by Chloe Liese
Freya and Rooney turn back from the photographer, and our group’s conversation converges into the usual Bergman family ruckus. I stand quietly and sip my drink, more than ever a stranger to myself, to people who once felt like mine.
Freya
Playlist: “Alaska,” Maggie Rogers
I try not to think too much, let alone get in my feelings that it’s my parents’ thirty-fifth wedding anniversary dinner. That they look as in love as always—Dad touching Mom whenever he can, Mom leaning into him, a smile warming her face.
And my husband is running late.
In the restroom, I check my phone in my purse again, waiting for the ladies to be done. One message:
Sorry, running behind. Unforeseen setback at the office.
“Thank you, Jesus on His Birthday!” Frankie’s voice echoes from the bathroom stall. “I finally got my period.” Frankie has a flair for creative blasphemes but not even this one can make me laugh. Because while I remember those years, nervously watching the calendar and praying for my period to come, now it’s the other way around. Now I hold my breath as the calendar countdown dwindles, praying the dull aching cramps won’t come, that my boobs hurt for the right reason.
I’m not concerned from a fertility standpoint. I know things take time and conception is quick for some, not for others. I just want it so badly, it hurts. It’s an ache that never leaves my chest, with every mom I see, whether pregnant or with children in arms or running ahead of her, the nagging question in the back of my head, When will it be me?
“Me too!” my sister, Ziggy, says from the neighboring stall. “Hey, maybe we’re on the same schedule now. Isn’t that a thing? I feel like I read somewhere that women who hang around each other somehow get on the same period calendar. Something to do with pheromones or hormones or something. I wish Rooney was here. This is her expertise.”
Rooney is an unabashed science whiz who would absolutely be hollering about the transmutability of female hormones if she were here. Even though she came to us through Willa, Ryder’s girlfriend, and Willa isn’t here, it wouldn’t have been strange for Rooney to attend anyway. She’s become so ingrained in the family it feels weird when she doesn’t come to Bergman functions. But she declined our invite tonight because she’s studying for the bar.
Which I found out from Axel. Who turned pink in the cheeks when I grinned and asked how he happened to know that. To which he had no reply except to tell me I had lipstick on my teeth. That had me scrambling for my phone’s camera to check, but by the time I realized I didn’t, he was on the other side of our table, in conversation with Dad.
Asshole. Pranks are unfortunately as common among the Bergman siblings as oxygen is in the air.
Axel’s love life is none of my business anyway. But Aiden’s an unapologetic matchmaker, and in the decade we’ve been together, his tendencies have started to rub off on me. I see pairings and chemistry, couples and possibility, all the time now. Unlike Aiden, though, I have the common sense to leave people alone, for the most part, to figure it out themselves.
The toilets flush, then a moment later, the doors unlock. Frankie and Ziggy leave their stalls at the same time, joining me at the sink, where I’m fussing with my hair that won’t quite behave tonight.
Our reflections are like the start of a joke—a blonde, a redhead, and a brunette. Me, then Ziggy, with her willowy body that she got from Mom, red hair like our dad’s, and his vivid green eyes, which are the same color as her dress. Frankie scowls at her reflection, long, dark locks and hazel eyes, working her usual color scheme of a black dress and a gray acrylic cane, a mobility aid to help with the pain and instability arthritis has caused in her hips.
“I should have known it was coming,” Frankie says, pointing to a small bump on her chin. “The period zit.”
“Why are you so worried about pregnancy?” Ziggy asks. “You take the pill, right?”
Frankie laughs emptily. “Yes. But I’m still paranoid that by sheer force of giant ginger will, Ren is going to knock me up. He stares at babies like I stare at burgers—like there’s never enough of them and they’re vital to existence. The man thinks he’s subtle, but he’s not.”
“Whenever I’m with a guy,” Ziggy says. “I’m doubling up. Condoms and the pill—”
“Ziggy,” I interrupt. “You’re not having sex yet, are you?” She’s only seventeen, and she’s still so young, emotionally.
