Pieces of Happiness

by Anne Ostby

  “Oh, you know what I mean,” Kat says. “It’s not so easy to cut ties. Routines, habits, everything you’re used to. Family.”

  Suddenly Ingrid’s eyes are stinging. And what would you know about that? she wants to say. You cut your ties nearly fifty years ago, before anything had fully grown and rooted under your skin. For you, cutting ties means packing a suitcase, learning a new dish to cook. Not putting a whole life in storage before you jump overboard, clenching the key in your fist.

  She doesn’t say it. Ingrid Hagen does what she does best: she keeps it to herself. But Kat is awaiting a response, her eyes shimmering playfully from the depths of the hammock, and Ingrid wants to distract her, make her laugh.

  “Maybe I’m not as much of a creature of habit as you think,” she says. “Perhaps I’ve left two lovers behind and gone bankrupt? Maybe I just barely escaped the Russian mafia who were after the money I borrowed for my extravagant speculating on diamonds?”

  But Kat doesn’t laugh. She looks straight at her with a smile Ingrid knows well, though it’s grown slightly crooked, more patient.

  “Don’t be upset, Ingrid. I didn’t mean it that way. You know how happy I am that you came. I just mean there’s always a price to pay.”

  Kat tries to shuffle over to the side of the hammock to make room for Ingrid. It’s a challenging exercise in balance and the hammock nearly tips over; she finally gives up and stretches out her hand instead. “Listen…”

  Ingrid takes it and squeezes her friend’s firm, warm fingers. “I’m not upset,” she says.

  4

  Ateca

  Dear God

  What should I do about Madam Ingrid and Mosese? Madam Ingrid is Madam Kat’s sister, and it’s my job to help her. But Litia is my friend, and she doesn’t feel good about this. Who could feel good when a kaivalagi woman disappears into the plantation with your husband for hours on end? You see all they do, God. They talk. But they’re gone so long, and then they come out of there empty-handed. You give us food to fill our stomachs with, not to talk about!

  It’s hard for Mosese too. He knows well what makes the cocoa turn golden at the right time, he reads the colors of the leaves and the aroma of the pods as he rubs them between his fingers. But he’s never heard of the books Madam Ingrid is recommending, and he doesn’t know how to use a computer. Did you see how hard it was for him this afternoon, Lord, when Madam Ingrid insisted he come in the house so she could show him something on her computer? My heart wept as he stood there while she pointed at the pictures and words that flashed across the screen. His toes curled toward the ground; I could see how badly he wanted to run away. And, God, what was I supposed to say when she asked me afterward if she’d done something wrong? “Why did he laugh, Ateca? Did I say something rude?” Her hands were so afraid, gripping the glasses on the string around her neck tightly. “Oh, no, Madam Ingrid,” I said. “It’s just that Mosese can’t read very well. Especially on the computer screen. The letters are so small.”

  They don’t understand, God. When we laugh, it’s so they don’t have to feel embarrassed.

  Show me what to do, Lord. How I can help both Mosese and Madam Ingrid. And Litia too.

  In Jesus’ holy name. Emeni.

  5

  Maya

  From: kat@connect.com.fj

  To: evyforgad@gmail.com

  Subject: Maya’s health

  Dear Evy

  Thanks for your email, and thanks for being so honest about your mother’s health. Maya and I haven’t really been in touch these past few years, and I didn’t know anything about this. So I very much appreciate the trust you’ve placed in me. I imagine this situation can’t be easy for you; it’s quite a drive from Reitvik to Trondheim, and between your job and your own family, you must have your hands full. I remember the last time I saw you, when you were a blond little elf of eight or nine—hard to believe you have a daughter of your own now! I’m sure Maya treasures her grandchild, and I know you all must be more important to her than ever now that your father is gone.

  When it comes to what you’ve shared with me, I see that the idea of your mother traveling to Fiji makes you nervous, and I don’t think you’ve betrayed her in any way by writing to me. I had to be made aware of the situation. But let me tell you right away that the invitation still stands, and as far as I’m concerned, what you’ve told me makes no difference. The group of Maya’s old girlfriends is a pretty robust and resourceful team, and the fundamental notion behind our arrangement is that we all take care of each other and look out for one another.

