Pieces of Happiness

by Anne Ostby

  She wants to tell Kat that she’s taking the truck, but her room is empty. It’s neat as it always is in there: the mosquito net tied up in a knot, book and water glass on the nightstand. Her computer sits on a low table by the window. It’s turned on, and a geometric pattern in rainbow colors rolls across the screen. It’s usually kept on the desk in the living room; Kat’s obviously been doing something private. Sina feels a surge of curiosity and nudges the mouse. The sliding pattern of colors vanishes, and Kat’s in-box fills the screen. Sina leans forward. The latest email is from evyforgad@gmail.com. She clicks it open without hesitating.

  Dear Kat

  Thanks for keeping me updated. I’m not going to lie and say I’m not worried, but I’m also full of admiration for the way you’re all handling the progression of Mom’s illness. We all knew it wouldn’t be easy, of course. From the first time the doctor mentioned early-onset Alzheimer’s as a possibility, he was very clear that there was no cure, and that this would only go in one direction. Branko and I have talked about it often, how outstanding you’ve all been to take on this responsibility.

  It was frightening to read about the incident where she ran off in the middle of night. Thank goodness you found her before anything happened. I don’t know what I can say, except to repeat what I’ve said before: if you’re ever in doubt about whether you want this responsibility, I’ll come down and get Mom right away. You’ve already done far more than can be expected of friends, no matter how close you are. And as I’ve also said before: you must tell the other ladies how grateful I am for everything you do for her. When they traveled to paradise, I’m sure they didn’t expect that it would also involve playing nursemaid for someone with severe dementia. And it’s even harder, of course, when it’s impossible to know how much she’s aware of what’s happening herself.

  Everything’s fine back here in Trondheim. Work is busy; I often feel I don’t get to spend nearly enough time with my daughter. But I guess everyone feels that way.

  Sina’s heart pounds in her chest; she has to sit down to catch her breath. Early-onset Alzheimer’s. Take on this responsibility. Everything you do for her.

  Maya is sick. The doctor in Norway diagnosed her before she left for Fiji. Kat has known all along and hasn’t told any of them. While Evy has assumed they all know. Evy has believed they took this on as a group project, some kind of tropical end of the line for her mother. Sina is suddenly furious: Who the hell does Kat think she is? Does she think she has the right to manage their lives, just because she can afford to invite them here? To play fast and loose with truth and lies however she wants?

  Sina sits on the neatly made bed, her hands folded in her lap. Her gaze falls on the sewing machine in the corner, surrounded by pieces of fabric, spools of thread, and a pair of scissors. A brightly colored bula-patterned garment lies folded up next to it. White, red, and orange. The child’s dress that sent Maya running out in a panic.

  Sina has never deluded herself that she knows much about Kat’s peculiar life. The occasional letter, a few short meetings, snippets of things she’s heard. Forty-odd years doesn’t just shape secrets, she thinks. It also shapes ways to keep them. To deny or embellish. To silence and repress. To explain to oneself why things turned out the way they did.

  The anger fizzles out of her like a glass of soda left out in the sun. It’s not a burden to be Maya’s friend; it’s a bonus. Kat hasn’t kept quiet to trick anyone but, rather, to shield them. Some secrets are best kept secret. She won’t say anything.

  Sina closes the email. She retrieves the keys from the kitchen drawer, goes outside, and starts the truck. Kat isn’t home, there’s no one around to ask for permission.

  —

  She had forgotten how liberating it is to view the world through a windshield. Sina drives slowly past the houses that line the bumpy main road up through the village. Salote is out on her steps with a broom; a man sits napping under a plastic tarp in front of a row of pyramids of small oranges. Mosese’s wife sits outside their house with the coconut grater between her knees; a young boy waves a fan back and forth in front of her face. Sina cranes her neck to catch a glimpse of Armand in the doorway, but without high hopes: she doubts he spends much time with his host family beyond sleeping there. He hasn’t showed up at the house today, and no one’s missed him, Sina thinks. The anger toward him, she feels it pounding in her temples, sometimes hot and throbbing, sometimes a churning desperation. It’s what no one wants to think about their child: that no one misses him. Armand is unwanted.

