was here. Worn floorboards, light green paint on the wall and Mr. Dahl behind the counter smiling with deep dimples. He had hair back then, but now he’s bald.

  Chills creep up my spine. Did Mr. Dahl even ask me to make this or has Josefine tricked me to believe it was his idea? Shit, I hope not. No, she wouldn’t do that.

  “Amalie’s made a new poster for you,” she says.

  What? It wasn’t my idea!

  I stutter. “I thought...Josefine told me that…”

  She holds out her arms in my direction like a game show host would show off a prize, but when I don’t take the poster out from behind my back, she pulls it out to show Mr. Dahl.

  Shit. Please like it.

  He wipes his hands off on his green apron and grabs it out of my hands. “So you don’t think the one I have now is good enough, do you?”

  He never asked for the poster, she did. He’s got no idea why I made it.

  I step back. “It’s not that, I just…” I’m grasping for excuses when Josefine interrupts.

  “Of course she doesn’t. Nobody does, Dad.”

  Holding the poster high, he frowns. At the same time as Josefine yells out, “This is perfect,” her father mumbles, “This is too modern for us. Something a city bakery might use.” He hands it back to me.

  It’s as if Mr. Dahl’s punched me and I have to support myself on the back of a chair to regain my balance. I should have asked him if he wanted a new poster first, discussed design, involved him in the process.

  How could I assume she was talking for them both?

  The design is good but what does that help if he doesn’t like it? I’ve been so flattered Josefine asked me to design it that I forgot the most important thing: understand the needs of Mr. Dahl. I should have thought about this, been smarter about it, and used my brain, not acted like an idiot. Dad’s judgmental voice scoffs in my head: “You’re allowed to use your brain.” I’m not smart enough. My voice falters. “I’m sorry to have bothered you.”

  “What are you talking about?” Josefine snatches the canvas from my hands. “Are you blind, Dad? Summer tourists are from the city, they’ll arrive soon, and Amalie evidently knows what they want. Hers is a thousand times better than—” She reaches into the window display and pulls out the faded poster, waving it in his face. “—this ugly, unreadable, homemade, I don’t even know what to call it. Poster? And, admit it, the reason you think Amalie’s design fits in a city bakery is that you like it. You’re scared of change!”

  Mr. Dahl shakes his head. “We’re a small town. People here won’t relate to this.”

  Josefine throws her arms up in frustration. “You don’t relate. Don’t put that on us.”

  Without realizing, I’ve reversed myself away from them, and my back is now at the door. I’m tempted to take Mr. Dahl’s side to protect him from her harsh words. Around us, customers are staring at the scene she’s making, embarrassing her father in front of everyone. If I did anything like this to my father, I’d never forgive myself.

  Josefine drags me outside. “I’m so sorry. He’s an idiot.”

  No, that’s me.

  “How could you trick me like this? I was sure he asked for this poster, and I’ve worked my butt off to make it perfect when all this time he had no idea? No wonder he’s upset.” As I speak, we watch Mr. Dahl through the window write on the faded poster with a thick red marker before placing it back. What previously seemed like him punching me now turns into a knife twisting in my gut. I think of my bed at home and how I want to dive into it and never get out.

  Josefine screams out, “Now, it’s even worse!” She runs back inside and yells at her father. One day, probably not long from now, she’ll get pregnant and marry some man she’ll shout at like she’s yelling at her father. I can’t help but sympathize with both men, I think to myself as I walk back to Mom’s car. Mom would never shout at Dad and neither would I. It’s barbaric.

  A black Mercedes parks next to me and a man with blond hair combed to the side, looking a few years older than I and a city hotshot, gets out of the car. He’s wearing green pants and a designer coat. He smiles at me, and although I want to get away from here, I stop and smile back. He looks familiar to me.

  “Hey, there. Looking for directions?” Josefine’s flirty voice breaks my smile. Her hips bounce from side to side walking over to him.

  The man grins. “No, thank you. I’m meeting my parents here.” He gestures to the bakery behind her. Josefine grins. “I’ll help you. I work here.”

  I can’t bear to witness her slobbering over yet another man, so I let them be and put the painting back into the trunk.

  “Let me help you with that.” The man is by my side holding the trunk lid open. “Did you make this?”

  “Uhm—” I want to say no. It embarrasses me that I designed something Mr. Dahl doesn’t want. “Yes.” As my hand goes to my neck, I get a sense of how women feel around my father.

  “You can charge a lot for this, it’s great,” he says.

  I force my hand down. But can’t withhold the smile forcing its way to my face. I shut the trunk, getting one last glance at the canvas taunting me. “You should try the muesli buns, they’re great.”

  Josefine calls out. “I’ll talk to Dad.”

  I don’t see why, but I smile to make her feel better about me failing her father. She heads into the bakery holding the door open for the blond-haired man. “So, you’re here to celebrate May 17th?”

  I notice him nod. I walk over to The Bluebird.

  Mr. Jensen, the owner, Mom’s partner and a childhood friend to both Dad and Mom, is folding napkins in the entryway. He wears a light blue blazer with a handkerchief in its pocket and a matching blue bowtie.

  His eyes light up through his round navy-framed glasses. “Amalie. I am so pleased to see you.”
He holds up a folded swan. “Isn’t this tacky? I want to do something original, but nothing works, let me tell you.”

  My favorite painting hangs next to him. Mr. Jensen’s painted the garden behind the restaurant with the majestic oak tree in the background. As a kid, I saw other children climb that tree every summer and always wanted to, but never dared risking getting my clothes dirty.

  The comforting aroma of Mom’s fish soup, reminding me of late, carefree summer nights and cooking with her as a child, wafts from the kitchen in the back.

  “Your brilliant mother is doing what she does best, creating tasteful art.” Mr. Jensen chuckles at his own description.

  Per usual for a seasonal menu, Mom and her sous chef Ms. Berg play loud Norwegian summer songs to get them in the right mood. With lyrics about dipping toes in the warm sea and sunshine glimmering on waves, it feels as though summer is already here.

  I remember Mom telling me Mr. Jensen made her partner yesterday and before I can stop myself, I hug him. “Congratulations,” I say.

  He giggles. “Thank you. Oh yes, I should have done it years ago, of course. I don’t know what I’d do if another restaurant stole Celina from me. Now, she can’t escape.”

  I follow Ms. Berg’s croaky singing into the kitchen in the back. She knows only a few words and makes up the rest. She and Mom wear matching yellow aprons, cooking to the beat.

  “Darling!” Mom dances across the floor while holding out a spoon for me to taste. “You have to try this.” The creamy fish soup fills my mouth before the subtle sting of chili strikes. Not too spicy, as I like it.

  “Isn’t it perfect? Ms. Berg added chili and what a perfect combination.”

  Ms. Berg, a short round lady, beams from the compliment but corrects Mom. “Your suggestion, Celina. I chopped and added it.”

  Mom throws the spoon into the sink and turns up the volume. “Teamwork.” A song with an upbeat tempo comes on, and Mom pulls me into a dance. “Tell me, can we see your poster in Mr. Dahl’s window now?”