Ziggy turns bright red. “Geez, Freya. No. But I do have a mom already breathing down my neck about abstinence and safe sex, okay?”
I try not to be hurt by how upset she seems that I asked. If we were closer, I’d hope she’d feel comfortable confiding in me, particularly as she grows out of adolescence into womanhood. But she’s just a teenager, I’m almost twice her age, and because of that, we’ve never been close, even though I love her and couldn’t get enough of her as a baby. Mom’s said I should try to hang out with her more, but Ziggy’s always playing soccer and I’m always working. Gelling our schedules is virtually impossible.
Facing the mirror again, Ziggy shuts off the water and dries her hands. “All I was trying to say was that whenever I do have sex, I’m not risking my soccer career. I want kids down the line but not until I’m retired.”
“So…” Frankie peers up at the ceiling, doing the mental math. “You’ll be, what? Mid-thirties? I get it, but I want to be done by then. Done with babies. Done with working.”
Ziggy cocks an eyebrow. “You’re going to law school to be a sports agent for eight years?”
Frankie cackles. “Okay, fair. Maybe I’ll work until forty. After that, I’m making Ren my cabana man and buying an island for all these kids we’re apparently having, since the guy already has a minivan to hold them. You’re all welcome any time.”
Babies. A minivan. I hold a hand over my stomach, hating that I know for certain it’s empty.
These things take time, my mother likes to tell me in her philosophical voice. Easy for her to say. She got pregnant every time my dad looked at her.
Be patient, Freya Linn. Be patient.
I’m trying to be patient. I’m really trying. But patience has never been my virtue.
Frankie tosses her paper towel in the garbage and grips her cane. “Let’s get out there before the boys clean out the breadbasket again. I only got one roll earlier.”
“Right.” I pull open the door.
We rejoin the table comprised of all the siblings, only missing Willa, who’s traveling for a game, and Aiden, wherever the hell he is. I feel my brothers’ eyes on me, their concern and curiosity. I think most, if not all, of them know something’s up with Aiden and me. I told Axel at his art show with the understanding we’d keep Mom and Dad out of it, until I could tell them myself. I expected in his short and direct way, he’d tell my brothers, too, with the same expectation of secrecy. And if there’s one thing you can count on Bergman siblings for, it’s to keep a damn good secret from their parents when necessary.
Even if Axel didn’t tell them and they weren’t suspicious, they are now. Aiden’s as reliable for these family functions as the sun is in the sky. He’s always with me. He keeps his promises and shows up.
Until now, it seems.
I clear my throat and smile brightly, telling my emotions to get their shit together. Mom pats my hand and smiles at me as she asks in her soft Swedish accent, “Sötnos, where’s Aiden?”
“Running late,” I mutter into my wineglass, taking a deep drink. “We can order without him.”
Dad frowns and leans in closer, wrapping his arm around Mom. “I don’t want to leave Aiden out.”
“It’s okay, Daddy. He’ll understand.”
My dad’s eyebrows lift. He searches me for a moment, and I glance away. He’s always read me too easily. “Freya Linn. Is something the matter?”
My throat tightens. “No!” I say too brightly. I school my expression. “No. You know Aiden. He’s just busy with work lately.”
Mom turns slightly in her chair an
d inspects me. “Freya.”
I peer up at her. “Yes, Mom?”
“Soon, you come to the house for fika. I’d like to talk.”
I fake a smile and blink at her, scrambling for what to say. She’s sniffed trouble. That’s why she wants me to come over. And you don’t say no to fika with Elin Bergman. It’s a pause in the day that’s a fixture of Swedish life, integral to my mother, who only left her home country when she married my dad. Our traditions, my upbringing, many of my parents’ philosophies and rituals are infused with her culture.
Fika is ingrained in us. In Sweden, business pauses, life rests, and just briefly, you have coffee and a treat with friends or coworkers around you. It’s about resetting and connecting, refreshing before digging back into the work of your day. And in Mom’s house, shit gets dealt with over fika.
