"I never heard about that."
"No, I don't suppose you would have."
"But ... why didn't anyone tell me?" I was angry suddenly.
"You weren't even born yet."
"I know that. I mean later."
"When? When you were a child, you should have been told such a thing?" Stefan too was sounding angry, his voice still quiet, but harsh.
"No, I don't mean that!" I didn't know what I meant. "I mean ... after Birdie died. Someone could have told me then."
"Why on earth-?"
"So I wouldn't have blamed myself. That's why on earth!" I was nearly shouting. The louder I got the quieter Stefan became. It must have driven Birdie crazy.
"Blamed yourself?" He was whispering. "But it wasn't your fault. Surely you knew that."
"I knew she killed herself on my birthday. My fourteenth birthday. How about that? Don't tell me that was coincidence, or that she didn't know what day it was. She knew. She was punishing me.
"For what?"
"For turning her in, at Askja."
"You mean for rescuing her, saving her life?"
"Birdie didn't see it that way. She called me svikari. Traitor. It was the last thing she ever said to me." I was crying. "She died hating me."
"No, Freya min." It was the first time Stefan had used that endearment with me. It just made me cry harder. "Never think that. Birdie loved you, you were a great joy to her. You did the right thing."
Oh no I didn't, I wanted to say. If I'd done the right thing I never would have stepped on that plane with Birdie in the first place. Stefan put an arm around me, awkwardly, but I let him, even leaned my head against his shoulder. I remembered the time so many years earlier, when Mama was in the hospital and Stefan had comforted me on the couch at Oddi.
"Freya, I'm not sure it's helping, this idea you have that Birdie had a child. Nothing can bring her back to us. Not even a long -lost child. Besides, I just don't think it's true."
Maybe he was right. Maybe this child was simply a figment of my pathetic imagination. Maybe whoever said Ingihjorg's child was talking about some other Ingibjorg. Maybe Sigga's dream was about exactly what it appeared to be about: lambs and eagles.
"Why don't I drive you home?"
"I want to see Birdie's things."
"Maybe another night would be better. When you're more ... composed."
"I'll compose myself." And I did. I went into the bathroom and blew my nose and washed my face. Then I followed Stefan up a steep narrow staircase and into the attic.
High noon and a very low tide exposes more beach than seems decent, littered with flotsam, glinting tangles of shell-encrusted seaweed wrapped like a second skin around knobby chunks of driftwood. I poke a soggy, halfdecayed gull wing with my sneaker. Then I spot it, bobbing close to shore. Something red. I wade out to my knees, then thighs, but the closer I wade the farther away from me the thing floats. When the water reaches my waist there's nothing to do but start swimming after it: my old cherry red suitcase, merrily bobbing just out of reach, a cartoon version of itself, wily and slick, darting below the surface so I have no choice but to follow it down into the cold dark depth of the lake, where I skim along the slimy bottom like an eyeless fish. Then I run out of air and shoot to the surface, gasping and treading and longing for everything I've ever lost.
Sweat-slick I kicked off the covers, waking up zombie-rigid in my childhood bed at Oddi. I wasn't having it. I was not giving up. That had been a moment of weakness at Stefan's, deciding that Birdie's child was nothing but a pathetic figment. True, my investigation so far had been a wash. Posing the question to Sigga had proven impossible, with Halldora flapping around every moment of the day. And even if I could manage to get Sigga alone, and get her to understand and then answer the question, could her information be trusted? Could I consider her a reliable source, she who had mistaken me for my dead mother? Stefan was useless too. No, not useless. Stefan is one of the most useful people on the planet--a dear man, yes, I know, Mama helping old ladies and teaching high school students and setting up the new museum. But he was not useful in this matter. In this matter he knew nothing, or claimed to. Nor had anything turned up among Birdie's things in the attic. Like Stefan had said, all her writing was gone. Mostly clothes and jewelry, things I wasn't interested in. And her old Underwood on a typewriter stand, along with three books. "That's how Sigga found things," Stefan explained, "when Birdie ... died. The books and the typewriter. So I put them back together up here."
A reconstructed suicide altar. I stayed only a minute before climbing back down the narrow stairs. It was time to turn elsewhere. If Birdie had had a child, her sister would have known. And if her sister knew, in all likelihood her sister's best friend would have known as well.
