Let Go

by Alexandra Winter

When have you ever cared about my brushes?

  I stare out my window. Nana bought me those brushes five years ago, and I treat them dearly. It’s a trap question. If I say no, he’ll be upset I don’t take proper care of my things, use it as an excuse to explain why I’m not responsible. If I say yes, I shouldn’t have kept him waiting. “I came as fast as I could.”

  He stops at a red light. “So, you didn’t clean your brushes. This is the reason I can’t trust you with nice things. What’s the point in having them if you don’t take care of them?”

  The sheep in my head is now on its back rolling around and kicking, trying to get up. It’s stuck, and so am I. “I’m sorry.” I’m in no mood to argue. He’s stressed, playing his favorite game, “find mistakes Amalie made today.” I glare at the door handle and imagine myself jumping out of the car. I never will, but it brings a smile to my face picturing his frustration in finding a way to explain it to the community. I wonder what he’d say. A bee flew into the car, and she’s terrified of bees, so she jumped out? I’m not, but that could work. No doubt, he’d find a way to make it about himself, I’m sure.

  “Have you heard from Mom?”

  “Just because she offers to pick you up every time you go to these classes after work doesn’t mean you should accept. You need to stop being so selfish and start thinking. Your brain is there for a reason. She has enough on her plate. As do I. Busses do run here.”

  Thunder resounds from far away.

  You know the last bus leaves too early.

  “If I could only borrow one of your cars, I…”

  He glares down at me. “Do you have any idea what these cars cost?”

  Of course I do. I clean those cars for you at work every day.

  But this isn’t why I can’t drive them. He hates when city kids come to our town each summer, driving fancy cars, acting entitled. He’s scared people will think I’m like them, spoiled.

  “What would people say if they saw you driving a Porsche? No. Absolutely not. Save up for your own or leave your DAP class earlier.”

  “This isn’t….DAP is a school. Design and Arts in Porto? The dream I’ve been working towards for years?” I stare at him for a hint of recollection. Nothing. “I applied for their scholarship a few months ago?” There’s more frustration in my voice than I intend.

  Why can’t he listen?

  “We’ve talked about this. You have to present your ideas like an adult, not an emotional child.” Dad turns on the radio.

  I did. Several times.

  But hey, your daughter’s one dream must be too much to pay attention to.

  It is, after all, an insanely expensive school I can’t afford. Me living in Portugal for four years if I get a scholarship, but never will with only two out of three thousand applicants winning? The reason I check the mailbox every day? A guaranteed prosperous future for me if I get in.

  As if he’s heard my thoughts, Dad increases the volume on the radio.

  He won’t want me to attend DAP, but Nana pushed for my art classes, and she’ll never back down on me pursuing my dream, and neither will Mom.

  A sign to Årøysund lights up in front of us, and Dad turns down the radio as we drive off the main road towards our coastal community. “I need you to spend less time doodling and more time focusing on your work at Skar’s Auto. You know as well as I do we need a sale soon.”

  Country music plays from the speakers, too low to sing along to or drown out the noise from the tires echoing off the worn asphalt. When Dad turns onto the single lane road creeping down towards the fjord, he stops at the only intersection in town. Behind us, dark clouds cover the skies. Årøysund always seems to have a barrier of some kind, holding lousy weather away. In front of us, the moon shines on ripples in the water. Nana and Grandpa live to the right only two streets up from Årøysund center, population 1636. We turn left through the forest where humid pine trees glisten in the moonlight. Their shadows stretch across the dirt road leading us to its only house, our home, an old wooden house painted white but appearing blue in the night, surrounded by grass fields sloping down into the water below.

  Eager to escape Dad’s company, I grab my bag from the back seat and jump out.

  “Amalie! What have I told you about cleaning your shoes before entering my cars? Look at this.” He points to the floor mat below the passenger seat I just left.

  I pick up one piece of gravel I know I didn’t bring into the car and add it to the rest that fills our driveway.

  “See? Now doesn’t that feel so much better?” He turns away, not waiting for an answer.

  No, it doesn’t.

