by Karina Halle
“I can guarantee you’re not going to be telling any of my sisters this spiel. You’ve always encouraged them to do what they wanted, to date whomever they wanted, girl power and all that.”
“You’re different, Magnus, and you know it. I encourage them to do what they want because society is always there to try and hold them back. You have no one holding you back. I think it’s time that maybe you did.”
“Right. You’re really selling marriage right now.”
“Do you want to die alone?”
I get up again. “Okay, Mother, no offense, but I think this conversation took a turn for the worse seven minor heart attacks ago.”
She closes her eyes, seeming to compose herself, then gets to her feet. I offer my hand, but as usual, she ignores it. “This went about as well as I thought it would.”
She walks past me, heading to the door.
“That’s it?” I ask. “You’re not going to yell at me? Threaten me?”
She puts her hand on the knob, takes a moment, her shoulders seeming to grow heavier before my eyes, then glances at me. “Come over for dinner tomorrow. It’s been so long since we’ve had the whole family in one place.”
Then she opens the door, steps out into the hall, and the door shuts behind her with a resounding click that seems to echo inside my head.
At six-thirty the next evening, Einar and Ottar practically shove me into one of the royal cars parked around the corner from my apartment and take me to the palace in the city center, which is really only a short drive away. Too short, in my opinion. I told them I could have walked but I think they both imagined me running off into the sunset. My friend Viktor, the Prince of Sweden, got to do that, to run away and pretend to be someone else, and I don’t think I’ve ever been so envious than I am at this moment.
We go through the large palace gates and Einar parks at the back entrance, a lush park surrounding us on both sides. With it being September now, the leaves are slowly turning from green to gold and the nights are getting chilly.
Tor, my mother’s butler, greets us formally and then leads me to the dining room. It’s funny, even though I grew up in this house, I still feel like a commoner in it. The moment I turned seventeen I moved out, and ever since then I’d felt like this place belonged to strangers.
Or maybe it’s because I turned into a stranger to everyone else. This couldn’t be more apparent than when I enter the dining room and see three of my sisters’ blonde heads swivel toward me in eerie synchronicity. I supress a shudder, remembering that Village of the Damned movie I saw when I was young.
There’s Cristina, who is only one year younger than me, though I know she couldn’t be more relieved that I’m next in line and not her. All Cristina wants to do is live with her long-term Italian boyfriend on a Greek island somewhere, living off the land.
Then there’s Britt, in her mid-twenties, a real party animal with mile-a-minute tendencies and grandiose plans for herself which seem to change every minute. At the moment, Britt is planning her move to America where she wants to get an internship in New York, though I can’t say what for since she’s always changing her mind.
There’s also Irene, who is the spitting image of our mother and also finishing up at university for political sciences or something like that. Irene is about as reliable as you get. Some might say boring (I might say boring), but she’s smart and efficient and honestly would make a much better queen than I would a king. There doesn’t seem to be a scheming bone in her tiny little body, but if there were, I bet she’d wish I’d just abdicate already and give the throne to her.
Mari, the youngest, isn’t at the table. She’s seventeen, just finishing up school and still living with our parents here at the palace. Because she’s the last to leave and was a complete “miracle baby,” she’s probably the closest to our parents right now. She’s sweet, compassionate, and always willing to go above and beyond for anyone. But there’s no mistaking her for a pushover either.
I’m not sure how long I seem to stand here at the head of the table, maybe no time at all, but Britt clears her throat and says, “Well, well, well, look who it is. Mr. Sex Tape.”
I pinch my eyes closed, pretending she didn’t just say that.
“Oh my god,” Irene mutters. “Can we not talk about that?”
“It’s the elephant in the room,” Britt argues.
“It’s not proper dining room etiquette,” Irene argues back.
Cristina snorts. “What is etiquette anymore than just an antiquated set of rules set to control our society? It’s a prison of manners, that’s what it is.”
“Hello to all of you too,” I tell them, taking a seat beside Cristina. “Now that it’s out of the way, the elephant has been revealed and shit on all the rules of etiquette or whatever, let’s just go on and pretend it never happened. Okay?”
All three blonde heads nod. Creepy. Do they know they do it in unison?
Suddenly Mari appears at the doorway, giving us all an anxious smile.
“Hi, Magnus,” she says quietly, then addresses everyone else. “Father is coming. He’s, uh, feeling pretty good because of the drugs the doctor gave him, but they don’t give him much of an appetite and they tire him out. He’ll only be here for the soup and then I’ll take him back to his room.”
Shit.
Here is beautiful young Mari helping my father, the fucking King, like she’s his nurse. Not only is she way too young to be doing this, but it’s reminding me that I’ve been a fucking moron, living my life without a single thought to others, oblivious to the lives straining around me. This is my family, in pain, and I’ve absolutely let everyone down, including myself. Maybe my mother is right. I really should get married. I spent all last night and all today stewing over what a horrible idea this whole thing is and how terribly unfair, and how I wouldn’t agree to it no matter what…
And now I’m thinking maybe this is the kind of punishment I deserve.
As Wayne Campbell says, marriage is punishment for shoplifting in some countries.
