by Alex Dahl
‘You could read me a story?’
‘I would, but I’m not actually sure we have any story books here. It’s a long time since the kids, uh… since Oliver was little.’ The books are in the attic, lots of them; old favorites and new ones we never got around to reading. The Gruffalo, Peppa Pig, Nancy Drew.
‘You could tell me a story.’
‘Hmm, not sure I’d be any good, Kaia. I don’t know that many stories.’
‘Yeah, I guess only mommies know stories.’ Her words hit me so hard, right in the gut, and like the burning, it tears at my insides. I swallow hard. It isn’t her fault. She’s so little, and clearly disadvantaged. I need to go back to earlier, on the ski slope, when I felt like my world had somehow righted itself. When it felt like I could love Kaia the way mothers love their children; forever, unconditionally, wildly. When it felt like Amalie was just below the surface, held inside Kaia, mine again.
‘Actually, sweetheart, I do know a story. It’s a pretty good one, I think.’ Kaia lights up then lifts the yellow mug to her mouth, obscuring her face as she empties it. I walk over to the sofa by the unlit fire and pat the empty space next to me. Kaia comes over and sits down close to me. I place my arm on the back of the sofa behind her and she looks up at me expectantly.
‘Okay, so this is the story of the most beautiful horse in the whole world.’ Kaia smiles and claps her hands together. ‘Once upon a time there was an Arab horse called Fuego. He was jet black, so black that not a single hair on his body held even a touch of brown or gray. In spite of his name, which means fire, Fuego was very gentle. He belonged to a little girl called Mestifanie, who was a princess in a country called Baravaya. She lived in a palace bigger than any city in Norway – a palace so big it covered an entire valley, surrounded by snow-capped mountains.’
Kaia is fully enraptured, staring at me as I speak, snuggling into the crook of my arm. I close my eyes for a moment.
Hey, baby bear.
I continue telling the story I used to tell my girl. When it’s finished Kaia nods and leans her head on my shoulder. We sit like that for a long while, and I wonder whether I should keep talking, embellishing on the story like I sometimes used to, for Amalie. Kaia’s head is heavy against my shoulder, and as if by instinct, I raise my hand and gently stroke her soft hair. Outside, the sky is bruising pink, and daylight won’t last another hour. Kaia exhales deeply a couple of times, then her breathing drops into a steady purr. She’s fallen asleep. I stay where I am, stroking her hair, looking out at long streaks of indigo in the sky. Tomorrow we return to real life, and I’ll have to let her go. But how? I want more. So much more.
‘Mills,’ I whisper. Kaia stirs slightly, her head rolling forward, chin touching her chest. I very gently lay her back onto the sofa seat and she draws her legs up. I place a woollen blanket over her and sit in the twilight, watching its rise and fall. Then I move a little closer. I peel the blanket back slightly from underneath her chin and place my hand very gently just below her collarbone on the left.
‘Mills,’ I whisper again, Amalie’s nickname as dangerous as a shard of glass in my mouth, and feel the strong, steady thud of my baby’s heart underneath my fingertips.
Chapter Forty-One
Iselin
After the sauna and the eucalyptus steam room, I have a long, slow swim in the counter-current pool. I then return to the sauna, feeling exhaustion drip off my body along with all the sweat. I almost can’t believe that I’m here, in a fancy mountain resort, whiling away the day at the spa. Equally hard to believe is that Kaia is off skiing. My baby, who couldn’t walk across the room last year, skiing. I smile to myself – I’m here alone and I don’t have to be anywhere at all. I focus on my breath, counting to fifteen as I inhale, and twenty as I exhale. It’s as though restlessness has become a part of me because I’ve always had to rush around, tending to Kaia, and I feel the urge to get up and do something. Just holding my thoughts feels unsettling, but I make myself do another fifty breaths, and then I can feel the tension let go and it’s the most incredible feeling as my mind goes still. I think of hearts and birds and snow-covered mountains and wine and laughter, and how much everything is changing. It’s as though my girl and I are on a whole new path and everything is shiny and exciting.