  I hear what you’re saying about her own “denial” of what’s going on; I would think that’s a pretty common reaction among those who get this kind of difficult news. If Maya herself doesn’t see it as a real problem or doesn’t want to talk about it, I don’t feel it’s my place to push her. I’ll do my best to ensure that her checkup appointments are kept, but the way I see it, the most important thing I can do is to be her friend, and support and help her, within the parameters she herself wishes to set.

  Unfortunately, I can confirm your assumption that there isn’t much specialist expertise in this field in Fiji. Also, we live in a small village, and the nearest clinic is over half an hour away. The doctors there treat most ailments with antibiotics, blood pressure medication, and an encouraging smile. But as you say, there is no way to cure Maya or slow the progress of the disease in Norway either.

  We’ll have a chance to talk more when you accompany your mother down here. You’ll get to meet her other friends here too; I’m sure you’ll remember them from growing up in Reitvik. I think it is best not to focus on her illness when you get here; it’s important that Maya gets to meet the others on equal ground, so to speak, as we all enter this phase of our lives together. And if I understand you correctly, her condition won’t be immediately obvious to anyone who meets her.

  I can tell you want Maya to have this experience in the South Pacific, as I do, and I think we should do our best to make it happen if that’s what she wants.

  Welcome to Korototoka to both of you!

  Lolomas,

  Kat

  6

  Lisbeth

  She turns her head, looks over her shoulder, and tries to assess how bad the situation is. The white trousers aren’t the worst part, they hug the cheeks a little and prevent them from looking like flattened lumps of dough. Still—it’s a depressing sight. Plain and simple.

  Lisbeth doesn’t mind the saggy boobs as much as the saggy butt. The tight, perky butt Harald once couldn’t keep his hands off, the one she’s always shown off with careful choices of fabric and cut, isn’t what it once was. Far from it. As if sixty-six weren’t bad enough already, with the turkey neck, flabby arms, and boobs like jean pockets turned inside out. But now that her butt has started drooping mercilessly down toward the back of her knees, inch by cruel inch, it’s almost unbearable.

  Harald had joked about it just before her fiftieth birthday. “I guess I’ll have to buy you a new butt as a present. Ass job, heh heh.”

  That satisfied grin—she was sure he meant it seriously. And she’d be lying if she said she hadn’t considered it herself from time to time.

  Lisbeth turns her head so far she can hear her neck crack, she squeezes whatever she can find of half-forgotten gluteal muscles and sees a little ripple in the dough. Diet and exercise can get you only so far. In the home stretch, the scalpel is all that matters. But she’s waited too long, it’s a mad dash to the finish line, and she no longer has someone to pay her entry fee into the race.

  —

  Lisbeth is still in shock. She can’t believe she did it! She sold the car—to a dealer, she hadn’t been brave enough to advertise it herself—bought a ticket, and dropped off the BMW at the last minute, literally on her way to the airport. Told Harald that she was going to visit Linda for a few days, she’s not sure whether he even registered her words. She knew there was minimal risk that her secret would come out in a conversation betw
een father and daughter—the most Harald and Linda ever do is send each other a text message once in a while.

  And then of course there had been a big fuss in the end. Phone calls back and forth, she’s actually not quite sure how Harald found out where she was. Is. Was, is, will be. Will remain. Will she? Linda had cried on the phone: “Mom, you’re not serious? Have you gone completely insane? Who are these people you’re living with? What am I supposed to tell Fredrik?”