So I sit here, tongue-tied and feeling like garbage while Mari disappears around the corner, presumably to get my father.
I glance over at my sisters, and all their brows are furrowed, lips being bitten and gnawed on in fear and sympathy. How much do they know? More than me? Am I the odd one out, the prodigal son with his head in the clouds?
I’m about to open my mouth to ask them how he really is when their attention is diverted to the doorway and my father appears, with Mari and my mother on either side of him, arms hooked around his elbows as he slowly shuffles forward.
My first thought is that it isn’t my father. That they’ve hired some actor to portray him as “sickly” and they’re doing an overdramatic version of it. The way he’s hunched over, the ashen pallor of his skin, his hairline that seems to be reduced to wispy tufts. He’s changed a staggering amount since I last saw him and that honestly was only a few weeks ago. Has he always looked like this only now I’m actually seeing it for what it is?
“Father,” I say, the words escaping me in a hush and I’m ready to get up and help him, embrace him, tell him I’m sorry for bringing all this fucking trouble and shame to us when he’s barely hanging on.
“Sit,” he says with a smile. “You just stay put there, Magnus.” And with those words, his warmth flows through him. He is my father after all, buried beneath an exterior that seems to shrink from pain.
I hang on to that because I can’t let myself fall to worry. If I do, it will be the end of me. I’ll obsess over it, as I often do. I’ll let myself luxuriate in darkness, in pity, in the travesty of it all. I know myself enough to keep out of those low spots when I can.
“I hope dinner is klipfisk,” he says, looking at my mother as she holds on to him. “The Lord knows I have to be nearly dying for you to let Gette indulge that delicacy.”
The word nearly springs some hope into my heart, and of course, we all laugh in relief that there’s something to be la
ughed about. My mother was raised in a fishing town on the coast where klipfisk is a specialty. It’s salted cod, which makes for a tasty stew or even pizza. No one else in Norway really eats it that much, but when my father was dating my mother, he tried to impress her every chance he had by making it.
Turns out my mother detests the stuff, all while he was growing a real appreciation for it.
Mari pulls out a chair for him at the head of the table while my mother eases him into his seat. I’m surprised they’re helping him and not a private nurse. After all, he is the King and I know he has the best medical care.
But maybe that’s exactly why. As easygoing as my father is, he has an insurmountable amount of pride and probably doesn’t think he warrants the help of a nurse in front of us. He’s been the same in the few public appearances he’s made—so far, the public only thinks he’s had a bout of mild pneumonia.
As it is, the starter for dinner is his beloved klipfisk soup, brought out by the head cook Gette, who looks rather proud of the meal, waiting for a few moments before my father takes a hearty sip and gives her his approval.
My father doesn’t talk much, just takes time sipping tea (no more brandy for him) and slurping the soup, asking everyone questions when the conversation lulls.
I’ve noticed that the questions never quite come my way and I’m both grateful and disappointed. Usually my father and I are discussing Formula One, rally driving, or moto racing or he has me filling him in on all that I’ve been up to. But this time there’s nothing.
I know why. That whole sex tape elephant in the room. He’s not ignoring me either because from time to time he’ll look at me and give me a reassuring smile, though I’m not sure if he’s reassuring me or himself that everything is going to be okay.
He makes it through the first salad before he clears his throat and announces to us that he doesn’t want to risk passing out on top of Gette’s famous roast grouse. I wonder if I should arrange to speak with him privately because I know we have a lot to talk about, but as Mari helps him out of his seat, my mother comes over and lays a hand on my shoulder and whispers into my ear, “When we’re done with dinner, he’d like to speak with you.”
After that, dinner seems to drag on, no matter how engrossing Cristina’s tale about her trip to the Amazon rainforest the other month or how delicious the roasted grouse is.
When it’s finally over and I’ve pushed back a half-eaten slice of cake and slammed back the rest of my red wine, my mother gives me a nod and it’s time to go.
I follow her out of the dining room and into the opulent halls of the palace, heading to the elevator at the end that will take us to the north wing on the third floor.
My mother pauses outside the large doors to his room and I almost ask if they’ve always slept in separate bedrooms and if I’ve only just noticed now or if this started since he became ill.
I don’t ask and she doesn’t say a word to me, except with her eyes which always say the hardest words for her. Now she wants me to be here, be grave, be present.
I nod back at her and step inside.
I don’t know what I was expecting, but I’m relieved to see that things look as grand and formal as ever in this room with the high ceilings and long velvet curtains, dark wood floors, and a smattering of paintings.
My father isn’t in his double poster bed at all but instead is in a chaise lounge by the crackling fireplace, a heavy wool blanket drawn up to his chin. The only things out of place are the IV drip connected to one of his arms, the bag hanging from a wheeled stand beside him, and an unblinking female nurse who seems to appear from the shadows.
“There you are,” my father says to me with a big smile before nodding at the nurse. “This is Ingrid, my nurse. She’s on her way out. Just wanted to make sure I got my vitamins before bedtime.”
Ingrid hurries past me without making eye contact, then she’s gone out the door. I think I hear my mother’s voice talking to her out in the hall.
