by Anne Ostby
—
Now the future has become the past. Ahead has become behind. It’s the time after Niklas now. But he maintained the principle, he kept the promise: sustainable development. That was the gold standard in all we did: Give a man a fish and he’ll have enough to eat today. Teach him to fish and he’ll have enough to eat for the rest of his life. Sustainability was always the mantra: long-term, durable aid. Niklas set everything up so it would last. He took care of it all, readied everything. Only now it won’t be for us both, just for me.
That’s why I’m not hopeless. Not helpless, even though I’m here without him. Without my mate, my true mate, I’m here all alone.
—
Have I thought it through fully? Probably not. Planning and anticipating consequences have never been my strong suit. I’ve always gone by my gut instinct, let my heart follow, and brought my head along as well only if there was room in the suitcase. When the mats were folded and put away after his funeral and the rooms were as empty as the echoes of hymns, I saw the worry draped like a frayed prayer shawl around Ateca’s shoulders: “You need your family, Madam Kat.”
I tried to smile. “I don’t have any family, Ateca. You’re my family.”
“Isa!” Shock and compassion united in her face as she continued: “Yes, Madam Kat, you’re my sister. But you need family from your own country. You need your sisters from there.”
My sisters from there. I shook my head; what could I say? I need my sisters. What does it mean to need? Niklas and I were always busy figuring out what others needed, identification of need is always the first step. And although it was Ateca saying the words, I knew in the same moment that demand met supply right there and then, like a bird finally landing in the right tree: “Maybe your sisters need you too, Madam Kat.”
So it was clear what I had to do. Just a letter, an invitation, with no strings attached. If they changed their minds later on, it would just be a vacation in paradise for them, all expenses paid. I’ve even promised to pay their way home if everything goes wrong. I’m not filthy rich, but the money goes far here, where Mosese brings breadfruit to the front porch in the afternoon, and the chickens lay eggs out of pure joy and fertilize the melons with equal glee.
Of course I’m nervous; this is completely nuts in so many ways. Will I be able to handle all the baggage they bring with them? It’s been more than half a life since I saw most of them, what do I know of the problems they carry around?
I’m least worried about Ingrid. If I ever had a best friend, it was her. Perhaps it’s not unlike a lover: you’re attracted to what you lack in yourself. What you weren’t born with but have to accumulate. The ability to persist, the even-tempered conviction that all good things come to those who wait, that those who work hard are rewarded in the end. She’s held on to life with sensibly trimmed fingernails—with Ingrid, you can count on things going according to plan. No need for improvisation, no restless pushing of the on and off button. The patience in her gaze, like a loyal Labrador, eyes spilling over with devotion. The selflessness that can become a burden, an unmet expectation. No, no, I am being unfair, she is not like that! Ingrid is the only one I’ve managed to more or less stay in touch with—she even visited us, several times. She spent Christmas with us when we were living in Mauritius planning a solar energy project. Came with us to drive around the province of Khorasan in Iran to assess the conditions for Afghan refugee camps. No, Ingrid is no Labrador. If she were a dog, she’d be a watchful German shepherd. Self-reliant, but appreciative of good company.
The others are more closely intertwined. A three-leaf clover from which you can’t remove one leaf without inflicting lethal damage on the rest of the plant. What was it that had bound us all together, really? Silent, inscrutable Sina, her hands fiddling with the tassels on her scarf, a drab contrast to Lisbeth’s freshly coiffed hair and tight-fitting blouses. And Maya, so robust in her approach to everything from German verb tenses to winter clothes—I can still picture her sturdy boots that looked just like the ones Mom would affix cleats to in the winter. Clear and direct, simple and straightforward.
How is it possible she is sick? Her daughter’s email was very clear: “This can and will get worse, the doctor was very frank about that.” Am I ready to become a caretaker for the long haul? Are the others ready? I hadn’t pictured anything like this, although I should have realized that the years over sixty can bring troubles beyond high blood pressure and a slow metabolism. But it can’t be that extreme, I’m sure the daughter is just making it sound more serious now to avoid confrontation later. And I certainly don’t want to scare the others and risk the whole project falling apart before we’ve even started. When Evy accompanies her mother down here, it’ll at least be a smooth transition for Maya. No reason to cry wolf before it’s needed.