Afterward, I feel almost as dazed as I did after giving birth. I stand at the vast windows in the reception and look out on the mountains. They are smooth, rounded mountains here in Norefjell, very different from the black, towering ones in Nordland, where I lived as a child. The sun is burning low and amber on the sky, but in less than an hour, it will be getting dark. I could go back to the cabin now and change into my ski pants, and perhaps I’d make it over to the slopes in time to catch sight of Kaia skiing. Or I could sit in the bar for an hour, just relishing this unexpected time to myself.
I order a vodka martini and play around on my phone. I check Snapchat, but nothing fun comes up. I check Instagram for new likes or enquiries from people who might want to buy a drawing, but there’s nothing. I scroll through Trump jokes and mummy needs wine memes and old schoolfriends’ winter-break photos on Facebook, when it occurs to me that Alison and I aren’t connected on any social media. Alison is in many ways the kind of woman I resent. She has the big house, the million-kroner car, the mountain cabin, and yet, there is something that doesn’t fit. She’s not like other people I’ve met, and I like her. For someone who has everything, she seems so jittery and unhappy. I admit I’m curious. I open the Facebook app on my phone; she’s quite old so probably more likely to use Facebook regularly. I type in ‘Alison Miller-Juul’ and there is only one match. Her profile has strict privacy settings, so all I can see are the two profile pictures she’s made public.
In the first one, posted in June 2011, she is wearing a white tank top and cut-off denim shorts and is sitting atop a large boulder somewhere hot and dusty. The photo has had 125 likes but no comments. I click on the likes but am redirected to her timeline, which is empty; her friend list is also set to private. The second profile picture is a professional headshot, taken against a black backdrop. I stare at the picture – I almost can’t believe it’s the same woman. She looks polished and kind of golden – the kind of woman who can go to the hairdresser when she wants to, who can get her teeth discreetly bleached, her clothes altered to fit perfectly. She’s not exactly beautiful, but she has a face that you want to keep looking at, maybe because her eyes are really arresting. Deep brown, flecked with light, almost yellow, patches, slightly slanted. She looks like she could be part Asian or something, except for the glossy American hair.
Alison doesn’t look anything like this now – nothing. Her hair is wild and graying, and I’ve only ever seen it scraped off her face in a tight bun. She wears loose, plain clothes that look like she’s borrowed them from her stepson, and maybe she has. The picture was posted in May 2017 and has had 281 likes and 42 comments. I still can’t see the likes, but the comments are public so I scroll through them and the first one says ‘Gorgeous Ali’. There’s one saying, ‘You are absolutely stunning!’ Another says, ‘My favorite globetrotter in the entire world.’ The rest of the comments read much the same, and I’m not surprised – she really does look radiant. Then I get to the last two.
‘My thoughts and prayers are with you, darling Ali,’ posted on July 11th last year. And underneath it, one last comment, this one posted on July 24th: ‘Ali, my heart breaks for you. We love you so much and are here for you when you are ready.’ I stare at the picture for a while longer before returning to the timeline to double check that she hasn’t posted anything else public, but there’s nothing. I finish the vodka martini and order another.
I close Facebook and catch up on news and gossip on kk.no instead, but again and again my thoughts return to the beautiful, groomed Alison in her profile picture, and those final comments underneath it. I feel bad for snooping, but everyone looks up the people they meet on social media, that’s just how it is. Maybe one of her parents died; I g
uess she’s the kind of age when that is fairly likely to happen. Yesterday she mentioned that her father had died, and I had the impression it was kind of recent. That must be it. She was probably really close to her father and is still overwhelmed by his death. Poor Alison.
I finish the second drink and stand up, slightly woozy from the effect of the alcohol. Suddenly I remember that Alison was one of the customers who first contacted me via Instagram. I sit back down, open the app and search for her, and there she is: Alison Miller-Juul. Her profile is private so I can’t see anything at all. I send a follow request anyway, and gather my stuff together; I want to be back at the cabin with Alison and Kaia, maybe playing a board game, watching fresh snow scatter, drinking some wine and talking after Kaia falls asleep.