“Mom,” I say apologetically, “I don’t know when I’ll have time. I have patients—”
“You make time. That’s what I’ve taught you. You choose what matters, and the rest follows. Take a lunch break, hm?” she presses, her expression almost a mirror of mine.
Sometimes it’s unnerving to look in your mother’s face and see what time will bring, not that I fear aging or think my mother is any less beautiful than when she looked younger. It just foregrounds the urgency of the moment, throws each minute between now and then in front of me. When will I be a mother? By the time Mom was my age, she’d had half her children. Will I be sitting next to Aiden, surrounded by a table of kids and their partners? Candlelight and delicious food? Celebrating my marriage not only between the two of us, but with a rousing table of family as well?
“I’ll come to you,” she presses, after I have nothing to say but silence. “Friday. Ziggy has school, then goes straight to evening training, so I’m free.”
“Okay,” I sigh.
“If I could have everyone’s attention!” Viggo says as he stands and grins, tall and lean, with chocolate hair like Axel’s, pale eyes like mine. I can smell the mischief wafting from him. Oliver, my twin in looks, only twelve months younger than Viggo and his partner in crime, sits back in his chair. Grinning my way, he winks at me, then turns back to Viggo.
“Mom and Dad,” Viggo continues, “the kids wanted to give you a special gift. You’ve given us so much, put up with more than you should have ever had to—”
Dad raises his glass to that and grins.
“And our way of saying thanks, our gift to you this year is…”
Oliver does a drumroll on the table as Viggo pulls a photo from an envelope and hands it to my parents. A luxurious beachfront home, palm trees, golden sand.
“A family vacation,” he says.
My parents are floored. Thankful. Thrilled.
And I had no idea this was coming.
My stomach drops as I stare around at the siblings, none of whom look surprised like me. I glance at Ren, who’s usually quick to break down. He’s giving Frankie his undivided attention, definitely avoiding my eyes. Ryder’s expression is blank, sharp green eyes inscrutable, his mouth hidden behind a blond beard that hides too much to make him easy to read. Axel looks at me innocently, as if I were in on this, or at least that he thought so. Ziggy’s the same, just smiling, probably excited to go on this vacation since she’s always stuck at home with Mom and Dad by herself. I don’t even try with the man cubs. They delight in antagonizing me.
I turn toward Ryder and lower my voice. “What is this?”
He leans in slightly and says, “It’s an anniversary gift. We tend to give our parents one of them each year on the day of their marriage.”
“Ryder.” I elbow him. “Be serious.”
“You were distracted. You’ve always handled it, and that’s not fair to you. So the brothers took care of it.”
“And how are we affording this?”
Ryder glances at Ren. I blanch.
“No,” I mutter. “He’s not paying for everyone—”
“It’s decided already,” Ryder says. “He’s a professional hockey player, Freya. This is a drop in the bucket to him. Besides, Ren’s generous, and it makes him happy. The house is his teammate’s, and he’s opening it to us for the week, free of charge. Ren’s contribution—which, I’ll acknowledge, is not small—is financing airfare when we settle on a week that everyone can do. We agreed we’ll pay for our own food, drinks, and anything else once we’re there.”
I open my mouth to disagree, but Ryder gives me a look.
“Freya,” he says quietly, “you know how blissfully happy it will make Mom and Dad for us all to be there.”
Blissfully happy. An entire week in close quarters with Aiden, and I’ll have to act like everything’s fine to maintain that bliss, even though he and I are falling apart. I don’t know how I’ll go a day, let alone a week, without losing my shit. And if Aiden doesn’t come, it will cause my parents worry and puncture their happiness, which directly defeats the point of this gift.
“I can’t go on a family vacation right now,” I whisper. “I can barely tolerate sharing the same roof as my husband right now.”
Ryder frowns. “That bad?”
Staring at my hands, I sigh. “Yeah. Pretty bad. I’m at the end of my rope, Ry. I can’t do this right now.”
Ryder passes the breadbasket to Oliver, who’s hollering for it. “Well, don’t come, then.”
“I can’t not come, you asshole. That would hurt Mom and Dad.”
He gives me a faint grin and sips his beer. “Guess you’re going to Hawaii, then.”