As much as I dreaded it, it was time to visit dear Vera in Winnipeg.
29
The next afternoon I borrowed Stefan's station wagon-an updated version of his old Rambler-and drove Highway 9 to Winnipeg to visit Vera in her house of knickknacks on Victor Street. It was just as I remembered it: outside, the formidable brick facade with the wrought-iron gate; inside, the figurines and china and silver all dusted and polished and gleaming in their display cases.
Vera wanted to talk about my mother. Vera loved my mother like a sister, Vera missed my mother terribly after she married and left for the States, and then when she passed away, well, tragic was the only word. Tragic! Of course, Anna was never the same after that terrible fall. She became an old woman overnight. Her hair turned gray and she had to walk with the cane just to keep her balance. How forgetful she became, a shadow of herself.
As if I didn't know!
And on Vera went about my mother, and on and on. I let her, although her every word pained me. I could not cut to the chase and ask the question I had come there to ask. I had to be subtle, not risk offending Vera's sense of propriety. The last thing Vera would want to discuss was Birdie. And so I saved her for last.
Painful as it was, the truth is that I loved hearing about my mother. In my life in New York no one knows my mother; they know only that I no longer have a mother. And if there is anyone left in this world who really knows my mother, it is Vera.
"I remember so well when your mother's family came to live with us here in Winnipeg, right after Olafur died. And oh, when they first arrived! What a pair, fresh off one of those New Iceland farms. Birdie a wild thing, Anna so shy she barely spoke. Despite the fact they'd been born in Canada those two girls spoke English with thick Icelandic accents. Raised to speak only Icelandic in the home! Can you imagine? My own father Dr. G. would not allow such a thing. Not that we Gudmundssons were ashamed of being Icelanders! What's to be ashamed of? But he wanted us to do well in this new world. No child of his would suffer with the taint of an immigrant accent.
"Birdie was only twelve when they came to Winnipeg, life here was easy enough for her, she loved the excitement of the West End. But your mother was sixteen, she had to fit in at high school, it took her longer to adjust. She was awkward and awfully shy. Other kids teased her. I was the one who protected her, tucked her under my wing, took her shopping at Eaton's, taught her proper Canadian ways. But don't think our friendship was one-sided. Oh no. Your mother was the dearest, sweetest friend I could have asked for."
Here Vera opened the album she'd set out on the coffee table and began showing me photographs. Anna and Vera in Winnipeg, standing outside the old brick school. Vera and Anna singing in the choir at the First Icelandic Lutheran Church, two doors down on Victor Street.
"Your mother had the voice of an angel, but she never showed off. That was the difference between your mother and her sister. Birdie was a showoff as soon as she arrived in town. Had to be the cleverest, prettiest, wildest girl in the West End. Anna was expected to look after her, but there was no keeping up with Birdie. Soon after she arrived, she threw her farm shoes into the sewer because she wanted a new pair this during the Depression, mind you. City shoes, she insisted. Next thing we
knew she was cutting school and meeting boys and smoking cigarettes. So Sigga took a job teaching school in Gimli, and that's when she and Birdie moved into Oddi. Sigga wanted to remove Birdie from what she called the city influences. Anna stayed here with us. We both attended secretarial school-that's what bright young women did in those days-but a few years out of high school your mother met your father. He was in town for an accountants' convention. He proposed, they got engaged, and six months later, Anna was gone. Oh how I cried! I missed her like a sister, I tell you. Of course I wanted only happiness for her. But I don't know how happy she ever was in Connecticut. The homesickness was terrible. And being unable to have a child all those years. And then, finally, you came along. What a joy for your mother! A miracle. I still have the letter-all her letters-when she wrote to tell me the news. She was just over forty by then. It was a difficult pregnancy and birth, so Sigga took the train to Connecticut and stayed with your mother the first couple of months after you were born. But Anna never complained to me in her letters, about the pregnancy or the birth. She believed you were the best thing that ever happened to her."
Vera paused, finally, and looked at me. As if she did not entirely agree.
"Can I see her letters?"