  To her amazement, it occurs to Lisbeth that she doesn’t really care what they think. Norway, Harald, their fake-tanned daughter who works at a fitness center—they’re all beyond the scope of the soft cushion of mist that’s been wrapped around her head since she got here. Her son Joachim and his family too, his wife and twin daughters. Lisbeth doesn’t know her grandchildren, and not just because of the distance to Gothenburg. She is aware the twins are into horseback riding; she sends money so their parents can buy them gifts and accessories, she knows so little about these things herself. When Joachim refused to get involved in the family business and instead chose nursing—nursing!—Harald had nothing but disdain left for his son: “Well, if that’s all he wants to do with his life!” And when Birgitta, the Swedish girl he met at school and married, decided to continue on to medical school, it was all said and done: Joachim, who decided to stay at home with their babies, was a fool and a loser, according to Harald, and it was humiliating for him, not impressive, to have a specialist in internal medicine for a daughter-in-law. They rarely see each other; Lisbeth doesn’t know the twins at all; she’s totally unfamiliar with their lives.

  With Linda, at least Lisbeth understands how she thinks. What’s important to her. Linda is still on the right side of thirty-five, and her body and face look ten years younger. She’s had a few modeling jobs here and there, got a certificate in marketing a few years ago. She’s had a number of boyfriends, has lived with a couple of them.

  “I don’t know,” Lisbeth had replied to her daughter’s agitated question. “I’m sure you’ll think of something.”

  Lisbeth turns back toward the bed, looking at the clothes spread across the cotton blanket. Dresses with slim shoulder straps, belts to accentuate her still-narrow waist. Two rows of shoes on the closet floor, pumps in neutral colors, open-toed sandals with ankle straps. She may have run away to the South Pacific, but she has no intention of becoming frumpy. Nothing good ever comes of letting yourself go. She doesn’t know what life here will be like, but she definitely won’t be seen with baggy-kneed jeans or—God forbid—in one of those voluminous flowery tents that every woman here above shorts-wearing age seems to walk around in. And speaking of shorts-wearing age, Kat is in her denim cutoffs all the time. She is something else. Lisbeth doesn’t know whether to laugh or cry. Hasn’t Kat rubbed shoulders with diplomats and ambassadors for years? And she still doesn’t know how to dress? She didn’t wear makeup in twelfth grade and she doesn’t wear makeup now. Has she ever worn it in the years in between?

  Lisbeth selects a pink tank top to go with the white trousers. Turns this way and that to catch herself from different angles, climbs up on a stool—oh dear me, how hard can it be to get hold of a full-length mirror here?

  —

  “Well, you look stylish!”

  Kat’s compliment sounds genuine, and Lisbeth feels a little rush of joy, a moment of recognition. “Oh, it’s just some old stuff I threw on.”

  “You look fabulous. As always. Hold on a second!”

  Kat walks the four steps down from the porch into the garden and disappears into the darkness. Comes back with a red flower and tucks it behind Lisbeth’s ear. “There!”

  She leans forward and adds knowingly: “Make sure you wear it on the left side. That means you’re single and ready for new adventures. ‘Left is for looking, right is for cooking.’ ”

  Lisbeth giggles, almost blushes, and lifts her hand to her head reflexively. She’s seen women on the street with flowers behind their ears, along the road, in stores, on their way home from the fields carrying baskets of cassava, the yellowish white root that’s used in every meal. She’s seen the red hibiscus, the bulging ginger blossom, the bewitchingly aromatic frangipani behind the ears of men too, but she wasn’t aware of this secret code for courting.

  “Is that true?” She blurts out the question without thinking.

  “Sure it is.”

  Kat laughs. Lisbeth recognizes her laughter, loudly rolling around her mouth as if to gather volume before her lips part and it emanates in short, powerful bursts. “You’ll have to put yours on the right side when you leave the house, or you’ll never be left alone.”

  “Oh, I’m sure.”

  Lisbeth laughs along with the others and knows she’s being silly, but she recalls the feeling and begins to turn red. The glances accompanied by quiet whistles. The eyes scanning her behind, taking all of her in. Jealous, nervous scowls from other women in the corner of her eye, nothing to worry about. Confident that her shoes match her outfit. Protected by the knowledge that her hair and makeup are perfectly done.

  “No,” she says lightly, and takes a seat on a mirrored floor cushion, one of Kat’s many bizarre decor choices. “Those times are long gone, that’s for sure.”

  “Are they?”