Aiden
Playlist: “Gallipoli,” Beirut
I’m late. Really fucking late, without a clear excuse for Freya as to why. But like hell was I going to tell her I’m running massively behind because I shit myself. After that drafty-ass Washington State visit, I got a cold, then a secondary sinus infection, and the antibiotics are trashing my stomach. My stomach was gurgling earlier in the office, and I frankly didn’t have time in my day for another trip to the restroom just to have it be a resonant fart, so I gambled.
And I lost.
Pants and boxers trashed, showered and changed into the backups I keep at the office—thank you, my cautious, overly prepared self—I’m now sitting in bumper-to-bumper traffic.
“Dammit!” I slam my hands on the wheel. A text comes in from Freya:
We’re leaving.
“No,” I groan, tugging at my hair. “No, no, no.”
Dialing her number, I hook up my phone to the auxiliary system in the car. It rings. And rings. And rings. Then goes to voicemail.
Of course she’s not answering. She doesn’t want to talk to me. I don’t want to talk to me, either.
She’s probably angry. Definitely hurt. I don’t blame her. Family’s the heart of Freya’s life. Her parents mean the world to her—shit, they mean the world to me—and I missed their anniversary dinner, which I’ve always loved because it’s a family celebration, not just a celebration between the two of them.
Throwing on a podcast, I try to distract myself, take the first exit I can, and turn back toward our place in Culver City. Going home’s easier than making my way to the restaurant from a traffic standpoint, and soon I’m parking in our little driveway and locking the car.
Lights are on inside but not the porch light, which is Freya’s hallmark. The woman’s damn uptight about conserving energy, and I’m damn uptight about security. The front porch light is a benign battle between us. The light being off, after I turned it on when I left for work this morning, means she’s home.
It also means I’m bathed in darkness, my senses attuned to the sounds around me as I start along the walkway up to our house. Halfway to the front door, I feel the hair on the back of my neck stand on end. A twig snaps. Whipping around, I search for the sound I just heard. Yes, my anxiety is high, and my stress about running late, then missing dinner isn’t helping lower my adrenaline levels, but someone’s nearby, watching me. I’m positive of that. You don’t grow up how I did without learning to
look over your shoulder, knowing how to defend yourself.
Suddenly there’s a scuffle, then two men are on top of me, their faces unreadable in the darkness. Instinct kicks in, and I leg swipe one of them, but the other gets me in a headlock, dragging me backward.
I don’t yell, because the last thing I’d want is Freya running out, getting in the middle of this. After one of the guy’s large hands clamps over my mouth, I couldn’t yell if I wanted to.
The other guy’s at my legs now, knocking me down, and I’m bodily hoisted across the lawn. A van door slides open before I’m shoved inside, despite trying damn hard to fight against it. The door slams shut with the click of a lock, and the car accelerates rapidly. I blink, urging my eyesight to adjust so I can get my bearings.
Finally, I can see, and if I weren’t so damn angry at them, I’d kick myself for not having anticipated something like this. Ren’s driving us like heisters in his minivan. Axel’s riding shotgun. Oliver sits on my lap, Ryder’s in the bucket seat next to me, and Viggo pops up from the third row.
“What the hell is this?” I yell, shoving Oliver off. He lands with an oof on the van floor. “Don’t answer that until you put on your seat belt.” I glare around at them. “Would it have been so hard to say, ‘Hey, Aiden, we need to talk to you’?”
Ryder makes a noncommittal grunt. Ren is silent, as is Axel.
“Would you have come?” Viggo asks.
I open my mouth to answer. And realize I can’t truthfully tell him yes.
“Precisely,” he says.
Oliver slips into the third row and buckles up, then leans in, locking eyes with me. “Viggo and I may have gone a little physically overboard, but we all agreed you’d need to be strongly coerced.”
“A little?” I say hotly. “You scared the shit out of me. Jesus, guys. This isn’t a Liam Neeson action movie.”
Viggo pffs. “Please. Ryder talked me down from my original plan.”
Ryder grins coldly.