  But she had wanted him, she had! Sina leans forward, her fingers curling around the steering wheel. The conversation with her mom at her bedside in her tiny room back home remains clear in her mind after all these years: the crying and the yelling, the accusations, the reproaches. The pleading with Sina to come to her senses, to get rid of it. The way that with every one of her mother’s outbursts, she had grown more and more sure: She wanted the kid. She was going to do it alone.

  Sina keeps her gaze fixed on the road. A quick swerve to avoid a cackling hen sends the right front wheel into a pothole and her knee slams into the dashboard—dammit! She drops one hand from the steering wheel and rubs her throbbing knee. Was it really Armand she’d wanted? The baby, the responsibility of bringing up another person? Sina picks at the grazed bruise. She hadn’t been prepared for leading and advising someone in the art of living. Her mother’s words slice through her: “And the child, Sina? Do you think it’ll be easy for the child here, with all the rumors and gossip?” At the time, she’d shut her ears, believing that her mother was only worried about her own shame. But she had seen it since, of course, had pieced it together: unexplained bruises, his schoolbooks torn to shreds. The jacket she’d bought on sale that he suddenly didn’t want to wear anymore. The outings to classmates’ cabins where he wasn’t invited. They never discussed it, she hadn’t known how to help. She’d believed that sometimes shutting your mouth and staring straight ahead was the only way to get you through. Has he thought the same way? Has it gotten him through?

  Sina turns onto the asphalt road to Rakiraki and finds words for the sadness that’s replaced the anger and the aching in her knee. All she had wanted was something that was hers. Something no one else had.

  —

  She’d never imagined that Lisbeth would decide to come to her rescue. When her friend was finally done being shocked—What have you done, Sina?—so holier-than-thou—I don’t know what you’re thinking, wanting to keep it!—it had felt as if Lisbeth had to try to take this over for herself as well. Offering Sina a job in the warehouse, donating crumbs off her and Harald’s table of bounty: At least you’ll have something, right?

  Sina pushes her foot down on the gas. Hears her mother’s voice nagging her: “I can’t believe Høie wants to take you in, with the mess you’ve gotten yourself into! You should be grateful you’re friends with Lisbeth—look how she’s setting it all up for you!”

  Having everything set up for her hadn’t been Sina’s plan. She hadn’t had a plan, really. Apart from never again thinking about those few minutes in the boys’ toilet in the school gym, when the prom was over and the only people left were the cleanup crew. “You like this, Sina? You think it’s hot, right?” The boy’s hoarse voice in her ear, the stench of liquor from his wet mouth. His hand cupping her breast hard, her head thudding against the wall when he pushed himself into her. “You think this is hot, right?” The way he had inched open the bathroom door when he was finished, the searching glance into the hallway. The schoolyard the following Monday, when he didn’t even turn to look at her when she said hi.

  Lisbeth and Harald Høie were always meant to be. The prince will always get his princess, that’s just the way it is. And of course she needed the job. Needed the money. But she didn’t need Lisbeth’s pity. Didn’t need the condescending mercy mixed with an oh-so-poorly-camouflaged relief that she had secured her own prize. Safe in the castle on the hill with the king.

  But she
’d let her friend know it, clear as day, and she knows Lisbeth has never forgotten. I’m the one who has something, Lisbeth. Not you.

  Sina isn’t sure why she never left the store. The job wasn’t much to speak of, she could probably have found something more interesting elsewhere, even with just a high school diploma. But she kept going, the work wasn’t demanding, and it was a stable job. They’ve managed, she and Armand. They haven’t been a burden to anyone, goddammit.

  —

  Sina is done with her shopping. Shower gel and baking powder and potato flour, apple juice for Maya, and a bag of Kat’s special rice. Soft toilet paper, white sugar for baking. Now she’s strolling around Rakiraki, stalling and postponing her last errand. She stops outside the movie theater and looks at the posters of daring Bollywood ladies and leading men in black. Waits outside the aromatic open door of Hot Bread Kitchen, but resists the temptation to go inside. It smells better than it tastes anyway; the cakes with stiff turquoise frosting just taste of sugar and artificial vanilla.