To be there for each other, that’s the bottom line here! To share the gray years with friends who remember the same green ones. To buy five-packs of reading glasses and argue over who looks better in which set of frames. To joke about heartburn and compression socks. To see the ripples of cellulite as an exciting lunar landscape full of possibility. To be each other’s support, without bureaucracy and time-limited appointments, based on familiarity and trust. To find what once was, to build the end around the beginning we once had.
But it was all so long ago. Maybe all my memories are fantasies, nothing but smoke and mirrors. An owl hoots out in the plantation tonight, a melancholy screech that echoes against the walls. If Ateca were here, she’d say it’s bad luck, and she’d pray to God to protect us all. The wild, lonely call ripples through the darkness, as if the ocean had stopped whispering and started speaking in a black silver tongue.
9
Ateca
I lay all my worries before you, Lord, and the greatest one is Vilivo. It’s been six months since he finished school, and he still hasn’t found a job! He’s tried and tried, made the rounds in all the offices and stores. He’s asked the people who are building the new bridge over the Waimakare River; he’s asked at the electric company. And they say no everywhere, Lord. The villages along King’s Highway, no, all over the island, are full of young people who can’t find work. Boys who have much better credentials than Vilivo but give up in the end and jump in the stream headed for Suva. Please don’t let my son end up there! As a wheelbarrow boy in the bazaar—or worse, in one of the nightclubs along Victoria Parade. There are so many stories people tell, Lord, about boys getting on the bus to the capital. Their parents don’t hear anything from them until the day they get the message that their son has been charged with stealing a wallet, or getting into a bar fight, or stealing scrap metal from a construction site.
Vilivo thinks he’s going to be a rugby star; all the boys dream of being the next Waisale Serevi. But his dreams are young and underripe, like the bananas hanging from the tree in the backyard, immature and tangled up in each other. Of course I’d be proud of him, Lord! If I could see my boy run into the stadium in Suva, a Flying Fijian in black and white! But almost nobody makes it that far, and especially not without money. He needs muscles and strength for the training; he needs a lot of food. The cassava grows well behind my house, but it’s not enough. The ladies at Madam Kat’s house eat meat and fish every day; they eat imported yellow peppers and asparagus for fifteen dollars a bundle. I’m grateful to be able to take home the leftovers.
—
Lord, you can see that Vilivo is a good boy. Help him to find his way. Let him find work, so he can support himself, become an adult, and start a family.
In Jesus’ holy name. Emeni.
10
Maya
She knows exactly when it first happened. One of Maya’s greatest pleasures since she retired has been reading. Leisurely browsing among the titles on the library shelves, her own shelves too, for which she could spare only a quick longing glance back when she was still working. These days she always has at least three or four books stacked on her nightstand, novels and biographies, t
ravelogues, and even collections of poetry she’s attempted. A former colleague had invited her to join a book club, and she always looked forward to the last Thursday of each month. An eager curiosity about what the others thought of this month’s book, mixed with the satisfaction that there was still someone who wanted to know what she, Mrs. Aakre, who was now just Maya Aakre, had to say.
They had read a fantastic book, a doorstop novel from India with colors and spices and music and poetry spilling out into the margins, a seven-course literary feast. After reading a brief biographical note about the author, they always went around the table. When it was Maya’s turn, she was ready with yellow Post-its stuck in between the pages that held the paragraphs she wanted to read aloud. “I thought this book was like a tapestry,” she’d begun, hearing her own voice sounding excited but focused. “Poetic and romantic descriptions of nature and art combined with a social message that’s both brutal and—”
The word was gone. A white blank space in the middle of her sentence, her tongue empty and helpless. All that remained was a vague sensation of what she’d wanted to say, a slippery shadow. She raced after it, ransacked the innermost corners of her brain for the letters and syllables she knew were in there. A numb panic grew inside her mouth while the eyes around the table stared at her intently; she could see on their faces that her pause was lasting too long. So she let it go, let the elusive word vanish, and cut herself off, mumbling “Yes, and…” She took a deep breath, pushed the horror away, and moved on to character descriptions. Only much later, in the car on her way home, had the word wormed its way out of the crack it was stuck in and reappeared on her tongue. “Provocative!” Maya said out loud, surprising herself as she turned in to the driveway.
