Separated

by Shane Peacock

  Our cab moved again (driven by a huge blond guy, who I realized hadn’t said a single word since we’d gotten in). I must have been turning a little white, because Grandpa, who had been blabbing on about Swedish architecture, suddenly stopped the lesson.

  “Aren’t you feeling well, Adam?”

  “I’m…I’m fine, Grandpa.” I tried to give him a smile. No weakness. As I’ve said, Grandpa is a good guy, but something about him makes you not want to show any weakness in his presence.

  “It might be a little jet lag,” he said.

  “Yeah, now that you mention it, it was a long flight and I feel a little…off?”

  He put his hand on my shoulder, this time gently, looked a little concerned for a while but soon launched back into his lecture. I let his voice fade into the background (which is something I do often—Mom says I’m practicing to be a man) and watched the Swedes walking along the street. I told myself they didn’t look too scary. And it was true. In fact, they looked awfully ordinary—fashionable but ordinary. Then one of them caught my eye.

  It was a girl. I’m not really into girls yet, but this one stood out, mostly because she was weird. I didn’t get a really good look at her because she was in a crowd and down a street, but I could see she was riding a bicycle with a horse’s head attached to the handlebars. She was wearing bizarre clothes and had startling red hair, almost orange like a lit pumpkin, strange pigtails and something on her shoulder that looked like a small furry human being or something. I couldn’t tell. Then she totally vanished into the flow of pedestrians. I wondered if I’d made her up. I have a pretty big imagination.

  Grandpa’s voice was still there in the background but now getting a little more excited, like we were approaching something pretty cool.

  And we were.

  We turned a corner, and I saw heaven.

  We had emerged into an open area near the river, one that I knew ran from the Baltic Sea between Sweden and Finland and Europe and flowed right into Stockholm. The city was actually on several islands.

  Man, it was beautiful.

  “Wow, that’s pretty, isn’t it, Adam?” said Grandpa.

  That wasn’t a word I’d heard him use very often.

  “I never get sick of seeing it. Maybe this will be the last time,” he said.

  It wasn’t like him to say anything sad either, and he kind of zipped it for a few seconds after that, as if he’d said something he was thinking but hadn’t intended to let out.

  We turned left and moved along the water past some really stunning buildings—really old, cool places that you’d think the Vikings might have made, if they’d lived until a few hundred years ago. There was a super-old one just over an amazing stone bridge in front of us. It was massive and long, and it had a big lawn with huge trees on it, and though it appeared to be made of some sort of stone too, it almost glowed.

  “That’s the royal palace,” said Grandpa.

  I’d forgotten about that. Right, they have a king. And he lives here in the middle of the city! My buddies back home would have been really impressed.

  Flowers and trees bloomed everywhere in this wide open area, and people were walking along the streets, on the bridge and next to the water—lots of blond hair shining in the sun (three-quarters of the people I’d seen in Stockholm so far were blond, which was kind of unsettling, for some reason). They all looked weirdly happy, like they were pretending, or something.

  “And there’s our hotel.”

  I couldn’t believe it when I looked in the direction he was pointing. I was going to have to change my opinion about his spending habits. It was awesome and looked like it was really going to set him back a few dollars (or kronor, as they call the money here). And from the expression on Grandpa’s face, I had a feeling it was going to be even more impressive inside.

  The Grand Hôtel was six or seven stories high and stretched along the street next to the blue water. It was a sort of reddish-brown color with a green roof, regal-looking with awnings over every window on every floor and a beautiful café that ran the full length of the building. We stopped at the biggest awning, one that extended out from the entrance, which was a set of big wide-open glass doors with shining gold borders. I counted eight gleaming wooden steps that went up into the lobby. Grandpa got out and motioned to a bellman to get our bags, then slipped him some money and we went inside.

  The lobby nearly took my breath away. We were in a long room that looked like it was made for a king, as if we’d gone into the palace by mistake. There were cream-colored pillars and a huge crystal chandelier, beautiful old paintings on the walls, and a plush rug that was blue with specks of gold, Sweden’s colors, which I recognized from their flag and also from their national hockey team’s uniforms. Even the employees—blond, of course, and so healthy-looking it almost made you laugh—who welcomed us in English from behind an elegant, dark wooden counter and wore smart blue-and-gold ties and sleeveless sweaters.

  I watched them closely, looking for hints of their dark side, perhaps hidden in their eyes. But if there was any darkness inside them, they did a good job of disguising it, smiling and calling Grandpa “Mr. McLean” and me “Mr. Murphy.” I had to admit that I felt pretty grown-up.

  Our room was even sicker. We went up in an elevator that appeared to be made of gold and were escorted into a big space with two rooms (I had my own!), each with a big bed and tons of pillows. The walls were cream-colored, and the drapes were bright red. Nice old paintings lined the walls here too, and there were two killer bathrooms with huge showers. (I had my own shower too!) It was somehow both historical-looking and very modern, and it was hard to tell how they’d done it. Grandpa had a gleaming wooden desk to work at, and there were three TVs! There was a big one in an area between our rooms that had a table and sofas, and a humongous one on the wall facing each bed. I almost shouted out loud, but I controlled myself.

