by Alex Dahl
‘They’ve never met her,’ she says, and there is something cool and dismissive in her tone of voice, ‘and they never will.’
‘I see,’ I say, and I don’t push her now, because I sense that there are stories here that perhaps should not be told. I get up and bring the bottle over to refill our glasses. Iselin glances at the bottle, and I can tell she is trying to calm herself down.
‘There’s something I’ve been meaning to ask you,’ I say. ‘What inspires your drawings, would you say?’ I want to deflect from thoughts of her family – I’m worried this has all been too much and Iselin might burst into tears, excuse herself and go off to bed, when what I need is for us to get closer. She looks grateful for the respite, and takes another sip of her wine.
‘Umm. I used to draw mostly people. I think I got tired of that because so much of the time, people only show you what they want to, and I wanted to draw something that was… wild.’
‘Wild?’
‘Mmm. Uncontrollable.’ She laughs nervously, sips at her wine, rubs at a spot below her left ear. ‘So then I started drawing birds.’
‘Why birds?’
‘Well, I love their freedom. I guess I’ve felt so trapped and stuck at times and maybe I was drawn to birds for that amazing freedom.’
‘I can relate to that,’ I say, and this is certainly true. I think of Karen Fritz’s birds, and how every detail of that image is imprinted in my mind.
‘When did you start drawing the hearts?’
‘Last autumn. I just couldn’t stop thinking about the surgery Kaia had undergone. It was like I couldn’t move on. And then I realized that birds and hearts have a whole lot in common. Both are wild. Uncontrollable.’
‘Indeed.’
‘The heart wants what it wants,’ she continues and looks at me intently, as if to figure out what it is I want. I finish my wine and stand up; now I want to wrap up here before the conversation gets too intense – it has brought me close to tears. I rinse out the wine glasses in the sink and close my eyes for a moment, summoning Karen Fritz’s birds to mind; up high, held by nothing but the salty breeze, little walnut hearts galloping inside feathered chests, the hazy curve of the horizon ahead, tiny specks of people below, locked inside their houses, chained to the earth.
Iselin has come over to the kitchen area and is standing close to me.
‘How is your hand now?’ she asks, and when I turn to look at her, a powerful moment passes between us, as though she senses something in me I might not have chosen to share. I open my palm and glance down at it. I no longer need a bandage, but the scar is vivid and ugly, curved in a jagged ‘c’, distorting my lifeline and covering most of my palm. Iselin gently takes my hand and tilts it slightly so it catches the light.
‘Would you let me do something?’ she asks. Her lips are stained a dark red from the wine and her eyes are searching mine. I feel like the power balance between us has suddenly turned, that Iselin is now in control, but there is something soothing about letting her hold my hand, looking at my wound unflinchingly. I nod. She walks quickly down the hallway and into the guest bedroom before returning with a soft black leather pouch. She leads me back over to the sofa and unfolds the pouch, revealing a row of pens, meticulously arranged by the size of the tips. Iselin selects a blunt-tipped one and smiles mischievously. I feel strangely excited, like a teenager led astray by one of the popular girls, and in this moment I can’t decide whether I like this woman or not. She takes my hand again and uncurls my fist. Then she presses the pen to my skin. It hurts a little and I close my eyes, the moment is so strange, and I am woozy with the alcohol. When I open them again, I am taken aback at the sheer skill of Iselin’s pen. She has drawn the outline of a wing around the scar, working the raised, pink skin into it to illustrate realistic musculature. When my hand is relaxed, the wing appears broken, but when I stretch it out, it becomes elegant and whole, ready for flight, its feathery tips reaching the base of my little finger.
I curl and uncurl my hand a couple of times and we both just sit watching the wing. Then Iselin stands up and smiles at me, but there is sadness in her smile, and again, I feel like she has the ability to look straight into me. For a crazy moment I consider telling her everything: that my daughter’s heart beats in her daughter’s body, that I mean no harm, that following your heart can sometimes lead you to dangerous places.
‘Thank you,’ I whisper. I raise my hand again, in a wave, a high five, a slap, a surrender.
