Let Go

by Alexandra Winter

  “He’s well. We bought a house together,” I say, immediately regretting sharing it with her. Anyone she’s in contact with will know instantly because this means I’m finally on the track she’ll want me on.

  “He bought a house. What a lovely man he is. I hear he drives a Mercedes?”

  He? Didn’t I say we?

  “We did, together,” I say. If she’s going to brag about my life to others, she should get it right.

  It’s not like I’ll be able to correct her later.

  She scoffs. “You can’t afford that.”

  “I sold Skar’s Auto.”

  The choking sound coming from my grandmother as she swallows her coffee wrong reminds me I wasn’t supposed to share too much.

  Stop trying to impress her.

  “Anyways, that’s not why I’m here. I need your help with Mom.”

  “Not so fast, young girl. Did you seriously sell your father’s dealership?” She pats her lips with a napkin.

  “It was mine all along. Dad did it as a punishment for me being born, I guess.”

  She gasps. “Do not speak negatively about your father. He did the best he could, and you should be grateful. You don’t know how spoiled you’ve been.”

  I look at her, trying to determine if she’s serious or not, but her face is harsh, insulted even by my actions.

  “Dad almost killed Mom and me, and he…”

  “Don’t say that! I’m sure my son meant nothing wrong. It must have been a misunderstanding.”

  I grit my teeth.

  You’re completely disillusioned. Wow.

  I take a deep breath, then exhale. “Do you remember what Mom enjoyed when she was nineteen?”

  Grandmother is staring out of the window. “How much?”

  “Sorry?”

  She puts her cup down and answers in a stern voice. “How much did you sell your father’s dealership for?”

  Why are you so upset about this?

  Last time I was here, she could hardly say the name Skar’s Auto out loud without gagging. “None of your business.”

  “Amalie! This is not a game.”

  It’s clear by now that she has no interest in helping me, which I could have predicted. “I know that very well. What was Mom like when you met her at nineteen?”

  “She was dreadful. Desperate to make a name for herself it seemed. Thank heavens Hermann was able to tame her over the years. Now answer me. How much?”

  “Enough.” I grab onto the cushion beside me and place it in my lap as an imaginary shield. “Dreadful?”

  Her deep-set eyes narrow into lines, staring at me in frustration before she realizes I won’t give in. “Oh, absolutely. She dressed like a hooker, tight skirt, high heels. If she was trying to impress us, it failed. Hermann was too good for her then and still is.”

  You are insane.

  She continues. “We were in between chefs the first time Hermann brought her here. Difficult to find a decent chef for home cooking. They all think they’re superstars. Like your mother. But to be kind, I asked her to prepare our meal for us that evening. She needed the money, of course. Little did I know she’d trick Hermann into marrying her as a way to his money, not that she received any, of course. But when I told her to add low fat mayonnaise to the hollandaise, she refused to listen. Can you imagine? Nobody appreciates a girl who talks back. Nobody.”

  “But what if you were wrong about the sauce?”

  Grandmother snickers. “The apple does not fall far from the tree.” She lifts her cup back up and slurps her coffee. “Be careful not to get into trouble like she did, though. She agreed to get an abortion, but must have changed her mind when she realized she could force Hermann to marry her. Getting yourself pregnant to force a man to marry you, like your mother did, does not make the family approve of you.”

  Neither does beating her up.

  I wasn’t planned, but Mom would never get pregnant to marry Dad. Her dream was to move to London, not be a young mother. Nana told me Mom changed when she got pregnant with me, and this confirms it. Still, the Skar family always did twist stories to their benefit, and it must be impossible for her to believe that her son made the decision with Mom to keep me.

  My legs itch as if wanting to run away from her comments, so I pull them up on the couch ignoring her shocked expression.

  Yes, my feet are on your furniture, deal with it.

  “So if you could, you would have advised Mom to have an abortion. Made sure I was never born?”

