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

by Alexandra Winter

  No.

  I wiggle out of her grip. “I have to get home.”

  Mom looks at the clock. “I’ll join you. I was finishing up here.”

  When we get home, I check the mailbox. It’s empty, and I can’t wait to know. Waiting is almost worse than a rejection.

  I iron my yellow dress first. Then the bunad shirt, making sure I don’t create any creases, and polish my shoes and their silver buckles, jewelry and details on the bunad belt before I climb into bed. Tomorrow is Norway’s Constitution Day, May 17th, and I can’t fall asleep fast enough because that is a day guaranteed to be better than today.

  MAY 17TH

  On the car radio, cheers from the children’s parade walking past the palace in Oslo ring out for the royal family. Nana is waiting for me outside with a bouquet of lilies, her favorite flowers, in her hands as I roll up in front of her house at seven o’clock in the morning. She’s wearing the same bunad as Mom and me, an ankle-length blue wool dress with a yellow embroidered belt and hem, and white shirt with silver jewelry. It’s the only day during the year we wear them together, along with every other person in Norway owning a bunad. There are so many different styles to see, and we all proudly discuss our heritage using them as the perfect conversation starter.

  The only things not a part of her outfit are Nana’s light gray bucket hat, pulled down over her ears and forcing her big round glasses down her nose, and a white coat to keep warm.

  I jump out of the car and open the passenger door to give her a hand, but she shoos me off. “I have entered cars before.” She grabs the handle above the window and lowers herself with a grunt. “You see?”

  Nana’s deep steady voice has a unique ring to it. Most women I know end each sentence in a tone higher than the other words spoken, like asking a question. Nana always ends hers on a lower tone, as if concluding.

  “Happy birthday, Norway.” As usual, Nana’s smile is so big her high cheekbones hoist her glasses up to her forehead. She quickly pulls them down along with her hat.

  I drive down their street and turn onto the dirt road leading to our house. “How’s Grandpa?” Mom told me his cancer was getting worse and he had to stay the night at the hospital in Tønsberg. “Maybe we should visit him later? Bring some cake?”

  “He has his flag and a smile on his face. He needs his rest.” When the seatbelt alarm howls, she turns down the radio and fastens her seatbelt. “I recall your mother as a child. When the sounds of celebration sounded from our radio, she’d say, ‘The parade here is too small. I want to be in that one.’ She couldn’t wait to move to the city when she was old enough. Now I find myself visiting her in that very same house where she spoke those words.”

  The flag waves proudly in the crisp spring breeze outside every house we pass. I park the car in the driveway. By now, Mom has already placed small Norwegian flags along the trail leading over the grass field up to the house.

  “I’m glad she stayed.” The care Mom puts into every detail for us makes this celebration unique. There’s a unity in wearing the bunad Nana has made for me, showing we belong together. With any of it gone, it wouldn’t be the same.

  Inside the house, Mom has decorated in red, white and blue and ironed bows ready for us to wear.

  Nana swings her coat onto the back of the worn yellow kitchen chair overlooking the fjord. On the water, sailboats drift by with flowers draped from their masts.

  Mom, still in her dressing gown, goes to change.

  Nana gets out a big red-wine glass from the cupboard, fills it with tap water and sits down to enjoy the view. She always has water in wine glasses.

  Dad trudges into the kitchen, wearing a new black suit and red tie. “Can’t you use a normal glass, not drink from the wine glasses?” He fills a glass we usually use for water and exchanges it with her wine glass. “These are for wine, not water.”

  Nana snatches the wine glass back from him and grins. “So true. And now it is for water.” She turns to me. “So, have you heard from your school?”

  I shake my head.

  She smiles, knowing they inform declined students first. “Good.”

  Dad’s eyebrows furrow. “What school?”

  My pulse increases, but although I don’t want to discuss this today, I’m not able to stop Nana.

  “Truly, Hermann. Your daughter has applied to her dream school. Show some interest in her life for once.”

  Don’t irritate him.

  “Nana, it’s all right,” I say.

  Nana says calmly, “No, it is not.”