  She pulls herself together and steers her steps toward the side street on the left. The “Dream Travels” sign is faded and hangs lopsided; the AC greets her like a wall of ice when she opens the door. The Indian girl behind the desk is bundled up in a shawl, and nods drowsily at Sina to offer her a seat in the chair across from her. She keeps pecking away at her keyboard; her long nails make a clicking sound against the keys, giving Sina goosebumps. Finally she finishes typing.

  “How can I help you?”

  Sina heaves a deep breath. “I’d like to know the price of a ticket from Nadi to Oslo, Norway. One way.”

  She puts the slip of paper she is given into the zippered pocket of her purse. A few options for different routes, different prices for different dates. But they all go the same way. Out.

  Sina shoves the thought of money aside and thanks the girl for her help.

  34

  Ateca

  My dreams are so unhappy, God. Is it because Madam Sina is so sad?

  I dreamed I was sitting in a bure on the beach with Vilivo in my lap. He was little, a plump baby with wise eyes. Madam Sina was lying beside me, she was young and her big belly was bulging. She was going to give birth to her son, but when he came, he was a snake. Madam Sina was scared, but I knew he was possessed. Just like the child born to the chief’s daughter in Rewa, who was cursed from birth and couldn’t become a human until he was loved by another woman besides his mother. I told Madam Sina this, but she didn’t want to hear it. She just got up and walked down to the beach, and I hurried after her with Vilivo in my arms. The snake stayed there, a newborn, not moving a muscle.

  Later on in the dream, Madam Sina was walking down the beach again, with Madam Maya beside her. I was walking behind them; the air was thick and still. I peered down in the sand at the footsteps in front of me, and I suddenly saw Madam Sina’s feet were the only ones leaving a mark. The footprints Madam Maya made in the sand were gone as soon as she lifted her feet from the ground. A plane made a wide arc in the sky above me, the white hull gleamed so much it blinded me. I leaned over my son and held his head close to me.

  —

  God, you know what we all need. Give me good dreams, give Madam Sina happy thoughts. And let Vilivo find work, so he can support himself, become an adult, and start a family.

  In Jesus’ holy name. Emeni.

  35

  Ingrid

  She can’t stand him anymore! The fake charm, the arrogance, the looks he gives both Ateca and Lisbeth—Lisbeth!

  Ingrid shakes her head; she can’t believe it! She feels sorry for Sina, who must be so embarrassed about this middle-aged—yes, that’s what he is, middle-aged!—jerk. Lisbeth is his mother’s friend!

  Ingrid is glad Armand’s attempts at flirting aren’t directed at her. She wouldn’t be able to hold it together if he tried to flash her one of the cocky smiles he gives Lisbeth. A bone she snaps up like a hungry dog, Ingrid thinks with a combination of pity and disdain, and lights the citronella candles with a sharp flick of her match.

  —

  Wildrid is making more and more frequent appearances on the porch at night. It’s as if there’s more space for her in the flowery sulu, there’s room to breathe on the beach, where the wind lives in the palm leaves and gives her voice air and volume. Ingrid often finds herself retreating into the shadows by the hammock and letting Wildrid take part in the conversations when they really start to get interesting. And tonight they reach new heights.

  “Well, this is really nice. I have to admit I didn’t quite know what to think when Mom said she was moving to a feminist commune on the other side of the world,” says Armand.

  Lisbeth laughs as if on cue, and makes sure to turn her smile toward Armand on the good side, the side that doesn’t show her discolored crown. “Feminist—as if!”

  But it’s Maya who takes the bait. “Well, who did you think Sina was going to be living with? And please, spare us the clichés about bra-burning man-haters.”

  Maya’s had a good day. Her voice is clear, her gaze is steady, her hands rest calmly in her lap, two birds in their nest.

  Armand squirms in his chair, but his voice stays brash. “Ha-ha, you never know what crazy antics you ladies might get up to, right?”

  Ingrid looks at Maya; can she really stomach this crap? She herself certainly has no desire to join in.

  But Wildrid does: “And what kind of crazy antics would that be, Armand? Believing that women should have the same rights and opportunities as men?”