Chapter Forty-Two
Alison
I don’t want Iselin to come back. I stand in the kitchen, stirring a pan of pasta sauce that Kaia and I have made together, chopping onions, garlic and tomatoes side by side. I loved the feel of the busy little person next to me, and kept my eyes on her tiny fingers carefully holding the chopping knife, avoiding looking at her face and breaking the spell. Now, I occasionally look up and smile at the little girl muttering to herself in a cacophony of different voices as she plays with the Barbie and a scraggly soft toy she’s brought.
‘Hey,’ says a bright voice, and it’s Iselin standing in the kitchen doorway holding out a bottle of cava. ‘I meant to give this to you yesterday, but I forgot. Well, I got drunk on red wine, rather.’ We both laugh and I take the bottle from her and place it in the fridge.
‘Thank you, sweetie, you didn’t have to do that.’
‘I wanted to. Oh, Alison, I’ve just had the most wonderful day. In fact, I don’t think I’ve had many days as nice as today. It just feels so lovely to be here. Thank you.’ Kaia looks up from where she’s playing, and smiles at us. Iselin is right, it does feel lovely to be here together, the three of us. But it felt even better was when it was just me and Kaia. Cooking together side by side. Nestled together in front of the fireplace, telling her a story. Sitting closely together on the ski lift, looking out at the white, barren mountains, laughing out loud into cold air.
*
Kaia has been asleep for a couple of hours and a screeching wind has started up outside, chasing scuds of loose snow against the rattling window panes. I top up Iselin’s glass with the last of the cava. I’ve just told her some stories from when I lived in Istanbul, and when I traveled in Thailand, and she hung onto my every word, wide-eyed, like Kaia earlier when I told her the fairytale.
‘You’re just so brave,’ says Iselin. ‘I mean, I’d just never… I can’t even imagine…’
‘Not brave,’ I say. ‘Stupid. Crazy, probably.’ We laugh a little. ‘So. Tell me about Paris.’
‘Paris?’
‘Yeah. Kaia was telling me you used to live there.’
‘Yes, my sister and I moved there after high school to study. Well, I say study – my sister dropped out of school to write music. Then she became a DJ. Worked out for her, though.’
‘Noa, right?’
‘Yeah. It was Nora, but she changed it for her music career.’ She giggles at this.
I smile too. ‘I see. Kaia tells me you’re very close.’
‘Oh yes. She’s almost like a second mother for Kaia…’ At this, I feel a surge of jealousy. ‘Where we grew up was so remote it would have taken me an hour to walk to the nearest neighbor, so as kids it was just us sisters, really. It wasn’t until I started school that I played much with anyone other than Noa.’
‘Wow. I can’t even imagine.’
‘She and I have always had a really special bond.’
‘What’s she like?’
Iselin thinks about this for a while, and when she still hasn’t said anything, I grab a new bottle of wine from the wine rack and uncork it. Her eyes light up as she begins to speak.
‘She’s… She’s different. Incredibly talented. Like, she co-wrote a song that went to number one in the US. And she’s worked with a lot of very famous artists. She’s a risk-taker, never had a plan B, never let anything or anyone stand in her way.’
‘That’s impressive.’
‘Yeah. It’s incredible. And strange…’
‘Strange?’
‘Well… I think at one point it felt like I’d left her behind, especially when I had Kaia. She seemed like a kid by comparison, and I guess she was. But now, watching her becoming so successful, it’s clear that, really, it’s Noa leaving me behind.’ Iselin looks suddenly deeply dejected, and she hesitates, clearly wanting to say something else, but trying to decide whether she can trust me. I settle back on the sofa and focus on maintaining my most calm and inviting expression. ‘I guess it feels like she has everything, and I have nothing.’
‘But… You have Kaia,’ I say, fury rushing through me.
‘Yeah,’ she says, and smiles a little, but she doesn’t look convinced. ‘I adore her. Every little thing about her is magical and I am so grateful for her. It’s just been so hard at times.’
‘It doesn’t sound like you’ve had much help,’ I say, trying to find some empathy for her. Maybe I shouldn’t judge her so harshly – any mother knows how hard raising children is, for all of us. Iselin shakes her head and is clearly struggling to hold back tears.
‘No,’ she says.
‘Do you… Are you in contact with Kaia’s father?’