  “Of course, I am interested.” Dad’s voice is higher now as he throws his arms out in frustration. “I don’t want her to be disappointed.”

  “I won’t be,” I say. That’s a lie, but Dad is upset, and it’s my fault. It doesn’t matter. What are the odds again? Two out of three thousand?

  Nana frowns. “How about supporting your daughter, Hermann? Not only focus on the challenges. She should be excited, curious about new people, job opportunities.”

  I am excited.

  And, I’m doing what Nana’s asked of me. I haven’t done anything wrong now, at least not to her.

  Nana takes a deep breath, seeming to calm herself. “You have one interest, Amalie, and that is design. Still, I had to force you to take classes and apply to a school you dream of attending.”

  Dad sneers. “Sounds like you force your dreams onto my daughter.”

  “Please stop.” I wave my arms between them. “I love designing, but I don’t want to bother anyone with it. I don’t want to be in anyone’s way, and…” My mind blanks out as it always does when it spins off into too many thoughts about what I should do, try to figure out what I want, and what the people around me want at the same time. “Can we please not discuss this today? It’s Norway’s birthday. We’re here to celebrate, not argue.”

  “Agreed. Let us save it for when the letter arrives.” Nana pulls out a book from her bag and places it on the table. “Later, you two could read this together.”

  It’s The Book of Joy by Desmond Tutu and the Dalai Lama. The cover shows the two men looking at each other in profile. Tutu’s smile makes me laugh. I have never seen Dad with a book in his hands. “It takes too much time,” he’ll say. Nana bumps her shoulder to mine, ignoring Dad peering down at her. “You might learn something, Hermann.”

  “You think a monk and a priest will teach me something I don’t already know? Hah.”

  “I think they could teach you to wear your bunad,” she says.

  Dad waves Nana’s comment off. “It’s too warm. Besides, bunads are old-fashioned. No offense.” He spins around like a rock star peering down at me. “What about me?”

  Inhaling with closed eyes, I try to shake the urge to change to my yellow dress upstairs in my room. “You look great, Dad.”

  Mom returns after changing into her bunad matching Nana and me. Dad sits down at the dining table which she decorated last night and plays with his fork. Mom makes scrambled eggs, then takes out a tray from the refrigerator with smoked salmon, shrimp, sour cream, cucumbers, red onions, and caviar prepared the night before. “Breakfast is served.”

  I’m the last to sit, and as I do, I inspect everyone’s expression. Dad is apparently upset with Nana, she with him, and Mom is trying her best to keep the mood cheery. “The forecast said it would be sunny today. I’m sure it will be lovely at The Bluebird.”

  It doesn’t take long before Dad addresses Nana, overlooking Mom’s comment about the weather entirely. “You’re in my house now, so you will respect my wishes for this family.”

  As usual, I keep silent. Nana pushes her chair back as if to stand but folds her hands on her lap instead. “Don’t forget this was my house once, too, until we gave it to our daughter, so I will speak my mind.” Her voice is calm, as it always is, but firm.

  Mom sighs. “Mom, please. Let’s keep this civil.”

  “I always am. Amalie will do anything to please you, Hermann. I wish for her to have dreams,
follow them, and truly live her life.” She turns to Mom, then to me.

  But before she’s able to continue, Dad cuts her off. “Like you have lived yours?”

  Silence.

  Dad takes a big bite of egg. Nana opens her mouth to speak, but Mom raises her hand signaling for her to stop, and we keep quiet until Dad finishes his plate.

  “Well, this was lovely, but we’re running late. If you don’t mind, I’ll wait in the car.” He leaves the table. The door shuts behind him.

  Mom takes her plate to the kitchen while glaring at Nana. “Do you have to agitate him?” I eat the rest of the food off my plate as I follow behind her.

  Nana closes her eyes. When she opens them, she exhales, so we all hear. “I will not keep quiet and watch his controlling, toxic ways without speaking up.”

  “It’s not his fault,” Mom says.

  “You cannot close your eyes to this anymore. He will never…”

  Mom raises her hand again, shutting Nana down. “You know how he gets before dinner with his parents. It’s not easy for him.”