  “Yeah, yeah, but that’s not what it’s about—”

  “But that’s exactly what it’s about! No more, no less! It’s not that complicated!”

  Kat is startled as well, and Ingrid isn’t sure whether she detects affirmation or mockery in her voice. “Well, how about that? You’re still sticking to your guns in your old age, Ingrid!”

  Wildrid opens her mouth, but Lisbeth is one step ahead of her; the words slip out past lips painted coral pink. “Okay, so I’m not a feminist or anything, but of course we should have rights and opportunities.”

  “Well, then you’re a feminist!” Wildrid retorts. “Why are you afraid to say it?”

  Lisbeth beats a hasty retreat. “Afraid? I’m not afraid, that’s not it…”

  “Then what?”

  Kat waves her hand casually, as if asking for the floor. “Of course you’re afraid, Lisbeth, come on! Everyone’s afraid to be labeled a militant bitch.”

  “Do people really still think that way? For Christ’s sake, I can’t believe it!”

  All heads turn toward Ingrid. The outburst throbs against her temples. Ingrid wants to stay seated, but Wildrid jumps up from her chair. “I’m so offended by this bloody cowardice! Who are we apologizing to? Why should believing in equal opportunity make us militant bitches?”

  Maya’s voice is still calm. “Well, that’s not exactly how it is. But, to many people, the word ‘feminist’ sounds angry and harsh. Un-womanly in a way.”

  Ingrid sees that Maya immediately regrets her choice of words. But before she can correct herself, Wildrid jumps in. “What are you saying? Femina is the Latin word for womanhood! And you’ve been in charge of educating young girls for years—I can’t believe you haven’t taught them what ‘womanhood’ means!”

  Maya blinks in astonishment behind her glasses; her hands lift up like frightened birds out of their nest. “I…”

  Armand has been sitting there watching them in the discussion he’s unwittingly provoked, which seems to amuse him. And now he raises his hand, like a judge asking for order in the court. “Ladies, ladies! Calm down, please, think of your blood pressure!”

  Wildrid is about to snap back at him, but Armand is quicker this time.

  “Can’t we agree that men and women are born different? That there’s nothing wrong with a woman embracing her femininity?”

  Born different. Embracing her femininity. Ingrid can’t believe her ears. But all Armand can hear is his own resoun
ding brilliance.

  “I can assure you that no one appreciates the feminine touch more than I do. After all, what would we men be without you? There’s no doubt that you have something we don’t. We admire it; we can’t live without it, even. But that doesn’t necessarily mean we’re alike, does it?”

  Ingrid feels exhausted, her shoulders sagging limp and heavy. She can’t stomach any more of this garbage. She shoots a glance in Kat’s direction: can’t we just ask him to leave? But Armand keeps blathering on, and the fatigue dissipates as quickly as it came—is she really hearing him right?

  “This stuff about business, for instance. It’s no secret that I have a good amount of experience with these things, perhaps more than…hmm, well, you, that is.” He nods toward Kat. “Not to discount what you’re doing here, but I assume your overseer is doing most of the work?”

  Kat furrows her brow; her lips stretch into a narrow smile. “Mosese? He manages the plantation; he has nothing to do with the day-to-day business operations.”

  In her mind Ingrid sees the old plantation manager’s uncomfortable shuffle in front of the computer screen when she tried to show him a website—she has no idea whether he can even read. How naive she has been!

  “Of course, of course, I have no doubt you’re a great CEO, Kat.” Armand’s smile is probably meant to be disarming. “But if you’re really planning on going global”—he lets the word hang in the air—“wouldn’t it be safest to have someone who knows their stuff on the other end? Someone who can talk dollars and cents, yeah? And it just so happens that I have some spare time in the months ahead. My network is pretty wide, to put it that way, and I could take it upon myself to do some research.”

  Kat’s eyes narrow. “What kind of research?”

  Armand throws his arms out wide. “Niche opportunities. Possibilities for profit. Simply put, how the market’s looking.”

  “We’ve got that part covered.” Kat’s voice is hard, her words curt. “Lisbeth’s daughter is a professional.”