"They're in the attic, somewhere. I'll have to have one of my boys dig them out. Now that Joey's gone I depend so on my boys. You can see the letters next time you come. You must visit again, Freya, maybe for the Icelandic festival next summer? Please don't stay away so long again. It does me so much good to see you. I believe your mother is looking down on us right now from heaven, watching Vera and Freya drinking tea!"
She showed me more photographs. The one I remember most clearly is of Mama and Birdie, dressed identically in saddle shoes, bobby socks, and pleated skirts. Mama had a vague look to her even then, pleasant but blurry around the edges. Birdie was all angles, staring directly into the camera and at anyone who came along to gaze at her in the future.
"Your mother may have been no beauty like her sister," Vera commented, "but she had a kindness that did not go unnoticed. Your mother was pure goodness, Freya. She watched out for that horrid sister of hers all her life. And then for Birdie to do such a terrible thing! I thought Anna was going to have a heart attack when you disappeared, I truly did. Day after day passed and we had no word of you. Just vanished into thin air! We were all in Gimli for Islendingadagurinn when it happened, I was the Fjallleona, you know, and I stayed with Anna the next few weeks while we searched and searched for the two of you. Did you have any idea of the worry you caused us?"
I shook my head, maybe yes, maybe no. Vera went on.
"So many times Anna forgave Birdie. But kidnapping there's no other word for it, really she could not forgive. She informed Birdie that she was never to come near you again. It was a perfectly reasonable action, in my book. Birdie could simply not be trusted. Too unstable, dangerous really. Oh, there were some terrible phone calls! Birdie begging and pleading, demanding and threatening. It wasn't really about you. Though I suppose she loved you as much as she was capable of loving anyone. No, she just hated the idea of Anna having any power over her. But she got her revenge, in the end, Birdie did."
"What do you mean?"
"By killing herself. What a selfish disgusting act. Your mother could hardly live with herself after that. That's what she told me in a letter. She blamed herself completely. Which is I'm sure exactly what Birdie intended. Anna always made excuses for Birdie, blamed her behavior on mental illness. Honestly, Freya, Birdie was simply a case of bad character. I think your grandfather spoiled her terribly. She was Olafur's favorite and could do no wrong in the old man's eyes. And so she turned into an ill-mannered, overly excitable, self-absorbed, moody woman who took whatever she could from others and gave nothing in return. She was a deeply flawed human being. I hate to say this to you, Freya dear, but your aunt Birdie was a bad person, through and through."
"Yes," I agreed. "Birdie was a terrible person."
Vera looked stunned. She had not expected me to agree with her. But defending Birdie would get me nowhere, not with Vera. So I forced myself to say what I needed to get the information I wanted. I said that Birdie was horrible, that she'd ruined our lives, and that recently I'd heard even more terrible things about her, things I'd never known before.
"Like what?" Vera's interest was piqued.
"That Birdie had a child out of wedlock."
"Really? Well, I never heard such a thing. It wouldn't surprise me though. Birdie had lovers, stole other women's boyfriends and husbands right out from under them."
"But you never heard about her getting pregnant?"
"No. What makes you think she did?"
"I overheard some people talking. At Sigga's birthday party."
"Who on earth-"
"I don't know. I never saw them. But it led me to believe Birdie may have had a child that was given up for adoption. My mother never said anything to you?"
"Your mother told me everything, she would have told me something like that. Never said a word. And really, Freya, I can't see why that should concern you now. Though it doesn't surprise me, not one bit, that Birdie continues to incite gossip even from the grave. I say let the poor woman rest in peace. Her reputation was ruined enough in this life. Besides, I'm the last person to ask about Birdie. After Anna left for the States, I made it a point to see Birdie as little as possible. Birdie felt the same way about me-she was terribly jealous of me, you know, and went to no effort to spare my feelings. There are other people who know much more about Birdie than I do."
"I've already asked Stefan. He said he'd never heard of a child. And Sigga .. .
"You're right not to trouble Sigga with such a matter. I don't mean Sigga, or Stefan either. I'm referring to your grandmother's friend Halldora."
"Halldora? But-she won't even let me mention Birdie's name in a conversation!"
"That may be true. But she was Birdie's nurse, after all."
"Her ... nurse?"