‘Goodnight,’ says Iselin, then disappears back down the hallway.
*
It’s 2 a.m. but I can’t sleep. Iselin and I both went unsteadily to bed, but the alcohol has worn off now and my mind feels tired, but clear. I get up from the bed, a chill from the floorboards creeping up my ankles, and stand at the window but there is nothing to look at on this side of the cabin, only mounds of snow shimmering in the moonlight. I stare at my reflection in the window pane: my face is drawn and sunken, and my hair, which I always took great pride in, is scraggly and unkempt. Could I become me again, or will I remain this person for the rest of my life?
I lie back down on the bed and start a mind game I used to play when I was much younger – imagine yourself in five years. I will be forty-nine in five years. If I had another child, which would most likely not be possible, that child would be four years old. Amalie would have been ten years old. Ten is so very young and yet twice as old as my child will ever be. In five years, Kaia will be twelve. She will have grown into her slightly awkward looks by then, and will be a young woman with a healthy porcelain complexion and arresting blue eyes older than her years might suggest. She’ll still be wearing her hair braided, but in a cool teen style, down one side of her scalp. I see her sitting at the breakfast bar at my house, drawing, humming under her breath, smiling up at me occasionally. In this vision, I am chopping some vegetables; the quiet and inevitable tasks of a doting mother. I try to envision Sindre and then Iselin, but no matter how hard I try, I can’t summon them to mind.
*
In the morning, I wake with a bad headache. I take a couple of Advil, and spend a long time in the bathroom, splashing cold water on my face. I’m dreading today: the drive back to Oslo, having to say goodbye to Kaia, not knowing when I will see her again, if I will see her at all. The thought of coming home to Sindre and Oliver, resuming the draining routine of our lives, feels impossible.
I stare at myself in the mirror, and the woman staring back is even worse-looking than the hazy reflection I studied in the window glass last night. I always thought I had nice eyes; they are almond-shaped and green, and in pictures they seemed to carry a playful glow that is now entirely gone. The color looks different, too; they look dull, slick, like mud. My lips, which were never full, but even and rosy, are wrinkled and pale. Is this what a bad person looks like, I wonder. Do bad thoughts make you ugly? The thoughts I had last night were those of a bad person.
I look down at my hand and Iselin’s drawing is still intact. I open and half-close my hand over and over, watching the broken ligaments miraculously straighten themselves, then crumble again.
For most of the night I lie wide awake, trying to rid myself of the images of Kaia and me in the future, together like Amalie and I should have been. It wasn’t the possibility of a continued closeness to Kaia that was so unnerving, it was the realization that I want her to myself. I’m no more capable of keeping up this charade with Iselin than I am capable of letting go of Amalie and her heart keeper. I don’t think the game of ‘where do you see yourself in five years’ was ever a game for anyone that played it – it was always a plan. Because who would say, ‘Oh, in five years, I might be dead from cancer.’ Or ‘In five years, my husband will have left me for a younger, better-looking woman.’ Or ‘In five years I’ll be unemployed and unsatisfied, drinking too much.’
The heart wants what it wants, and we say what we want for ourselves.
And I want Kaia.
PART III
Chapter Fort
y-Three
Iselin
I guess coming home is always hard when you’ve seen for yourself what ‘home’ means for some people. Kaia, too, seems to deflate like a balloon as we fling our duffel bags to the floor in the cramped hallway. The pretty, pure snow that fell in Norefjell became slushy ice as we reached the motorway at the bottom of the mountain, and dense rain as we neared Oslo. And now everything is as before. In the kitchen, the clean washing up is where I left it by the side of the sink. In the bedroom, the covers are thrown back, the vague imprint of Kaia’s head still on the pillow. In the living room, the sofa bed I sleep on is folded away but an edge of the bedsheet is poking out from underneath. Kaia’s toys are scattered around, a couple of unfinished drawings are spread out on the floor next to the sofa, balls of dust have gathered in corners. It feels like I’m seeing this cramped, messy apartment for the first time.