  I clear away the leftover food and dishes while smiling to myself about my dress waiting upstairs. At least I’ve done everything I can to make this year’s May 17th dinner with my grandparents easier for Dad.

  Before, whenever I’ve asked about Dad’s relationship with his parents, he’s told me it’s impolite to pry. Since he’s not here, I jump at the chance. “Why does Dad get so upset by them?”

  Nana lifts her nose to the sky, noticeably mocking my grandmother. “Because their values make it impossible for your father to be his true self. They need to get their priorities straight.”

  Mom hands us our newly ironed flags. “That’s what they say about us.”

  I laugh. “It’s true.”

  “Of course it is,” Nana says.

  Outside, Dad waits in the car. Although he seems upset, I can’t think of anything to say that will help.

  “Clean your feet off before getting into my car,” he says. Mom and I do as told. Nana does not. “I am too old for entertaining façade.”

  Dad’s judgmental eyes rest on Nana’s face in the mirror before driving us down to the harbor and The Bluebird. It’s the same look that’s scarred into my mind from my disastrous purple dress at last year’s dinner with his parents. Only then, the look was his father’s.

  “Balder! My old friend.” Dad shakes Mr. Jensen’s hand firmly and pulls him in for a hug. They’ve known each other since kindergarten. Dad introduced him to Mom when they were dating at nineteen years old. Mr. Jensen shakes his hand out after Dad’s harsh grip and notices my disappointment. He isn’t wearing his bunad, but a white suit and vest.

  He hands me a flute of champagne and whispers. “It was too small. My planning was dreadful this year, let me tell you. Sad. Yes, sad.”

  “You have to lay off the soda, my friend. It’s not good for your health.” Dad laughs and pats his friend’s belly. Mr. Jensen shrugs in reply.

  Nana clinks her glass to his. “Speak for yourself, Hermann.”

  “You too,” Dad says.

  The last of the dressed-up children in the parade march down the street. Only three children remain in the marching band, holding trumpets and a tuba, tooting charming but false notes to the best of their ability, tired from walking all day. It’s a tradition for the local parade to finish here. Parents line the street and parking lot outside The Bluebird, enthusiastically waving their flags while cheering for their children who by now are sick of waving theirs.

  I know every face, even though I’ve mostly kept to myself all these years. I have seen the children grow up here, and grown familiar with newcomers, one of which now stands out to me. It’s a man in a black jubilee Oslo bunad, its silver buttons glimmering in the sunlight. His hair is blond, he’s a few years older than me, and he’s cheering along with the Sand family and their two Weimaraner’s. Of course, it’s the same man I met outside of Mr. Dahl’s Bakery yesterday. So he was telling the truth, he didn’t need directions, he’s here to celebrate with his family. I knew there was something familiar about him. That’s William Sand, every girl’s crush in primary school. Josefine is, of course, next to him in a low cut, neon pink dress, chatting away.

  Pink today? What is she thinking?

  His eyes meet mine, so do Josefine’s, and I avert both of their gazes almost losing my balance trying to be discreet. To save myself from the near tumble, I continue walking over to our table in the garden in front of The Bluebird, pretending it was on purpose, but Josefine grins to herself.

  It’s Mom’s day off, but she assists the kitchen running to and from our table. Salt from the sea lingers in the air.

  The Sand family sits down at a table next to ours and like us, orders Norwegian-style shrimp. William sits with them, behind me, while Josefine gazes at him from three tables away.

  Peeling shrimp is a tradition here, so when Ms. Berg balances a big bowl of cooked shrimp on our table, Mom finally sits down.

  Nana takes her time, preparing her bread first with butter, mayonnaise, and red onions. Mom and I dive straight into the bowl knowing Dad views it as a competition for speed and system.

  Dad nudges his elbow into my arm, pointing at William while continuing to peel. “Now there’s a man who knows how to peel. Amalie, look at his plate. That’s how you should do it.” I glance as fast as I can. He sorts his peels precisely like Dad, heads on one side of the plate, tails neatly stacked next to them, and the shrimp lined up on his bread resemble a military march.