Everyone forgets things, she’d told herself. Keys and cell phones and glasses. Finds them again with an irritated shrug: “Was that where I put it?” The first few times she sat in the car and suddenly found herself without a destination, she pushed it aside as well. The empty space that suddenly was her mind: I’m holding the wheel, I’m driving up Stadionveien—where am I going? The cold jolt in her stomach that made her slam on the brakes, swerve over to the side of the road, and stop the car: Where am I going? Just for a few seconds, before a shade was lifted and she remembered she was on her way to the dry cleaners or the gas station. Too much to think about, that’s all, just a little absentminded. She’d shrugged off the anxiety and put the car in drive.
—
She and Evy have argued more these past few months than ever before. It’s strange, really. You’d think that now that her only daughter was all grown up, with her own family, they’d have more in common, understand each other better. But, of course, what Evy would call the dynamic between them, the dynamic has changed now that Steinar is gone. Now she’s all alone in the walnut-brown queen-sized bed, her checkered bathrobe hanging alone on the back of the bathroom door. Evy feels sorry for her; even in the middle of grieving for her father she feels compassion for her mother, Maya knows that. She’d been glad to have Evy there the first few weeks. But the unannounced visits to Reitvik her daughter’s started making over the past six months, always full of suggestions that would “make things easier for you, Mom,” they’re downright annoying. Home health visitor every week—Maya isn’t sick! It was news to her that the National Health Service had resources to waste on people who could stand on their own two feet, were sharp as a tack, and could still keep themselves clean and presentable! Appointments for one thing after another, neurologists and specialists, she couldn’t believe it! Maya’s memory was just as good as Evy’s, if not better—wasn’t she the one who’d remembered to send flowers for Branko’s mother’s birthday in May? And thirty years after she knitted Evy’s first Marius-patterned sweater, she still knew the pattern by heart. Just quiz me on the line of succession to the British throne or the first twenty elements in the periodic table, Maya thought—then we’ll see who’s forgetful!
—
Here in Fiji, there are other explanations. She can’t be expected to know where she is at all times when she goes out walking; she hasn’t been here that long yet, and the names of all the roads and places are unfamiliar. The others mix them up as well, even Sina’s admitted that she’s gotten lost several times.
Maya is grateful, in a way, for the unexpected compassion she gets from Sina. It may take a slightly grouchy, abrupt form—“For goodness’ sake, Maya, get in the shade, you’re bright red!”—but she can recognize it as compassion. She doesn’t know where it comes from; she’s always seen the others as two pairs: Sina and Lisbeth, Ingrid and Kat. And she was the fifth wheel. Not that it bothered her that much: she had Steinar, they were together as early as high school. But now she’s the one Sina stays closest to. They don’t talk much, mostly about everyday things, the weather, food, heat rashes, their swollen feet. But she’s the one Sina sits next to on the porch, and Maya wonders about the glances she periodically shoots at Lisbeth.
She sits on the edge of the bed with her eyes closed, the floor fan wheezing lukewarm air toward her face. There’s something odd about Lisbeth and Sina. A friendship that already looked lopsided in twelfth-grade English: the swan with the ugly duckling waddling after her. Where perky, stylish Lisbeth glided through the room, bulky, frumpy Sina followed. Still, Lisbeth’s eyes always darted over to Sina’s face before she said anything, her mouth turned down in a moment of uncertainty before her carefully painted lips curled up into a smile.