  Sina is the one who asks, not Kat. Lisbeth is just as surprised by the blunt question as by the person asking it. She lights a cigarette to avoid the confrontational stare, feels a vague satisfaction when she glimpses her own well-manicured fingernails.

  “What do you mean?”

  She can hear her own question sounding flat and uninterested; it doesn’t require an answer. Her eyes don’t meet Sina’s. Instead they trace the smoke curling into the dark.

  This seems to be enough for Sina, who doesn’t belabor the point. She shrugs and turns away, fixing her gaze on the ocean that no one can see but everyone can hear.

  Ateca pulls the screen door aside and sticks her head out. “I’m leaving now, Madam Kat. See you tomorrow morning.”

  “Good night, Ateca.”

  She’s going home to her son; Lisbeth’s seen him a few times. A giant seventeen- or eighteen-year-old, with coarse sideburns and muscular calves covered in tattoos. Ateca has a Tupperware container tucked under her arm; it seems to be a house rule that she takes home leftovers from dinner. I’m sure the kid devours it, Lisbeth thinks, he probably has an insatiable appetite. According to Kat, he dreams of being a professional rugby player, like most of the young boys here. Her thoughts float over to Joachim: her son’s narrow, delicate face, his hair already beginning to thin. When was the last time she spoke to him?

  —

  Lisbeth remains seated, scrutinizing her feet. Pale, a little bony, but the toenails have the same perfect coat of red she’s worn all these years, no reason to change that. Her heels have benefited from decades of regular pedicures: round and callus-free. She crosses her legs out of habit, to hide the sizable bunion on her right foot. Hallux valgus, the hideous swelling that’s grown to the size of a plum over the years. It aches, and she rubs it carefully. A small price to pay for years in pointy-toed shoes, she knows that, but holy hell, it hurts. She shuts her eyes and breathes in deep.

  “Say it!” Kat blurts out.

  What? Lisbeth peers at the face framed by dark hair on the rattan sofa.

  “Say what you were thinking about just now.” Kat laughs her trumpet laugh. “Tell us what you were swearing at under your breath. I saw you. Foot pain is hell. I’ll start: ‘Foot pain is hell!’ ”

  Sina, standing by the top of the stairs, fixes her gaze on Lisbeth, who hesitates for a second before opening her mouth and taking aim: “I was thinking…goddammit!”

  Sina’s laughter is mocking but not unsympathetic. Then she joins in: “Stinking varicose veins!”

  “Bloody spider veins!” Ingrid chimes in.

  “Cursed ingrown toenails!” Kat again.

  The laughter rolls around between red torch flames, the shadows that flicker and hid
e.

  “Blasted creaky knees!”

  “Damned flabby thighs!”

  Lisbeth stretches out her right foot; the bump below her big toe glows white. Repulsive, ridiculous. She smooths her creased trouser leg down with both hands and swallows the lump in her throat so the laughter can get out.

  —

  She can’t remember Harald ever commenting on the misshapen joint on her foot, but he’s certainly made sure to point out everything else that has faded, drooped, or become wobbly over the years. He has gleefully cheered her on when she’s in front of the mirror applying her makeup: “No use trying to spackle now, you’d better get the iron out.” She does know it, her wrinkles are growing deeper and deeper, the age-defying creams more and more expensive. The hairdresser appointments more and more frequent. Like a long-distance race with the finish line removed; it’s all about holding out, lap after lap, her legs growing ever heavier. But she keeps on shaving them, hiding the spider veins with special lotion and forcing tender toes into pointy shoes. The dresses aren’t as short as they once were, but at least her knees are still presentable. She can still show off her cleavage with the right bra, but concealing the muffin top has become a greater challenge. The loss of her once-perky butt is just another item added to the list.

  When was it he stopped pulling the zipper down instead of up? It had been a game of theirs, her calling him into the bedroom to help out with the zipper on the back of her dress when they were going out somewhere. Him pulling it down instead of up, peeling the dress off her shoulders, cupping her breasts, mumbling “We have time for a quickie” into the nape of her neck. His fiery breath against her ear. So long ago. She stopped calling. He stopped coming.