  “We did. Celina wouldn’t listen. A woman must always think of her reputation. I must say that it is a shame. You do have so much potential now that William is there to guide you. You should be grateful he’s taken a liking to you. He’s made you lose some weight too. You must be thrilled.”

  I close my eyes while trying desperately not to enter into an argument with her. Yes, I’m stronger because of yoga, but that is not William’s doing. He did help me to sell Skar’s, though, but it’s not what I’m here to talk about. “How should Mom have dressed to impress you? What should she have done?”

  “She had no class, so it would take years to teach.” A loud crash, sounding like a plate shattering from upstairs makes Grandmother’s eyes widen. “Now. Take your filthy feet off my sofa, young lady.” She rises, puts her coffee cup on the table, and points to the door. “Tell me what you sold your father’s dealership for, then leave.”

  In the hallway, the maid walks past the door towards the staircase. “Is that Grandfather upstairs?”

  “Yes,” Mrs. Skar says.

  Weird.

  He usually makes such a fuss about greeting people. “Is he sick?”

  “No.” She gestures for me to get up and go.

  Maybe it’s my new clothes acting like a kind of superhero outfit, but she doesn’t scare me anymore. I pity her. Or perhaps it’s not hearing from them at all since Mom and I were at the hospital, but I stay seated.

  The first five years of my childhood flash before me. Mom and Dad laughing, playing with me. We were happy. Dad and I at work, me drawing with crayons, and him hanging them on the wall to show off to customers. Then it stopped. “What happened at The Bluebird party when I was six? Grandfather was there, right?”

  She steps back. “That was ages ago. My son got over that the following day.”

  “Got over what? What happened?”

  Mrs. Skar rings her bell. “Please escort this girl out of my house.” The maid looks at me, apologetic.

  “Don’t bother. I’m going. Tell me what happened,” I say.

  Grandmother’s voice is cold. “My husband tried to help your father, who at that time was a spoiled brat influenced by your mother. Hermann wouldn’t hear of it and got angry, so he and Celina left. Now it’s time for you to leave, as well.”

  “Why did he care about what Grandfather said so much?”

  She laughs. “Why do you still care? If your father did what you accuse him of, you would be stupid to still care about what he thinks.”

  As if that’s something I can control.

  I’m not stupid.

  I walk towards the front door, grab the handle, but pause. Before I’m able to stop myself, I blurt out. “I made two million kroner on Skar’s Auto, something your son was incapable of achieving.”

  Slamming the door behind me, I can’t get away fast enough. While scraping off only the necessary amount of snow from the front window to see where I’m driving, I turn on the heat in the car and drive.

  Why did I tell her about Skar’s? Why couldn’t I keep my mouth shut, and why doesn’t she see I can’t control what impact my father’s rules have had on me? It’s there whether I like it or not. She should know, her son has the exact same...

  Of course.

  Dad’s excessive drinking. Like I can’t remove his voice from my head, he probably has his own father’s voice in his head, and as Skar’s was going broke, the voices must have become louder. They did with me every time I did anything Dad wouldn’t ap
prove of. I hope he never finds out about me making money on Skar’s. That would infuriate him.

  Driving away from my grandparents’ house, I promise myself never to go there again. Nothing good ever comes of it. As I turn onto the main road, I notice the headlights of a car driving into their driveway. It’s a green Jaguar, and behind the wheel is Grandfather.

  Grandmother didn’t let me in when I arrived, called out to tell someone I was there when she never raises her voice, lied about my grandfather making the noise. I turn the car around, ready to confront them. Why did she lie? She knew he wasn’t upstairs, he was out. It dawns on me. The only person she would protect is her son.

  I turn around, speed back and park in front of Grandfather who’s still in his car when I run up to the front door. It’s locked, so I knock hard and ring the bell repeatedly.

  Behind me, Grandfather calls. “Amalie. This is a bad time to visit.”

  The maid opens the door, and I’m about to run upstairs when my sanity kicks in.

  If Dad’s there, what am I supposed to do?

  He’s stronger than me, and it’s clear his parents will take his side. The maid stares at me as if I’m insane, and she’s probably right.

