The Things Owen Wrote

by Jessica Scott Kerrin

  Owen’s granddad does not sit down. He and Owen are the only ones standing on the entire airplane.

  “Where are we going?” he demands again.

  “Pops! Iceland!” Owen repeats, his voice straining.

  Owen is now upset, but the other passengers around them are beginning to shift in their sleep, so he tries hard to remain calm. The passenger who had been glaring at him about the window shade is now looking on with pity. Owen can also see a flight attendant briskly making her way up the darkened aisle toward them.

  “Can I help you?” she asks quietly but sternly, all business.

  Owen answers to buy his granddad some time.

  “I’m just going to the washroom,” Owen explains. “I startled my granddad who was asleep.” He turns to his granddad. “I’m sorry about that, Pops.”

  The flight attendant looks at Owen’s granddad to confirm the story.

  “Is everything okay?” she asks, softening her tone.

  Owen’s granddad glances at Owen and when he does, he looks like himself once again, focused and in control. He straightens his glasses and clears his throat.

  “Certainly. I was sound asleep. Got a little confused, that’s all. How much longer until we land?”

  The flight attendant checks her watch.

  “About four more hours,” she says. “Can I get you anything?”

  “I have a slight headache,” Neville says while slowly sitting down. “Do you have any aspirin?”

  “I’ll check the galley,” she offers kindly.

  She returns to the back of the airplane and Owen follows her to where the washrooms are located. He ducks into one of them. When he is done, he steps out, only to find the flight attendant waiting for him. She smiles, but Owen remains wary. He peers down the aisle to make sure his granddad is still sitting where he belongs.

  “How are you enjoying the flight?” she asks pleasantly.

  “It’s good,” Owen says, keeping his answer short and safe.

  “Have you been to Iceland before?” she asks.

  “No,” Owen says, shifting from one foot to the other.

  “It’s a beautiful country,” the flight attendant says. “I love it. Especially the thermal springs.”

  “What are they?” Owen asks, intrigued despite his urge to return to his seat before anything else happens with his granddad.

  “Iceland has these wonderful outdoor pools that are naturally heated by hot water from deep in the earth.”

  “Oh,” Owen says, thinking he would like that.

  “Are you traveling with your grandfather?”

  “Pops? Yes.”

  “How nice. Is he okay now?” she asks.

  Owen moves to high alert. Why is she asking? Are they in trouble? Is his granddad in trouble?

  “Sure he is,” Owen declares. “I startled him. That’s all.”

  “And what brings you to Iceland?” she asks.

  Owen immediately thinks about the mess with his notebook, but instead tells her the easier half-truth.

  “My granddad wants to return a medal for a friend of his.”

  “Sounds like you’re on an interesting mission. Well now, here are two aspirin. Would you please take them and this water to your grandfather?”

  “Sure thing,” Owen says, taking the pills and the bottle from her.

  “Tell him I hope he’s feeling better.”

  “Sure thing,” Owen says again, relieved that she’s letting him go.

  He brings the medicine to his granddad, who gets up to let Owen back into his seat.

  Suddenly, Owen does feel tired and maybe even a bit dizzy. He plumps up his airplane pillow, jams it against the cool window shade and closes his eyes. Hours later, he is awoken by the sound of the breakfast trolley rattling its way up the aisle.

  Owen’s granddad is already awake, watching the news on the screen in front of him with his headphones on. Owen taps his arm. His granddad removes his headphones.

  “What time is it?” Owen asks. He is groggy and his mouth feels like cotton balls.

  “Seven thirty,” Neville says, checking his watch. “But it will feel like one thirty in the morning to you. You’re still on Alberta time.”

  Owen glances over at the grumpy passenger who is now awake and reading a newspaper, so Owen opens up his window shade. He squints. It is bright outside and he can see the steely ocean below, an endless field of rippling bluish-gray. He looks for boats. There aren’t any.