"All those times Birdie was at the Selkirk Asylum. Not her private nurse, certainly. But Halldora was a nurse at Selkirk for many years. That's how your grandmother and Halldora first met, long before they ended up together at the Betel retirement home. Halldora took an interest in Birdie as soon as she arrived at Selkirk, because Halldora is a great fan of your grandfather Olafur's poetry. Reveres the man. So she kept a special eye on Birdie. Sigga was very grateful to Halldora for that. And then imagine, years later, the two of them neighbors at Betel. I'm sure Halldora is keeping a very special eye on your grandmother there."
"Oh, she surely is," I replied. "A very special eye indeed."
"But I don't think you'll find anything out from Halldora either. I feel certain Birdie never had a child. In fact, I've always believed that's why Anna let her spend so much time with you, even though she was clearly a bad influence. Anna had a big heart. I'm sure she felt that since her sister had no child, it was only right for her to share you with Birdie during the summers. Of course, I told her again and again it wasn't a good idea, but she wouldn't listen. A lot of tragedy could have been avoided if your mother had listened to me."
I didn't point out that if Birdie had had a child, and given it up for adoption, that was all the more reason for my mother to feel the need to share me. After all, my mother knew what it meant to be childless for a woman who wanted children very badly, that is. But had Birdie ever wanted children? One more question I might never find an answer to.
No, I was terribly sorry, but I couldn't stay for dinner. I had to drive back to Gimli and return Stefan's car.
She hadn't upset me, had she, with all that talk about Birdie and my mother?
Oh no, not at all. Whatever would make her think a thing like that?
The next morning, Halldora was waiting like a sentinel outside Sigga's door. An attendant was giving Sigga her bath, Halldora explained. And while she did, Halldora wanted to have a word with me.
And there it was, an opening I had not expe
cted. That was fine, I replied, because I wanted to have a word with her as well.
I did?
Yes I did.
Fine then.
Yes, fine.
I took the Blue Book from Sigga's shelf, and Halldora and I went down to the library together. Sigga would meet us there after her bath and Halldora would bring us coffee and we'd have another lovely visit, wouldn't we?
I nodded.
A peaceful visit, Halldora suggested. A calming visit. Because there's no sense getting old people riled about the past, is there?
I nodded again.
Specifically, Halldora went on, fixing me with her huge brown eyes, it would be best if I did not mention Birdie's name again. The subject of Birdie was simply too upsetting for an old woman like Sigga.
"You're right about that, Halldora. Absolutely."
Halldora looked startled, then recovered. "Of course I'm right. I'm glad we're finally seeing eye to eye."
I looked her in the eye. I said there was something I needed to ask her.
"Yes?"
"About Birdie."
"Don't start on that subject again!" She clutched at her chest, but I didn't fall for it. I pressed on.
"Why didn't you tell me you were Birdie's nurse at Selkirk?"
"Who told you that?"
"Vera Gudmundsson."
"Oh that Vera. Such a busybody."
"Why didn't you tell me?"
"You never asked, dear."
I couldn't let her get away with that. "How would I have known to ask?"
"It's not something you needed to know. But yes, I was Birdie's nurse at the Selkirk Asylum, as it was called in those days." She stopped and folded her arms across her chest, and I was certain that would be the end of it. I would get nothing else out of her. But no, she was just getting started. "Many times Birdie was committed there. In fact, it was Vera's father, Dr. Gudmundsson, who had Birdie committed the first time. She never forgave him for that. I took the best possible care of Birdie whenever she stayed at Selkirk-not because I liked her, no, not at all-but because she was the daughter of our most accomplished poet. How that man's verses have taken me through life's hard times! Imagine, the daughter of Olafur, Skald Nyja Islands, committed to an insane asylum. That's how I met your grandmother. A saint she was, when it came to Birdie. Some families just abandoned their relatives at Selkirk, but not Sigga. Bringing Birdie books, her typewriter, paper, whatever she asked for. Always took her back home again too, despite all the trouble Birdie caused. She stood by Birdie, your grandmother did. I have a great admiration for your grandmother. And then imagine, Sigga and I meeting up again at Betel, years later! God was at work there, I'm certain of that. But that Birdie was a terrible trial, wild in her moods. She could turn on you in an instant. Paranoid, the doctors called it. Everyone out to get her, including your dear grandmother! Imagine."
The Tricking of Freya Page 29