  As I head to the mailbox, I’m relieved it’s empty. The school sends the rejection letters out first, so one day closer to a scholarship. The lavender scent in the air from Mom’s flowers grows stronger as I approach the front door, smelling of home.

  “Oh, and by the way.” Dad’s words stop me from opening the door. “Since I picked you up, it would be nice if you open the shop tomorrow. I have an important meeting in the morning.”

  And there it is. No help for free in Dad’s family.

  MOM

  Taking a deep breath, my body tenses as Dad walks up to me wearing the same grin he flashed Miss Ask half an hour ago.

  I don’t have time to think before my frustration escapes me. “You gave me tomorrow off, remember?”

  His grin grows wider, his voice is cheerier. “Amalie. How often do I ask you for anything, huh? I’ll be there at twelve o’clock at the latest. You’ll have plenty of time to play around.”

  I’m not playing. I’m showing Mr. Dahl...I remember my canvas in the trunk. I could kick myself for forgetting, but it’s not the first time my need to escape Dad’s words has taken over, and I forget everything else. Usually, designing is my escape from this; now it’s trapped me. “I need the canvas to give to Mr. Dahl tomorrow. Can you open the car?”

  Dad doesn’t move. He’s got the upper hand.

  What an idiot I am.

  “Okay, I’ll open Skar’s tomorrow. Please open the car?”

  The Porsche clicks open. “That’s better. Now, go to bed so you’re well rested tomorrow. And smile. Nobody likes a sour looking girl.”

  An hour later, I perfect a line in my painting when the familiar creak of my bedroom door startles me.

  My desk lamp illuminates Mom’s worried smile as she peeks in. She closes the door behind her with a soft click to muffle Dad’s snores. “Oh, honey. I’m so sorry I couldn’t pick you up today. Did you finish it?”

  I push my chair back to show her, attempting to decipher her reaction.

  Mom ruffles her hair, rearranging it into the same hairstyle she’s always worn. Parted in the middle, two curtains of blonde locks drape her round face and kind open eyes. She glances at the canvas, and her petite nose lifts with her grin. “Mr. Dahl will be thrilled.”

  My hands shake as I think of him not approving. “I hope so. I don’t want to let anyone down.”

  Mom steps back to take it in, covering her chin with her hand. “If that is your goal, your work is done. Josefine hasn’t stopped talking about it since you agreed three months ago. I can’t read the poster he’s got in his window now, it’s so faded, and this is a real upgrade.” She sits down on the edge of what used to be her old bed, now mine, viewing the room that belonged to her when she grew up in this house.

  She glances at the yellow dress I bought last week hanging by the window. It matches the pastel wallpaper she chose for this room before I was born. “You shouldn’t have spent this much on a dress for dinner with the Skars tomorrow, honey. It’s beautiful, but…can you afford this?”

  “No. But I need to get it right at least once.”

  If my grandparents approve, it’s worth it.

  At our last dinner together, according to my grandfather, my purple maxi dress made me look like a hippie. “A young woman should know how to represent her family,” he said.

  Dad was so disappointed in me. I ca
n’t see that look on his face again.

  “After working at Skar’s—” I start to say.

  Mom’s eyes shoot up as she realizes that Dad has asked me to work on my day off, but she doesn’t comment. We’re used to Skar’s Auto being our family’s main priority.

  “—then meeting with Mr. Dahl, I’m spending the rest of the day planning for May seventeenth. I’ll iron both my bunad and yellow dress and find a tutorial for a way to put my hair up. I want to show that I’m trying.”

  Mom kisses the top of my head and heads toward the door. She pauses with her hand on the handle. “Why don’t you wear your bunad, like me?”

  “My grandparents don’t wear them. I want them to know I care.”

  “They do. They love you, no matter what you wear.”

  “Dad doesn’t.”

  “Don’t say that. Of course your father does. He’s been working a lot lately. I'll leave the car out front for you in the morning.” She points to my dress. “It’ll look great on you.”