‘No. We didn’t know each other well.’ I nod and make a point of not meeting her eye; I want her to continue without feeling pressed. She doesn’t. I close my eyes and listen to the sound of the flames spluttering in the hearth, and the wind roaring down the chimney. ‘His name was Yoann,’ Iselin says after such a long time I’d almost forgotten she was here. ‘He was a sweet boy, from the south somewhere. Kaia has his blue eyes. We met in a bar, and though we dated on and off for a while, it wasn’t very serious. He was one of a couple of guys I’d been seeing since I’d arrived in Paris. I liked him, though. A lot. We laughed at all the same things. I used to draw him, sleeping. When I got pregnant, everything changed. We both agreed I needed to have an abortion. I was going to. Until the last possible moment. But I just couldn’t do it.’ At this new information, I bring my eyes back to Iselin. How can I judge a girl only just out of her teens for terminating an unwanted pregnancy with a man she barely knew? How can I feel such sudden, ugly hatred for this anguished, tired girl? But I do.
‘What made you change your mind?’ I ask, keeping my voice level.
‘I was at the clinic. All signed in. A nurse showed me into a room at the end of a long white corridor. It was just a simple room painted a light yellow, but I still remember it so clearly. I was alone. I watched minutes drag by, one after another, until twenty minutes had passed, and I wondered if it was intentional, to leave girls like me waiting in there for so long they gave up and walked out. I looked down at my hands and realized they were clasped together so hard the knuckles were white, and I shouldn’t have looked because my mind went to the baby’s hands; its pink, tiny, see-through hands digging into the walls of my womb.
‘I tried to just remain calm, to think of it as something that just had to be done. I looked around the room in search of something to focus on, but still, all I could see was the baby’s hands, and I could feel them, too, clawing at my insides. I began to cry, and I hardly even noticed. I wished Noa was there with me, but that was impossible; for the first time I had kept something from her. I kept wondering what Noa would have said if she had known what I was about to do. But she’d never know. I would just do it, and everything would stay the same. I wanted everything to stay the same – so badly.
‘But maybe it was thinking about Noa that that made me stand up, that made me push the door open and run past the doctor who was just arriving. My sister always says, Listen to your heart. I’d never thought it was good advice; my heart had never made enough sound for me to hear it. But it did, then.’
I’m staring
at her now, and Iselin notices and looks briefly alarmed. ‘Anyway,’ she says, lightening her tone. ‘Life’s funny, isn’t it? We don’t have the answers. We just have to do what we believe is right. I still wonder, sometimes, about what could have been, what I’ve missed out on. Yoann never spoke to me again. Noa was so disappointed. If my parents had known, they would probably have been pleased I’d fucked up. Though it’s not like I let them know I’d dropped out of school to become a teenage mother.’
I reach across and touch my hand against Iselin’s. I try to imagine her in the abortion clinic waiting room, how miserable and afraid she must have been, but instead I see Kaia the way Iselin did; desperately trying to hold onto life with her tiny hands. I want to go into the room where she is asleep and press my head to her chest and hold those tiny hands in my own. Instead I focus on keeping my face calm and sympathetic.
‘Haven’t your parents offered you any support?’
‘No.’ Iselin purses her mouth and breathes a little ripple onto the surface of her wine. I nod and wait for her to continue, and I must admit, I’m curious now. Wouldn’t it have been nice for Kaia to have grandparents? It was such a source of sadness for me, that my parents were halfway across the world and already old when I finally had a baby. They did meet Amalie many times, but they never had that easy closeness of family living down the road from each other. I’m glad my father died before Amalie did, that he never knew. He left the world thinking that his child and grandchild would be okay, and there must be a certain peace in that. I feel a pang in my stomach at the thought of my parents, and how my whole early life as their cherished only child is now long over. I also feel sad for Iselin’s parents and everything they are missing out on.
‘My father’s an old drunk, and my mother waits on him.’
My parents made me feel like anything was possible. I can’t even imagine what it must be like to grow up in a home where sadness clings to the walls. ‘I’m sorry. That must be very difficult. They must miss you, and Kaia,’ I say gently.