  “Will this do, Adam?” asked Grandpa as soon as the bellman left, clapping me on the back.

  “I suppose we’ll get by,” I said, staring out the big window that overlooked the water and gave us a picture-postcard view of the Royal Palace and the Swedish Parliament on the little island across from us.

  And we most definitely did get by…for the first couple of days.

  FOUR

  After we got to the room, we both had a shower and then considered having a nap, but neither of us was going to be able to sleep (my grandpa has more energy than people one-quarter his age), so he let me play some video games on my TV for a while. They were all awesome, and mostly in English, though I found one about Vikings in Swedish that was pretty sick too, a sort of medieval thing with a guy kind of like Thor in it, who was able to do some pretty decent damage to his opponents both while fighting from his Viking ship and while wreaking havoc on enemy villages. He had a sword and a shield and a spear and a hammer and a little iron hat with horns coming out each side and, of course, blond hair streaming down from under his beanie, and he looked really brave and handsome—cool beyond belief. He actually looked like a nice guy most of the time, but like many Swedes, it seemed, he was wild underneath. This game had that thing where you have to achieve something and then you go to a higher and more difficult level and on and on upward. I love that idea—getting two or three dangerous missions that you have to accomplish and at the end you get a prize. Grandpa was in the other room, making phone calls in sort of a hushed voice while I played. Then he called me into his room and said we needed to talk.

  “Adam, unfortunately I can’t be with you all the time we are here. Will that be all right?”

  “Of course, Grandpa.”

  What did he mean…he couldn’t be with me?

  “You will be alone for a few hours at a time in this room each day, but I’ll let the front desk know, and I’ll get them to bring up food for you, and you can play all those games you like on the TV, and I’ve left a stack of books for you.”

  He glanced toward the desk. The Little Prince was on top o
f the pile of books, but there were several Harry Potter novels too and this popular new thing called The Hunger Games, which I knew had a girl as the hero—I’d seen images of her on the Internet, wearing something that made her look kind of like a guy and with a bow pulled taut with an arrow in it. So there was the promise of at least a little action in that book. I tried to act like I was interested.

  “So, are you okay alone with these books and food and the TV and video games?”

  I tried to look a bit sad, but inside I was doing cartwheels.

  “I’m thinking burgers and fries,” he said, “and maybe some interesting Swedish sodas one day, perhaps some ice cream, and then possibly mac and cheese the next day.”

  More cartwheels.

  “Don’t worry—I’ll be back in the early afternoon each day, and we’ll go out and see the city. There are some great museums here with lots of Swedish history in them and some incredible art.”

  Cartwheels slowing drastically.

  “I’ll take you out on the town one night, and I’ve arranged to get some tickets to a hockey game on our last evening.”

  Back into cartwheel mode.

  “Really? Like Swedish Elite League hockey?” I was hoping.

  “That’s right.”

  Good old Grandpa. He always knew how to treat his grandsons. There were lots of Swedish players in the National Hockey League back home, even a couple on my favorite team, the Buffalo Sabres. The NHL hadn’t even started the season yet, but here they began earlier. The hockey in this league might not be quite as good as the NHL, but it would be close and really amazing and different. I was sure I’d recognize some players, and I’d be able to brag about seeing something that none of my buddies might ever see. I could really tease my five Canadian cousins about this. Who got to watch Swedish Elite League hockey in person? I could hardly wait. I was pumped!

  “That’s amazing, Grandpa!”

  “I didn’t tell your mom or dad that you’d have to be alone at times when we were here.”

  Really? I thought. You didn’t tell them? Sometimes he was kind of like a kid, only a large and wrinkled one.

  “But,” he continued, “I thought you were up to it. You’re twelve years old and will soon be thirteen, which means you’ll be a teenager, and then it won’t be long until you’re thinking about what you’ll want to do with your life. When I was a kid, I had to grow up fast. We all did in those days. I believe life gives you lots of tests, and the more willing you are to face them and rise above them, even at a young age, the better off you will be.”

  Ah, yes, I thought, it will be tough indeed—alone with hamburgers and fries and video games.

  “I’ll try to rise to the occasion,” I told him with a straight face. But did he really not tell Mom and Dad about this? They are both pretty high-achieving people. My mom is a former Olympian and a very successful real estate agent, and Dad is, like, the best commercial airline pilot around, but they are pretty careful with me. Mom often says I’m sensitive as if it’s a bit of a worry to her.

  “This will just be our little secret. I’m sure you will be fine. Don’t get me wrong. I hate the old-fashioned idea that you have to toughen up young men, and they have to be little manly men. That’s not what I’m talking about here…it’s just that it’s good to be a little independent, to learn to not worry about things so much.” He’d paused for a second and looked at me.

  “I’m not a worrier,” I said.

  He clapped me on the back. “I know you’re not. You’ll be fine.”

  But he had me thinking a bit. Alone in a hotel with awesome food and the TV, fine, great, but alone in Sweden…land of secrets? In Stockholm, where they set the most gruesome murder mysteries on earth and assassinate their prime minister in cold blood? Stop worrying, I told myself. Sometimes I wonder if Mom is right. Maybe I really am sensitive.