  I march back to the car and get out my phone to call the police. When my grandfather approaches, I shut the door and lock it before skidding out the gate and down the street.

  “Police. What’s your emergency?”

  “My father who tried to kill me, he’s at my grandparents’ house.”

  SHOWING OFF

  When the police call me back later that evening, they haven’t found Dad. My grandparents wouldn’t let them into the house, and by the time they did, there was no sign of him. I could beat myself up for being the one to tip him off if he was there. I should have called the police immediately when I saw my grandfather and kept driving home. Instead, I’m stuck watching over my shoulder the few times I leave the house until New Year’s.

  I practice walking in my heels every day, and since they’re not made for snow, it’s a good reason to stay inside. We celebrate New Year’s Eve with Nana at her house so she can rest when she needs to. Mom celebrates with Mr. Jensen.

  On January second, my first day back at The Bluebird, I’m paying for my practice with a burning sensation in my calves, like Erica warned me about.

  Still, I’m going to meet Mom today. Not through her window, but be around her again, and I’ll impress her with my style and hopefully manage to pretend I have some class. Scanning poise classes online and looking at the women in the British royal family has felt like a boot camp in grace. But I’m ready. My new gray dress fits like the yellow one Dad hated. This one is skater cut, hugs my waist, and I look like a queen.

  William prepares breakfast when I enter the kitchen. “Stop fidgeting. You look great.”

  I can’t help it. My hands seem to have a life of their own, but I braid my fingers together and rest them in front. “Do you think Mom will like it?”

  “No idea, but I do give you top grades for trying.”

  He puts the eggs and avocado on my plate, and I push them around with my fork. “If Mom doesn’t remember after this, I’m out of ideas.” I stare at him, hoping he’ll have a suggestion, a follow-up plan.

  Instead, he shrugs. “Then give up. You can’t force her to remember something she obviously doesn’t want to.”

  My voice is stern. “She wants to!” I put my fork down.

  How can he say that? Give up? I can’t do that!

  He sits back in his seat. “You know what I mean.”

  “This will work.” My voice breaks. “It has to. I miss her too much for it not to.”

  Putting my new heels in my bag, I wear my winter boots to work. The snow plough has cleaned the road, leaving a compressed layer of snow that I glide on more slippery than ice, pretending my right leg is a ski. Wind makes the moist air hit my face like broken glass, so I hurry to get to work.

  “Happy New Year!” Mr. Jensen jumps out around the bar to welcome me, glee in his voice. “How were the holidays? Did William get you anything special?”

  I point to my earrings, which I’ve been wearing every day since he gave them to me.

  “Oh my, I would have guessed those were fake. Diamonds. Extravagant, no?”

  I nod. “Is Mom here?”

  “Not yet. My Christmas was lovely, thank you for asking, just lovely.”

  I cover my mouth with both hands. “I’m so sorry. I’m so eager to see if Mom remembers me with my new outfit on.” I change my shoes first to make the revelation more dramatic, unzip my coat, and let it drop to the floor. “What do you think?”

  His eyes widen. “Amazing. The cocoon has broken and here you are, a butterfly.”

  I giggle. “Do you know when she’ll be in?”

  Mr. Jensen gets back behind the counter. “Around three o’clock.”

  “I wanted to ask you. Do you remember throwing a party here when I was six years old?”

  The answers my grandmother gave me didn’t help much. My adrenaline surges thinking about what could have happened that night.

  “The day your father changed, you mean?”

  “What?” I pick my coat off the ground.

  Mr. Jensen sighs. “Let’s sit.” We take a seat next to the window overlooking the jetty. Fishermen in neck gaiters and hats hiding their faces from the freezing cold are stowing rope onto one of the boats.

  Mr. Jensen doesn’t notice one of the men slip off the jetty, and neither do the other men. By pure luck, the fisherman is able to grip onto the edge and not fall into the freezing water below.

  That would have been a terrible fall, and he’d be unconscious within seconds.