I settle Kaia in front of a cartoon and put on some macaroni with peas and ketchup for a late lunch. Waiting for the water to boil, I switch my phone back on – it’s been switched off since last night when I ran out of battery and realized I hadn’t brought my charger.
Besides the water bubbling in a kettle and the tinny voices from Kaia’s cartoon, the apartment is entirely quiet. I wish Noa was here, or Alison. It felt so good to open up to her last night. I haven’t really spoken to anyone about those things before. I think about the bird in Alison’s hand. It was the strangest thing – when she showed me the scar I just knew exactly how I’d cover it to make it beautiful. There is something nurturing about Alison, like she wants someone to take care of. And at the same time, she seems totally skinless, like she could disintegrate at the touch of a hand.
One thing this weekend has shown me, is how lonely I am. Perhaps I should get back on Sukker or Tinder and try to meet someone Kaia and I might have a real future with, but I just can’t face the game of dating: the scrolling through face after face, reading ‘original’ personal descriptions that all sound exactly the same, trying to sell myself as a person of interest who someone might want to make a life with. It’s as if no one meets organically anymore, as if the internet is the only place people can come together.
I reluctantly turn my phone over, and there are no new messages or missed calls. I check WhatsApp, Messenger and SMS individually, but still, nothing. I have a few new likes on Instagram, but that’s it. I feel worried about money again; after the orders I had in December and January, things have slowed down, even though my Instagram followers keep increasing – almost three thousand now. I really need to find a dependable source of income on top of the drawing, or we’ll get evicted.
I check my email and two new messages come through. One is a newsletter from Norwegian Airlines, the other is an email from a man whose name I don’t recognize with the subject title ‘Your Illustrations’. I open it and my heart actually flips in my chest.
From: Frans Høybraathen
To: Iselin Berge
Date: Fri, March 1st, 2019 at 10.12 a.m.
Subject: Your Illustrations
Dear Iselin,
I hope this finds you well. I was sent a series of your illustrations by an old friend and colleague, Alison Miller-Juul, explaining that she’d bought some art from you and that you may be interested in more work. I haven’t had a chance to take a look before now, but I wanted to drop you a line to say I was incredibly impressed by them. We’d love to work with you. In fact, some changes are happening here at Speilet – toward the end of 2019 we will no longer ‘only’ be a newspaper, but we will be launching a weekend lifestyle magazine that will be distributed across Norway with our Saturday issue. Would you be interested in dropping by for a chat about possibly coming on board as our in-house illustrator? I believe your style would be a perfect match for Speilet Saturday.
Let me know when might suit you – we have our offices at Tjuvholmen.
Very best regards,
Frans Even Høybraathen,
Editor
‘Kaia!’ I say, popping my head around to the living room, grinning like a goon. ‘Mamma might get a job! A really exciting job, drawing for a national magazine.’ Kaia turns to look at me and nods slightly before returning her gaze to the screen, where Jojo Siwa is bouncing about and screeching into a microphone.
‘Okay,’ she says.
‘Oh, Kaia, this is a really big deal. Give me a hug?’
‘Okay.’
I press my face into the hollow of her neck, running my hand down the length of one of her braids, her thin arms closing gently around me. After a while, Kaia tries to push me away lightly, but I draw her closer – I need to feel that sacrificing everything I wanted to do for her, for so long, was worth it. I’ve spent almost seven years in this apartment, mostly alone, shelving every ambition I ever had, losing confidence every day. But this could change everything. I try to imagine what it would be like, to have a job with offices in Tjuvholmen and coffee machines with free coffee and views over the harbor and actual colleagues who listen seriously to my ideas. And a salary. I could stop worrying about having to go back to NAV and rolling over for that bitch, Else. Just the thought of the endless system of logging in and checking off everything Kaia and I ever do to receive a measly monthly government handout makes my skin crawl.
In the kitchen, I call Noa. It rings and rings, then goes to voicemail. Hey, this is Noa. If I don’t pick up, it’s probably because I don’t want to speak to you… I hang up, and try again, and this time, she picks up on the second ring.