  He passes his prepared plate to Mrs. Sand, rinses his fingers in the water bowl before reaching over to shake Dad’s hand. “I’m William Sand.”

  I knew that was him.

  Dad, unprepared, brushes his hands on a napkin before shaking William’s. “So, you’re the pride of the family?”

  Of course, he’s the real-estate genius my grandfather talks about. No wonder Dad’s impressed.

  William ignores Dad’s question. Instead, he stands up and shakes hands with our entire table, Mr. Jensen, then Mom. My palms sweat and I wipe them on my napkin under the table. Nana notices and holds his hand in hers until I’m ready.

  I love her.

  But when she lets go, and his hand touches mine, it’s moist already. “Nice to meet you again.” I blush.

  Dad swallows down his bite. “You two know each other?”

  I shake my head, but William nods. “We met briefly outside the bakery yesterday.” He looks even better today, not like a city snob but more like one of us.

  I want to say something to make Dad forget because he’ll tease me about William, but I can’t find any words, when Mr. Dahl stops by our table to greet him as well. I immediately fear he’ll tell Dad about the poster I brought him.

  He leans down and whispers to Dad. “Your daughter offered me a poster yesterday. It seems she disapproves of the one I have.”

  “Don’t worry.” Dad scowls at me across the table while answering him. “Amalie won’t bother you with her drawings again.”

  My mouth goes dry.

  I wasn’t trying to bother Mr. Dahl. I thought he’d ordered the poster.

  William stares at Dad, then me, Nana seems ready to argue, and Mom’s gaze falls to her lap.

  Mr. Jensen clears his throat. “I have to say, my friend, you might underestimate Amalie. We haven’t painted together for a while since she started her classes, but from what I recall, she’s quite talented.”

  I smile at Mr. Jensen. He means well, but Dad won’t change his mind, neither will Mr. Dahl.

  Nana continues Mr. Jensen’s comment about me. “Her teachers praise her, so you’re talking out of terms here, Hermann.”

  “I respect your thoughts, Balder, but if you had children of your own, you’d know how difficult they can be. Amalie needs to know not to bother adults,” Dad says.

  What will it take for Dad to consider me an adult?

  “I’m sorry. It won’t happen again.” I excuse myself from the t
able.

  I’m in no mood to hear Dad’s views of my work shared out loud, especially in front of William. Instead, I bring a few napkins, a pen, and walk out behind the restaurant, into the grass field, to the oak tree where I used to dream of playing with the other kids. No one’s there and I stare up at the grand branches stretching out over the grass wider than the tree is tall. I sit down next to it and draw it from the foot of the trunk. I want to climb it.

  It’s a bad idea; my skirt will get dirty, probably my shirt too.

  I look around while tucking the napkins and pen into my satchel. I’m alone, so I kick off my shoes and slip my pantyhose off so as not to ruin them. Grabbing onto the bark, I pause and glance around me again before I lift myself off the ground.

  I’m climbing.

  I grab another branch and push upwards, then another, until I reach the thickest branch, my back against the trunk and lift my head to the sky. Dad doesn’t even know the whole story of Mr. Dahl's poster, but I don’t want to behave like Josefine, arguing with her father in plain sight. Be like her? Never. I respect him too much for that. I’ll talk to Dad when we drive to his parents later.

  Two huge butterflies dance in circles, both in warm yellow colors with brown-black spots and one red. I pull out my napkins and pen and draw the details in their wings resembling a swallow’s feathers.

  How lucky you two are. Free to float around, fly in any direction you choose.

  Nana would say I was too, but their lives are uncomplicated. They can flap their wings from flower to flower all day, nobody telling them what to do or how to do it.

  A bird dives from the sky and swallows one of the butterflies. The dance is over. Something so beautiful, gone. The remaining dancer stops midair before it flutters in between leaves, disappearing against the bark. The bird searches around to find it. I can imagine its terror, desperately seeking a way to safety. I hope I never have to experience anything like that. I wave my arms frantically to scare the bird away, and it flies to a branch further up the tree.

  “Preparing for flight?” William’s white smile flashes up at me.