  I shudder at the thought of falling to one’s death and focus back on Mr. Jensen to get the image out of my head.

  “It wasn’t an evening hosted by The Bluebird, but a customer from Oslo. You might have heard of him, Gunnar Moen. He owns luxury car dealerships across Norway. Your father was quite the fan,” he says.

  I gaze at the snow blowing past and the clouds drifting by. “I met him with William. I knew I’d seen him before. I do remember a woman teaching me about design that day, though.”

  “Oh yes, Ingrid Olsen. You look like her today. She’s a dear friend of mine, and wore a dress like yours that day. Extraordinary in marketing, an absolute gem. She told me you were a natural, and look at you now.” Wrinkles around Mr. Jensen’s eyes tighten into a smile.

  Still here without a scholarship.

  I lean forward. “Did Dad know her? Do you know what happened to him that day?”

  “Oh no, he never spoke to Ingrid. But it was a dreadful day for your father, I tell you. Mr. Skar showed up. He and Hermann hadn’t spoken in years, so both Celina and I were nervous, naturally. The tension in the room was unmistakable. They managed to keep up appearances. At least for a while.”

  Mr. Jensen dabs his forehead with a cloth. “Hermann wanted to learn from Gunnar. They spoke a lot during the party and agreed on a meeting the following week. Hermann was so excited to ‘learn from the best,’ as he put it himself. I can still recall how this infuriated Mr. Skar. My theory is that he was so used to your father looking up to him, that when that changed, he couldn’t handle it. Along with too much to drink, Mr. Skar decided to warn Gunnar about your father. The exact words he said have slipped my mind, but it was something like, ‘It’s so nice of you to take my son under your wing, so I won’t have to anymore. You might be in for a challenge, though, because this one’s a quitter, never finished a thing in his life. If it hadn’t been for his wife, he wouldn’t be here tonight, but still living at home, leeching off us. I’m sure.’”

  My mind goes blank for a minute. It sounds like something Dad would say about me. For a moment, I pity Dad. “But if Mr. Skar was drunk, I’m sure Gunnar didn’t take him seriously?”

  “No, he didn’t. But Hermann was sure it had ruined his chances to work with Gunnar and that he would see Hermann in the same li
ght as he saw himself. As a failure. You can only imagine growing up in the Skar home. Their focus on facade and outward perfection would ruin any person’s self-worth. I struggled with the same thing in my family, but broke out of it. Your father never did and fought with that his entire life. He wanted to leave the party after that, but your mother asked him to stay. I never understood why. But he stayed for her.”

  “So what happened?”

  “I think that’s when he forbid you to play with Josefine.”

  “Josefine?” I don’t recall her being there.

  “Yes, she had moved here to live with her father a week prior—poor girl, only five years old. All the other children were climbing the oak tree, but you refused to play. Something about not wanting to ruin your dress or hair, I think.”

  What kid would care more about that than to play?

  Mr. Jensen sighs. “Josefine noticed you alone at the table and sat down next to you, but your father didn’t approve of her, so he asked her to leave you alone and told you to stay away from girls like her.

  “Kind girls?”

  All this time I’ve disliked Josefine, and it’s been because Dad told me to?

  “During the rest of the evening, your father festered and got into a big fight with your mother. I had to tell them to leave. In his letter to me, he confessed having hit your mother once before. If I can guess, that must have been the night. And as for his meeting with Gunnar, from what I can recall, Hermann canceled it, desperate to prove his father wrong, to show he could do it all on his own.”

  Which he couldn’t.

  No success comes without help. I finish his story. “And it all went down from there.” Mom was the reason Dad stayed at the party after he’d been ridiculed, so if he hit her that night, she would have justified it. That must have been the night he promised never to do it again and to never hurt me.

  A cheery man’s voice calls out from the entrance. “Are you open?”

  We both jump up from our seats. Mr. Jensen calls back, “Yes, yes, please come in,” then giggles as he whispers to me. “Why don’t I show them their table, and you take over? I’ve talked too much as usual.”