‘Hey,’ she says, her voice hoarse. It’s just after 3 p.m. on a Sunday – she’s probably been working and partying all night two days in a row. ‘I’ve been trying to call you.’
‘Hey,’ I say. ‘Everything okay?’
‘Yeah, just busy. I’m going to Barcelona tomorrow.’
‘Oh. Cool.’
‘Where were you this weekend? I tried calling you, like, four times.’
‘Kaia and I went to Norefjell. She skied for the first time, it was amazing. She was actually really good at it, a total natural, Alison said she—’
‘Wait, who’s Alison?’
‘She’s my friend. I told you about her.’
‘What, the American? In Holmenkollen?’
‘Yeah.’
‘Have you been hanging out with her?’
‘Uh, on a couple of occasions, yeah.’
‘Isn’t that kind of weird?’
‘Why would it be weird? I can have friends, can’t I?’ Noa has this twisted idea that she reads people better than I do – it makes me so angry.
‘What do you two have in common?’
‘More than you might think, actually. Why are you acting all patronizing? Can’t I have something in common with someone who is older or seems different on the surface? She’s really sweet, and she and Kaia have really taken to each other. The cabin was so lovely. It was good for Kaia to get away for a couple of days and just do stuff that other kids do.’
‘Okay.’
I make myself breathe deeply in through my nose and count as I exhale. I am not going to let a petty disagreement take away from the excitement I’m feeling about Speilet. ‘Anyway, the reason I’m calling is, I have something really fantastic to tell you!’ Noa is silent on the other end and she suddenly feels so far away. I imagine her dragging on a cigarette or weaving wax through her hair or playing around with a new tune in her head. ‘I have a job interview! You know Speilet? They’re starting a new weekend magazine and they want me to come and talk to them about the role as in-house illustrator!’
‘Oh, wow! Sis, that’s great news!’ Noa sounds genuinely happy for me and I soften a little. I wish she was here tonight to celebrate. ‘Did they find you through your website? Or social media? Your Instagram is looking awesome, by the way.’
‘No… No, it was through, uh, Alison, actually.’
‘Right.’ There is something hard in Noa’s tone again, something judgmental.
�
�She… She used to be features editor at Speilet. Still is, actually, but she’s taking time out to write a book. Amazing, huh?’
‘I just think you need to be a little careful who you let in, that’s all.’
‘Seriously, what are you talking about?’
‘Is, you said yourself she was a little strange.’
‘No, I didn’t actually. She has been incredibly kind toward us.’
‘Fine,’ says Noa, but her voice is cool. I hang up without saying goodbye.
*
Where I come from, there was nothing to do but dream. So that’s what we did, Noa and I. From our early teens we’d drink beer out of a plastic bag on the frozen beach, day after boring day, looking out at the fjord and the pink, low winter sky, the mountains in the distance, all that nothingness. Every day after school, we’d avoid going home for as long as possible, letting the school bus go without us, even though it was the only way to get back to the remote, drooping cottage clinging to a steep hillside that our parents call home.
Eventually we’d hitchhike home in the dark. I remember those rides home so clearly, Noa and me sitting perched up high together on some truck seat, the bearded face of a stranger barely visible in the darkness of the cabin. Then the long walk home from the district road, through the forest, up and up, until we’d finally reach the house, where our father was sure to be drunk, waiting.
Our early lives made Noa tough. Impenetrable. But I won’t let her ruin this, I just won’t.
I don’t want to be someone who festers in her own misery – I want to make changes and move forward, I want to give Kaia a good life, and right now, I’m thanking my lucky stars for having met Alison, who seems to have set into motion many of the things that may just make those changes possible.
‘Hey Kaia,’ I say, trying to clear my mind – I’ve come too far to linger any longer on my early life. I made it out and really, that’s all that matters. ‘Shall we order sushi?’ I say it even though I’m not exactly rolling in money, but everyone deserves a treat sometimes. I take the macaroni off the hob and dial the number for Østerås Sushi.