“Does that hurt?” I ask my father, sitting down in the chair across from him as I nod at the IV. I’d been in the hospital plenty of times as a child for carelessly caused broken bones and sprains but I don’t remember getting an IV.
He rolls his eyes. “Hurt? My boy. A needle to the arm feels as sweet as a kiss when it takes away the real pain.”
My throat feels dry, scratchy. I swallow but it doesn’t seem to do any good.
“Don’t look so worried,” he says to me, his eyes squinting briefly as he takes me in. “It doesn’t suit you.”
“I would have come to see you sooner. I had no idea you were…”
“I’m fine,” he says, then winces as he adjusts himself. “I promise. I’ve been better, of course, and things have taken a little turn for the worse this last week, but I’ll pull out of it. I’m in good shape otherwise, you know. The doctors say I should be grateful for all those years running and skiing. I have to say that’s all because of you, Magnus.”
“Me?” It was rare that I felt anyone was better off because of me.
“You were as much of a handful then as you are now. All those sports you were always active in, I had to keep up with you somehow. Honestly, the only downside to all of this is that I can’t drink anymore. God, I wish for a snifter of something but dying is a pretty big trade off. Cristina has me drinking this awful new stuff called Kombucha. Have you heard of it? She says it’s healthy for me.”
“I’ve heard of it,” I tell him softly. I’ve missed talking with him on this level. Not that we ever discuss business either, but sometimes it gets hard trying to separate my father from the king, or my mother from the queen.
He lets out a soft sigh, his eyes closing briefly. When he opens them, they’re sharper than they were before—he’s getting down to business.
“Magnus, I’m not going to bore you with the details of what has happened. I’m not going to tell you about the fallout behind closed doors that you have no idea about, I’m not going to try and make you feel bad or guilty about what you’ve done because it’s all a moot point. It doesn’t change anything to just talk about something that’s happened. There has to be a mental and physical change.”
“I know. Father, I am so sorry,” I tell him, hating how much I’ve disappointed him, hating that I hear it in his words and on his face even though he’s trying hard not to say as much. But I know. “What happened…it was stupid and I wasn’t thinking and—”
“It’s done,” he says emphatically with a heavy gaze that goes right into my soul. “It’s in the past.”
“But it’s affecting things right now.”
“It is, but you can’t change what was done. I forget sometimes that you’re my heir, you know? It’s my fault as much as yours. You wanted freedom so we gave you freedom. We wanted you to have the life you chose for yourself, not a life that was imposed upon you. My childhood was stifled because of my duties and we didn’t want that for you at all. But somewhere along the way you stopped being an heir entirely. It’s gone on for too long. You’re turning thirty soon, and you haven’t spent a single day at my side, learning what this role takes. Now, I’m afraid you either have to step up and learn and show you’re serious about this business or…you won’t be the king at all.”
I rub my lips together anxiously. I hadn’t expected an ultimatum but I don’t know why I’m surprised. Of course this is where this had to go—it’s the only way for my parents to find out where I stand. The only way I can change is if I’m forced to.
“I don’t mean to sound harsh,” my father says with a tired sigh, “but it’s the truth. You’ve long said you don’t want to abdicate, and if that’s the truth, now is the time to become the person you’re meant to be.”
I nod. “And I can do that. Start including me in your weekly council meetings. Start bringing me to the parliament or on official dinners or…”
“I will,” he says. “I just wish I had started sooner, before my condition started to deteriorate. But you know that’s
only solving one half of the problem.”
For some reason I had hoped my father wasn’t going to bring up the marriage thing. That it would stay this crazy idea of my mother’s. But that doesn’t seem to be the case.
He reaches down to the low table on the other side of him and lifts up a clipboard with paper. There’s a few grainy black and white pictures of a girl, which must make this the list that my mother has compiled.
Shit is about to get weird.
“Is that the list?”
“It’s the list,” he says, flipping through a few pages. “I know this is the last thing you expected, but I have to say I think your mother is on the right track with this.”
“Do you really?” I hate having to question him in this state but I don’t think either one of them realize what a big fucking step this is.
“It’s not conventional,” he admits, glancing at me quickly. “But what about our lives is conventional?”
“So you’re just going to give me this list and expect me to pick out a girl and then we’ll get married and that will be the end of it?”
“Something like that.”
My heart is starting to race again at the idea, my lungs feeling choked. “You do realize this isn’t how the world works.”
“It’s how our world works, right now, at this moment.”
“Marriage won’t change me.”
He chuckles. “Oh, it will. And for the better. More than that, it will change you in the eye of the public and that’s all we really care about right now.”
“More than my own feelings, my own freedom.”
That brings a sharp look out of him. “Magnus. Sometimes there is something bigger than your thoughts and feelings. This is one of those times.”
“You loved my mother.”
He narrows his eyes. “I still do.”
“Sorry. What I meant was that you married her for love. Didn’t you? I mean, she was a commoner. You had to plead your case to your own father and he basically made you choose her or the throne.”
He gives me a barely perceptible nod, his eyes not leaving mine. “If there had been another potential heir, I wouldn’t be here. I was his only hope. He had no choice but to let me marry her.”