Freyja inhales sharply. “She reads just like Amma.”
The audience is listening raptly; many are nodding their heads. I am reading in English, then translating each paragraph seamlessly to Icelandic.
“ . . . dismantle the barge and get the lumber to a safe place. The following night brought on the worst weather I think anyone remembers up in that country. By about ten o’clock that night the wind became southwesterly with the heaviest driving rain that anyone remembered seeing and the wind velocity had reached 50 to 60 miles an hour. It raised the lake that night close to eight feet. This heavy wind and high rain kept up all night and the following day until about five o’clock.”
“She is reading from Geirfinnur Peterson,” Solrun whispers. “He wrote about the flood, remember? It was published in Lögberg.”
My voice echoes across the room.
“When we awoke in the morning, I looked out across meadows and sloughs for two and a half miles. There wasn’t a thing sticking out of the water anywhere, not even willow bushes, and the waves from the south lake ploughed inland as far north as we could see.”
Solrun looks at Freyja who is biting her lip hard.
“We saw eight of our horses that had been on a high knoll about a quarter mile south. The water kept rising and one small pony started to get restless and then finally, when he could no longer reach bottom, he started swimming toward the bush and the others followed.
“By now there was more than two-and-a-half feet of water in the kitchen and one foot in the sleeping quarters. By the second night the wind began to subside and the following morning the rain had let up. We managed to row down to the Matthews place to see what had happened. The first thing we noticed was their big boat sitting in the garden. The weather had driven it over the beach and the willow bushes, past the big pile of flour and feed, past the house and into the garden. No one will ever know, except the people who lived along the lake, the terrible hardships imposed by flooding.”
“Já, já.” An old man sitting at the table croaks, banging his big fist on the table. It is Asi Frimann, the oldest resident at the home. “Now the government wants to build a diversion and send us water from the south. How will we manage during wet years then?”
The residents begin clapping in support of Asi.
He shakes his head in frustration. “Nobody understands. Not like we do.”
I close the book. “Have you told the government?” I ask.
“They already know everything,” Asi says, shaking his fist in frustration.
“Keep speaking until they listen,” I say, patting the worn scrapbook. “The men and women in here would have made them understand.”
Raspy cheers and a few names are mentioned. A voice calls out from the back of the room: “What we need, Asta, are more Icelanders in government.”
The statement comes from an elderly gentleman I vaguely recognize. He is sitting alone along the wall with one leg casually crossed over the other.
“He visits her every day,” Solrun whispers, “Do you remember him?”
Freyja cocks her head. “Finn?”
“I’ll re-introduce you,” she says.
Seeing their approach, the man stands up.
“Bjorn Magnusson,” Freyja says.
“Freyja. My goodness, what a surprise. It is so nice to see you.”
What am I witnessing? Travelling to the past has never been so confusing. Bjorn lives in Lundi? He visits me every day and I cannot remember? How can I not recognize my Bjorn?
I see myself in the distance, talking to Asi. My hand rests on his shoulder. Then I help him to his feet and, with an arm around his back, lead him to his room.
“After his wife passed away, Bjorn moved here from Swan River to be near Asta,” Solrun explains to Freyja. “What has it been now, eight years?”
“Ten,” Bjorn says, looking to the ceiling as he thinks back. “My son took over the store in . . . 1955.”
Then Solrun asks if he will join them for supper that night and to bring me along. They want to tell me that Freyja has come home.
“He volunteers here,” Solrun says. “Asta does not recognize him, she believes he is the handyman.”
They stop to watch Freyja’s reaction, until she begins to understand.
“She senses the bond between us, I can tell,” he says slowly. “Sometimes I’m able to sneak a kiss, but she has told me nothing more can happen between us because she has promised herself to Bjorn Magnusson.”
Freyja is stunned. “It can’t be that bad.” She looks between the two of them, but neither reacts.
“Anterograde Amnesia,” Bjorn says. “Caused by a brain injury. She was hit by a car in Winnipeg—she was looking for you.”
The meaning takes a few moments to sink in.
“Her recollections of the past are stellar, better than any of ours,” Solrun says, “but she has difficulty remembering what happened yesterday.”
“She recalls everything up until the accident,” Bjorn adds. “We took her to the funeral, but she does not remember that Signy died. Every time we tell her, she grieves as if hearing of it for the first time.”
“No—,” Freyja says.
“So it is easier if her life remains in a state of suspension,” Solrun says. “Stuck in 1950.”
“You lie to her?”
“Sometimes.”
“But she must remember you,” she says to Bjorn.
He shakes his head.
“How is it possible? You were such an important part of her life.”
Bjorn sighs. “The only explanation I can think of is that she didn’t see me for over twenty years.” He pats his rounded mid-section. “Age, I suppose . . . and I cut my hair.”
“You do look very different,” Freyja says.
“So do you.”
CHAPTER FIFTY-FIVE
Many are wise after the event.
—Fljótsdæla Saga
Amnesia. My life has never been so clear.
I am dumbstruck. And thankful. So very thankful that the brain injury did not leave me a rambling fool. And to see the things I’ve done, conversations I had that I don’t remember, is fascinating. There is no need to feel sadness that I cannot remember, only joy that both Bjorn and Freyja came back to me, that even though I lost my twilight years, they are worth remembering.
The snow begins falling lightly and I watch Bjorn and I leave the care home together. He has just introduced himself again, told me that Katherine has died and that he has moved to Lundi so we can be together. My step is lighter than it has been in years, I look thrilled. We hurry to the truck idling in the parking lot. Olafur is in the driver’s seat.