  Mom opens the door to leave, and Dad’s snoring fills my room, reminding me about her meeting, so I whisper. “What did Mr. Jensen say?”

  Mom ruffles her hair again. “You’re looking at The Bluebird’s new partner. Mr. Jensen offered to let me buy fifty percent of the shares.”

  Wow!

  “Congratulations.” I withhold an ecstatic scream. “Do you have that kind of money? And why does he want you as his equal partner?” Mom has been the head chef there since I was born.

  “I’ll talk to the bank tomorrow. Mr. Jensen has an art project he wants to spend the money on, and he says he’s thought of us as equal partners for years. This makes it official.”

  She closes the door behind her but pops her head back in. “I forgot to ask, any word from DAP yet?”

  “No,” I say, smiling.

  “Good. June twentieth, right?”

  “Yes. I’ll know by then.”

  “I’ll put the date in my calendar. Get some sleep. Your mind won’t work well without it,” Mom says.

  As soon as Mom closes the door behind her, I continue working on my design.

  When I wake up at six o’clock the next morning, I continue to perfect my poster for Mr. Dahl.

  Skar’s Auto opens at ten every morning, so at nine o’clock, I pack up, wear my favorite red sweater for good luck and run downstairs.

  I don’t make it past our hallway. Dad’s snoring stops me.

  Doesn’t he have a morning meeting?

  I hurry over to my parents’ bedroom contemplating whether to wake him or not. If I do, he might get angry because I’m interfering with his day; if I don’t, I risk him being furious if he oversleeps and misses his meeting.

  My knuckles echo with each knock on the door. No response. I open the door and whisper, “Dad? When’s your meeting?”

  He grunts then pulls the duvet over his head; his black hair is sticking out above. His muffled voice says, “I’ve got it under control. Go open Skar’s.”

  “Let me know if I can help out with anything, all right?” I pause. “You’ll be there before noon, right?”

  He sits up, rubbing his eyes. “What kind of question is that? I told you yesterday, twelve o’clock at the latest. And what are you wearing? Use your brain, Amalie. Red makes you look pale. Do you think that sells cars?”

  “I’m sorry. It’s my…”

  Dad rushes me out of the bedroom, and I run upstairs to change into a white shirt, shoving my sweater in the back of my closet. I’ll miss that sweater. I sigh.

  On my way out, I stop in the hallway to tell Dad I’m leaving. But the door to their bedroom is closed.

  Did he trick me to give him a few more hours of sleep?

  No. He wouldn’t do that.

  “See you soon, Dad.” I lock the door behind me. He’ll be leaving soon too. I certainly hope he keeps his promise. He knows how much I’ve looked forward to a day off.

  THE POSTER

  Remaining spots of snow crunch beneath my shoes on the short path leading across the lawn to the driveway. Like any unpredictable Norwegian May, the cold returned last night, freezing Mom’s car windows. I press the start button on her electric Volkswagen Golf and turn the heat up to full capacity before getting out again to scrape the ice off the windows. I prefer Mom’s car; it’s quiet, and it doesn’t crave attention like Dad’s Porsche does. My breath resembles white fog spewing out of me. When I glare back at our house, the lights are still off.

  “Dad will come,” I tell myself and drive away.

  The sun is in my eyes as I turn out of town, onto the main road. I tell the car to call Josefine.

  “I have to open Skar’s today. Dad has a meeting, so I’ll run a little late. I can stop by with the poster at one o’clock?”

  Through the line, Josefine, the bakery owner’s daughter, talks fast while smacking her gum. “I hoped you’d be here already. I can’t stand to look at it anymore. It’s so faded. I don’t want to explain to every handsome man arriving this summer how much the coffee is again. It’s embarrassing. But my father will be here until three so be here before that.”

  Typical Josefine to worry about men. According to Dad, that’ll be her downfall, and it’s hard not to agree after watching her for years strut around town, desperate for attention.

  Thirty minutes later, on the neighboring peninsula, across frozen grass fields, the glass box Dad built for a shop years ago gives me shivers. Slowing down, ice cracks beneath the tires revealing how fragile it is and that I’m the first person to drive here today.