  The same flight attendant who helped them earlier with the aspirin reaches their aisle with her trolley. They eat their breakfasts. Owen particularly likes a white yogurt-type dish that is thick and wonderfully creamy, so he asks her what it is when she comes by with beverages.

  “That’s skyr, a famous Icelandic dish. It is a type of soft cheese.”

  “It’s really good,” Owen declares.

  The next time the flight attendant walks by, she stops to slip him a second helping.

  “Special delivery,” she says. “And how’s your headache, sir?” she asks Owen’s granddad.

  “Gone,” Neville says. “Thanks for asking.”

  Owen’s airplane flies over the tip of Iceland and he spots the outskirts of a small city from his window. There are rows of tiny square houses with colorful corrugated tin roofs.

  Reykjavík.

  The airplane banks, then lands on an airstrip surrounded by brownish-gray lava fields. There are no trees, but there are jet-black mountains looming in the distance, some even capped in snow. Owen also spots steam vents billowing white clouds from the ground. Geysers!

  “Góðan dag. Welcome to Iceland,” a flight attendant announces cheerfully over the intercom. “The local time is 9:15 a.m.”

  As soon as the cabin door has been opened, Owen takes a deep breath of the fresh air that rushes down the aisle.

  “There’s no smell!” Owen says, marveling that Icelandic air doesn’t hint of wheat warmed by the sun, the smell he’s grown up with.

  They make their way out of the airplane, down the steps and outside across the tarmac. The sun is crisp and bright. They enter the airport. As soon as they are inside, they go through customs and show their paperwork. Then they walk into the main part of the terminal.

  The airport is mostly glass with gleaming wood floors and clusters of metal seats in bright bold colors like the houses in Reykjavík that Owen spotted from the airplane. Huge screens hang down from the ceiling and are silently flashing all the flights of the day to European places that Owen has heard of at school or on the news.

  Owen’s granddad finds a banking machine and takes out money in Icelandic currency. It is colorful, like Canadian money. He slips some bills into his coat pocket but puts the rest into an envelope and hands it to Owen.

  “It’s good to keep money and important documents in several places when you’re traveling. That way, if you lose something, you won’t be completely stranded. Keep this safe in your knapsack.”

  Owen beams. He loves being treated like an adult. He tucks the envelope into an inside pocket next to his camera and zips everything up for good measure.

  “We need to find a bus to get to the city. Reykjavík is about fifty kilometers away from the airport,” Neville says.

  As they stand in the bus line just outside the exit doors, Owen studies the people of Iceland, hoping to spot signs that they descend from Vikings. Then he realizes that he is being ridiculous. People in Alberta don’t go around wearing cowboy hats. Why would people here wear helmets with horns?

  A little girl breaks away from her family circle on the sidewalk near the airport doors and runs right up to Owen.

  “Halló,” she says, stopping short. She is wearing a bright hand-knit wool sweater that goes to her knees, and her almost-white hair is tied up in crooked pigtails.

  That’s t
he Icelandic word for hello, Owen thinks.

  “Hello,” Owen answers back.

  “Where are you from?” she asks.

  “Red Deer,” Owen answers, impressed that she speaks English, too, although with an accent.

  “Reindeer?” the little girl repeats. She giggles. “That’s an animal.”

  “No, Red Deer. It’s a place,” Owen corrects. “In Canada,” he adds.

  “Canada,” the little girl repeats. “Our reindeers are brown.”

  “So are ours,” Owen says, and he realizes that he has no idea why his city is named Red Deer. “I’m Owen. What’s your name?” he asks.

  “Britta,” she says.

  Owen knows it is important to say something nice whenever he first meets someone, so he says politely, “I like your sweater.”

  Britta looks down at her hand-knit sweater as if seeing it for the first time. She looks up at Owen and smiles again.

  “Are you flying somewhere today?” Owen asks.

  “No, my grandma is coming to take care of me while my mommy goes away.”