Maya doesn’t know much about what’s happened between them over the years. Everything got so busy, first school, then work, then Evy, then more school, more work. She’d run into them from time to time, of course. Lisbeth Høie, one of the first women in Reitvik with her own car, a dark blue Volvo. And Sina Guttormsen, always dragging her little boy around. She’s not really sure whether they kept their friendship up over the years. Still, a half century does something to people, Maya thinks to herself. Look at Kat and Ingrid, they’re not exactly joined at the hip anymore. Everything that happened to Kat, no, everything that Kat made happen, none of it had happened to Ingrid. Still…the way they talk to each other, the way their heads turn toward each other, the instinctive intimacy—Maya recognizes that. That was something they had way back then, something she envied them but always shrugged off: she had a boyfriend. She was fine. But Sina and Lisbeth? Maya opens her eyes, places a hand on her clammy throat. There’s something strange between them, a dissonance. A high-pitched clanging noise, almost out of earshot. A clashing of swords.
Is that why Sina sticks to Maya now? Is she building new alliances? Or does she see it? Does Sina know what’s going on in the moments when reality crumbles around Maya? Can she read her eyes when everything around her, the roads, the houses, the people, is shaken loose and turned into unfamiliar pieces in a puzzle she can’t solve? She hasn’t talked about it, not to Sina or anyone else. They’re all well into their sixties, surely they all forget and mix things up once in a while? The mind is an unexplored universe filled with vast, secret nebulae.
—
She hadn’t wanted Evy to travel with her to Fiji. Changing planes in London and Los Angeles, it couldn’t be that hard? As far as Maya knew, no one had ever gone missing on an airplane journey. She knew enough English to ask for directions, and as long as she had enough time on her layovers, she’d be able to manage navigating both security and customs, baggage recheck and, not least, United States immigration, which was the toughest part, according to Branko. But Evy had insisted on going with her. She’d almost had a big fight with her daughter over it—did a fully capable sixty-six-year-old woman really need a babysitter for such a perfectly ordinary trip?
—
I remember you as someone who doesn’t shy away from a challenge, Kat’s surprising letter had read. I know you’ve closed the classroom door once and for all, and I know Steinar is gone. Would you consider embarking on a whole new chapter?
—
She’d absolutely consider it. To carve out
some distance between her and Evy’s ever-growing concern, and get away from the health service’s unwanted helping hand. So if a mandatory travel companion across the globe was the price she had to pay, she might just have to accept it. Anyway, Evy would have to get back to her job, she couldn’t stay in Fiji for long.
Maya stands in the center of the room, slowly taking stock of everything around her. There are no flowers on the table—she would have made sure of flowers if she had had guests from so far away. But Kat’s never been one for convention, she thinks, and feels a wistful pang when she remembers: Kat who just disappeared one summer, went out into the world in a shower of sparks from a magic wand, while she and Steinar were celebrating their acceptance into teachers’ college with coffee and pastries and pats on the back from both sets of parents.
Maya sinks onto her bed. She looks up sideways, into her mother’s smile of approval. The familiar face bends over her; Maya’s cheeks flush when she hears the voice, soft but clear: “Dad and I are so proud of you.” She smiles back, leans her head against her mother’s chest. “Thanks, Mom. This is what I wanted.” She holds the acceptance letter in her hand; the sweet smell of the bird cherry tree wafts in through the open kitchen window. Her mother’s apron is covered in black and purple flowers. Maya shuts her eyes, breathes in the spicy aroma of bird cherry blossoms.
A light knock on the door as it creaks open. “Are you awake, Maya? We have time for a cup of coffee before we drive Evy to the airport.”
Kat smiles at her and leaves the door open as she turns away.
Maya stays seated at the edge of the bed. Is Evy going somewhere?
11
Ateca
Dear God
Madam Maya is yalowai; her head is full of shadows. Just like my sister’s father-in-law. Everyone in the village knows that when he walks into other people’s fields with his cane, they must gently guide him home with an arm around his shoulder.