  Grandpa went out for a few hours that afternoon, though he waited until I was napping. I didn’t get up until I heard him come in the door. I hadn’t had a chance to play a single video game while he was out, which kind of ticked me off. After he got back we went down to this rather radical restaurant in the hotel, with glass tables and steel walls, and were seated almost out on the street, where we could watch the palace lit up in the distance and see people walking back and forth, everyone dressed in way more colorful clothes than people wear back home. He ordered Swedish meatballs on noodles with sauce for me and lingonberry soda. It was great. Then it was off to bed. We were both absolutely exhausted.

  When I woke up the next morning, he was completely dressed for his day, and there was a pancake breakfast with maple syrup and whipped cream and orange juice on a tray in front of me on top of the covers.

  “I’ll be back by one o’clock, Adam, and we’ll head out for the museums then. Hang in there.” The door opened and closed, and he was gone.

  FIVE

  It took me a while to shake off the nearly total silence in the room. All I could hear was the city in the distance. I leapt up and rushed over to the door to make sure it was locked and snapped the bolt into place to double-lock it. Then I peered through the peephole in the door and got that fish-eye view you get when you look out. The hallway was deserted. I swallowed.

  “Get ahold of yourself,” I said.

  I steeled myself and walked back to the bed, flipped on the TV and got down to playing games, though I found it hard to play anything except that Viking thing I’d tried the day before. It got even cooler the more I explored it. Man, the things this Swede could do! Time flew by, and I forgot where I was. I must have been up to about ten thousand kills when a knock came on the door. It was sort of a sneaky knock, like whoever was doing it was testing the door, checking out who was in the room.

  I was in the room. Alone.

  For a moment I just sat there, trying to ignore it—maybe the person would go away—but then the knock came again, and I turned the sound off on the television. There was a long pause, then a third knock. That was the only sound in the hotel, it seemed. It was as if everyone had fled. I once saw a trailer from an old movie called The Shining, about a guy and his wife and kid left alone in a hotel that kind of comes alive and attacks him, and he goes insane. I thought of that for a second. Then I got up, still in my bare feet, and approached the door. I looked through the peephole. A big man was standing there, peering back. He was unshaven and looked very serious. He knocked again, much harder. I actually jumped back.

  “Mr. Murphy, I have your meal for you. Are you there?”

  I felt like an idiot. I glanced down at my watch. Wow. I’d been gaming for more than two hours. It was noon.

  I tiptoed into the bathroom, which was right near the door, and flushed the toilet, then called out, “Coming!”

  He was a pretty stylish guy, dressed in the blue-and-gold uniform of the hotel, blond hair combed back as if a perfect wind had set it in place, and yes, unshaven but fashionably so. The meal was on a white table on wheels, and it was under three upside-down silver bowls.

  “Thank you, sir,” he said in the singsong, lightly accented way the Swedes speak English (and it seemed like most of them spoke it well—how did that happen?). He brought the meal right in, uncovered it, set up the utensils, poured my drink and then stepped back.

  “Will that be all, Mr. Murphy? Mr. McLean wanted to be sure you have everything you need.”

  I glanced down at the burger bulging with cheese and mushrooms and tomatoes and lettuce, and the homemade fries with a big vat of ketchup beside them in a silver cup.

  “Uh, yeah, that seems okay,” I said, then felt like an idiot again. Americans can sound so dumb next to Europeans and even Canadians—kind of unsophisticated, which truly ticks me off.

  Then he was gone, and I was watching TV, checking out Swedish game shows while I stuffed my face. Grandpa appeared about an hour later, blasting through the door so suddenly that I just about yelled out in shock.

  “Are you all right?” he asked. “You look a little pale.”r />
  Not again.

  “Must be the light,” I said. That was all I could think of.

  * * *

  We hit the town after that. First we crossed the bridge onto the island, walked to the palace and watched the changing of the guard, which was pretty cool, with these Swedish soldiers in old uniforms and spiked helmets (not kidding) doing all sorts of maneuvers and carrying serious weaponry. Then we went right into the heart of the Old Town, or Gamla Stan, as they call it in Swedish, where everything is really old, and we walked up and down the narrow cobblestone streets.

  It felt like you could almost reach out and touch the buildings on either side. I imagined how creepy it might be in these tight streets after dark. But there were also really cool stores and cafés and people hanging out everywhere. Grandpa was treating me left and right to candy and ice cream and buying me Swedish T-shirts (I Love Stockholm in blue and gold) and stuff. Later, under the night lights, we saw a sort of circus without animals (not Swedish to have anybody think they were mistreating animals, I guess)—fire eating and juggling and acrobatics, all in a big ancient square.

  We had an awesome time, and I couldn’t help but imagine how cool it would have been to grow up here, without crime, dirty streets and all the things I was used to back in Buffalo. But I kept reminding myself that this was an illusion, that the Swedes had a dark side too. I thought about those crime novels, their dead leader in a pool of blood in the street, the weapons they made and all the stories about the secret service. Maybe many of these happy people weren’t really happy at all.