  “Oh. How long will your mom be gone for?”

  “Seven sleeps,” Britta says proudly.

  Owen smiles. He used to count days by the number of sleeps when he was little, too.

  “Britta,” her mom calls while holding out her hand. “Let’s go to Arrivals. Grandma’s airplane has just landed.”

  “Bless, bless,” Britta says to Owen, and she runs back to her family.

  When the bus arrives, Owen and his granddad climb aboard and take a seat near the back.

  The driver heads down the highway and follows the signs to Reykjavík, which are easy to spot. But there are other place-names, too. They are long and are made up of strange letters. Some have dots and squiggles on top or are smashed together in pairs. Owen tries to pronounce them as the signs whip by his window, but he cannot work his mouth fast enough. Outside, the dark brown lava fields endlessly roll by, all scabby with only pale moss and lichen for a thin cover. It is not much to look at, so Owen keeps his camera in his knapsack.

  “What’s the plan?” Owen asks his granddad.

  “First off, we’ll need to return Gunnar’s medal,” Neville announces. “The protocol office that handles them will be closed on the weekend.”

  “What day is it today?” Owen asks.

  His thoughts are still fuzzy and he feels a bit crusty himself, like the lava field they are cutting through.

  “Friday,” Neville says.

  “It doesn’t feel like Friday,” Owen says. He yawns.

  “You’re all messed up because of the time difference,” Neville reminds him.

  But even though he is tired, Owen hasn’t forgotten his number-one priority.

  “After we return the medal, then we’ll go to the archive?” Owen asks.

  “Yes. Only, the archive is on the northern coast of Iceland where Stephansson grew up,” Neville says. “We’ll need to rent a car, but the drive won’t be too long. Iceland is a very small country.”

  They enter the city and slow down as they wind their way through the narrow streets of Reykjavík. The streets are sided with plain cement buildings that are jammed against each other like the unfamiliar letters that Owen spotted in the signs. The buildings are painted in soft yellows, blues, greens and reds. Everything looks so tidy: no litter, no graffiti, no billboards.

  They stop at a traffic light near an old graveyard that is fronted by massive iron gates. Speared on top of the gateposts are assorted solo wool mittens looking for their lost mates after a long winter. The mittens are brightly knit like the sweater belonging to the little girl Owen just met. He digs out his camera and takes a photograph of the comical display.

  At last, their bus pulls up to its station. The driver jumps out and helps passengers down with their luggage.

  Owen’s granddad flags a taxi driver and hands him an address. They climb into the backseat and take a short trip to where they will return the medal. The taxi pulls away, leaving them alone on the curb in front of a white mansion where the protocol office is located. Across the street is a park that features an enormous pond.

  Owen pulls up the handle of his suitcase to start walking, but his granddad doesn’t make a move.

  “Aren’t we going inside?” he asks.

  “Sure. In a minute.”

  Still, his granddad doesn’t budge.

  “What’s wrong?” Owens asks, searching his granddad’s face for clues.

  Six

  Owen and his granddad continue to stand on the sidewalk in front of the white mansion that houses the protocol office. Owen wonders if his granddad accidentally left his briefcase with Gunnar’s medal in the taxi, but no. His granddad holds his briefcase firmly in his right hand, safe and sound. Then why don’t they head straight to the protocol office to return the medal? Wasn’t that the plan?

  Owen shifts from one foot to the other. The sooner they return the medal, the sooner they can get on with retrieving his notebook, Owen thinks. Maybe if he starts walking toward the stone walkway of the mansion that leads to the wooden front door with the massive iron knocker, his granddad will follow?

  Owen takes a couple of tentative steps in that direction, pulling his suitcase along.

  “I was thinking about Gunnar,” Neville says, still not moving. “He was so proud of his medal. It was even on display at his funeral.”