  The dealership resembles a block of ice. With me not allowed to drive any of the fifty-two luxury used cars surrounding it, they might as well be icepicks chipping away at the frozen surface Dad keeps. Every day I watch him stare at me from his glass cage while I clean and polish, never lending a hand.

  Now that he’s not here, the windows on all sides let anyone see right into what I’m doing without me noticing them. No matter which way I turn, someone can always be behind me, lurking around, making me exposed. A state I do my best to avoid. He’s built the toilet in a shed behind the shop on top of the forest stretching between Skar’s Auto and the fjord. There are no lights up there so when the sun goes down I bring a flashlight. With the wind rustling the walls, I keep away from that building as much as I can. Mom told me once that Dad planned to build the glass box on top of the hill in the forest, cut down all the trees. Since the land is higher there, boats would see it from the fjord. But that was many years ago, and apparently, it wasn’t possible.

  Yesterday, I made sure every car was clean for my day off, so there’s nothing to do but wait. To occupy my attention, I pull my paint, brushes and sketchbook from my bag and make a poster for a brown Mercedes station wagon Dad has struggled to sell for a whole year. I paint the car on a camping trip wondering what it would be like to camp with Dad. I put smiling faces on the family and add a golden retriever following a young girl into the back seat. Has Dad ever gone camping?

  The clock ticks in the background, eleven then twelve. My nails drum on my desk. No customers and no Dad. I stand. No sign of him. I pace the floor; my heartbeats increase with the minutes passing. Twelve thirty. He should be here by now. I pick up my phone and dial his number. No answer. I sit in his office chair and swivel it around to get a quick view of the lot. Only cars and a darkening sky with gusts of snow-filled wind are visible through the glass. He keeps his desk drawer locked and today is no exception. What does he hide in there?

  I call him again. He doesn’t answer, so I call one more time. The clock now shows one thirty.

  Come on, Dad!

  On the fourth attempt, after the seventh ring, he picks up, his voice harsh and sounding out of breath.

  “I’m in a meeting. Stop interfering. I’ll be there in thirty minutes.”

  “But…” He hangs up.

  Great. Time is running out to meet Mr. Dahl. I’m gripping my paintbrush so hard that sweat runs down my forehead. His meeting is m
ore important than my poster, so I do my best to calm down and continue the painting.

  When I lay the last drop of paint, Dad parks in front. I collect my brushes and scan the shop for a paper out of place or anything he could get upset about. It’s spotless.

  The thud of his car door brings me to my feet. Dad stops in front of me glaring at the painting. My heart sinks in my chest as he snatches the poster from the desk; the paint smudges when he holds it up to evaluate it. “I love you, and I only say this because I want to help you. I don’t want you wasting your time painting. It’s a terrible use of the valuable time I pay you for.”

  You don’t pay me!

  Adrenaline soars through me. I want to scream back that he owes me money, but Dad’s arguments are already in my head: “I’ll pay you when you do a better job.” I don’t have time to discuss why he thinks I’m not good enough again. He’ll find something I haven’t done well enough anyway, he always does.

  He hands the poster back to me. “You’ve got to stop listening to your crazy Nana. She knows nothing about business. She’s a stay-at-home wife. Is that how you want to waste your life?”

  Nana is the smartest person I know. I pinch my lips together when my chin shivers and turn away.

  She’s not wasting her life.

  “Is it?” Dad pushes for a response.

  “No.”

  I want to yell at him. Instead, I head towards the door when Dad reminds me, “Please, please make an effort to look your best. I don’t want to see that purple bedsheet on you again.”

  “I will.” I glance up at the clock. Two thirty. It takes me half an hour to drive back down to the bakery. Mr. Dahl leaves at three o’clock. I’ll never make it.

  I run out to Mom’s car and call Josefine before steering out of the lot. Waiting for her to pick up, I race the car off the neighboring peninsula and back onto my road home.

  When she finally picks up, she talks even faster than usual. “Where are you?”

  “I’m on my way, be there in thirty minutes,” I say.