  Owen turns to study his granddad. His clothing is wrinkled from the flight and there is a grayness under his eyes because of lack of sleep. His wispy white hair is sticking up at the back once again. But it is the way Owen’s granddad remains rooted to the spot while thinking about the friend he has lost that makes Owen sad.

  “Maybe we should sit for a minute,” Owen suggests, setting aside his own worries for the time being.

  Owen’s granddad nods gratefully. They walk across the street and into the park. They sit down on the first empty bench they come to alongside the pond. People stride by, dressed for work, all business suits, skirts and messenger bags. The sky has clouded over, and the pond is now the color of dull gray putty.

  “Can I see the medal one last time?” Owen asks.

  His granddad digs out the little box from his briefcase. He passes it to Owen with hands that shake a bit.

  Owen carefully lifts the shiny enamel cross from the box and holds it flat in his palm. It quickly warms in his hand.

  “I’d like to earn a medal like this someday,” Owen muses.

  “I’m sure you will,” Neville says without hesitation.

  Owen continues to stare at the medal, mesmerized by its beauty.

  “No,” Owen says flatly. “Medals like this are for creative people. Writers. Poets. Musicians.” Owen sighs. “I’m none of those.”

  “Why do you say that?” Neville asks, shocked.

  Owen shrugs.

  “You’re creative. You’re very creative.”

  Owen shakes his head.

  “Well, I have a fridge at home plastered with your drawings that says otherwise.”

  “That’s just little-kid stuff I drew with Grandma,” Owen says.

  “Okay, what about your photography? That’s coming along nicely, isn’t it? You even submitted some of your landscapes to your yearbook committee.”

  “Sure. I guess.” Owen still isn’t convinced.

  “What about your work at school?”

  “My schoolwork? That’s not creative.”

  “I disagree! The sketch of Stephansson House you drew in your field notes was very well done.”

  Owen sits up quickly at the reminder of his notebook. He’s done with this topic. He hands back the medal and the box to his granddad.

  The sun pops out from behind a cloud and is warm on their faces. There are birds pecking at the ground nearby, but the little flock leave
s Owen and his granddad alone, sensing that they don’t have any breadcrumbs.

  Owen’s granddad is not done.

  “And what about the poem you wrote about your grandmother for her funeral? Everyone was so moved,” Neville says. “I still hear members of the Red Deer River Readers Book Club mentioning it from time to time.”

  Owen swallows hard but says nothing.

  They sit for a bit, staring at the glass-smooth pond. Owen scoops up a pebble and tosses it in. A ripple carries toward the far side where there’s a bench occupied by a very large man scratching at the neckline of his Nordic sweater, a price tag still attached to the sleeve. He sits beside a jogger who is wearing red runners. The shoes remind Owen of his grandmother, making him sad all over again.

  Owen’s granddad sighs. He holds the medal out and gently rubs his thumb over the enameled white cross. Then he places the medal to his chest over his heart. Owen knows to look away. His granddad puts the medal back in the box and carefully closes the lid.

  “I think I’d like to do this next part on my own,” Neville says somberly.

  “Sure thing, Pops. I’ll stay here with our luggage.”

  “I won’t be long,” Neville says as he reluctantly gets up.

  Owen watches as his granddad makes his way across the street to the white mansion. He is moving slowly, the way he did at Owen’s grandmother’s funeral.

  Owen sits back on the bench to wait. He digs out his camera from his knapsack and searches for the series of potential yearbook photographs that he took of the Alberta prairies: the water towers, hay bales and combines. He had been excited to submit them to the yearbook committee, but now he can see room for improvement. The sunlight falling onto the water towers could be more vivid. The hay bales could be more striking with a close-up shot. The combines could look more imposing if he had included the billowing clouds of dust behind them.

  All Owen’s life, he’s been told how talented he is, how smart he is, no matter what he does. His dad pins his report cards to the bulletin board in his office. His mom brags endlessly to friends and family on the phone about his latest accomplishments such as his projects for the annual science fair or the cake he baked her for Mother’s Day.