“Where is Signy?” I ask, climbing in beside him.
“At home,” he says. “She has the flu.”
A look of uncertainty passes quickly across my face. Then: “You remember Bjorn?” I say cheerily. “He has moved to Lundi now that the boys are grown.”
We ride in silence for a few bumpy miles, snowflakes melting on the windshield, whisked back by the beat of the wipers, the lights illuminating the snow-covered road ahead.
“Did Bjorn tell you that we have a visitor?” Olafur asks as we turn up the driveway.
A big dog stands under the yard light, barking.
“Yes, from B.C.,” I say. “I shouldn’t ruin Solrun’s surprise, but I already know it’s Thora. Who else could it be?”
Olafur parks the truck and we hurry through the swirling snow. We leave our coats in the porch and step into the kitchen. Everyone is relaxing in the living room. Solrun waves us in.
“I hope it is alright that we brought Bjorn,” I say, cheeks flushed. “You all remember him? But I don’t think you two have met.” I step aside so Bjorn and Solrun’s husband can shake hands. The men smile at each other and I blurt out, “Bjorn is the new hand
yman at the hospital.”
“Is that so?” Solrun’s husband twinkles.
“Well, it does makes sense,” I say. “He did own a hardware store.”
Everyone chuckles. They look at one another while Solrun fidgets. She points at the family portrait on the wall.
“Asta, do you remember when that photo was taken?”
“Of course. We were living in Lundi with Mama’s cousin, not too far from here on the Mary Hill road. A notice was put up that a photographer was coming to town. Mama said we could not afford such an extravagance, but Pabbi insisted.”
“Where was it taken?”
“At the school. Everything back then was done at the school or church,” I say, pausing for a few moments to think. “We moved to Eikheimar and I cannot remember if a hall was built at Mary Hill by then.”
I take a few steps closer to the photograph and my face softens.
“Nobody smiled in those days. Leifur was trying to figure out how the photographer would fit us all in the box. Signy was talking of course, see her mouth is open.”
Olafur laughs, clapping his knee.
“I was told to keep Freyja still. What a job that was. And look at her hair. Amma tried putting the brush through it but she screamed so hard Amma gave up. She said: ‘It will serve you right. When your children ask what you were like as I child, I will point to the photograph and say, look at her hair.’”
“Wilful,” Solrun says.
“And stubborn.” Olafur grins, eyes on the staircase leading to the upstairs bedrooms.
I reach out and gently wipe a whisper of dust from the frame.
“I thought that by now the private investigator would have found something,” I say. “I let everyone down.”
“Well, Asta,” Solrun says, smoothing her skirt. “We have some very good news.”
I turn from the photo to face her. “Is that why we are here?”
“Yes, and you will be very pleased,” she says, pausing for a moment. “We found Freyja. Would you like to see her?”
I look stunned, apprehensive. “How can you be sure it is her?”
Solrun is beaming. “It was Thora who found her.”
Footsteps cause me to look up at the ceiling and the staircase. I see feet and then legs coming down the stairs.
I am instantly confused, propelled into the brothel.
“It is not Freyja,” I whisper as the woman comes around the corner. Her eyes are the same shocking blue and her hair is white, but this is an old woman. Anja?
How surprised and frightened she is.
“Anja,” I say, quickly reverting to Icelandic. “Do you want to leave here?”
Anja is shocked speechless. Solrun quickly stands up.
I ignore her. “Anja,” I say again. “Pretend you are my sister. Come here and hug me now.”
Anja walks slowly across the floor. We embrace.
I whisper: “I will protect you from these men.”
“Asta,” Bjorn says, “This is Freyja.”
I refuse to look at him. Linking arms with the woman, I lead her to the front door. Solrun tries to intercept us and I turn instead toward the kitchen. Solrun steps in front of us and blocks the doorway with her arms. “Asta,” she says.
“Einar will not do to her what he did to me,” I say through clenched teeth.
“Asta! It’s me, Solrun.”
My eyes move around the room, back to the sofa. “Olafur,” I whisper. “What are you doing here?”
“And Bjorn,” Solrun says. “Remember?”
I release the woman’s arm and step back to stare at her long and hard, squinting as I search for something, anything, familiar.
“Thora?”
“No, it is me, Freyja.”
“Freyja? You are home? But you look so old.”
Freyja throws her head back in laughter. Then she takes both my hands. “My God, how I have missed you.”
We both grin in disbelief to finally be together again. “Thora found you? How? Where in God’s name have you been?”
I am sitting between Solrun and Freyja, smiling. Bjorn is talking with the men. I can hardly believe my good luck—both Freyja and Bjorn have come back to me.
Freyja is handing me photos, one by one. She is explaining who the people in them are. The names are confusing and these faces mean nothing.
That is not Leifur. Solrun does not have a son.
“Who are these people again?” I ask.
“My children.”
“With Bjarni?”
She hesitates, seems unsure how to answer.
“Was Bjarni mean to you?” I ask.
Freyja’s expression softens. “Not really.”
“He is dead now?”
“Yes.”
“Good.”
“We always thought the grass in Siglunes was good, but now I know it is the best in the country,” Lars says. “Seen it with my own eyes. Ranch land in B.C. may be pretty, but you have to cover a lot more ground with fewer animals than we do here.”
“Do you ever regret selling Eikheimar?” Bjorn asks quietly.
“Of course he does,” Olafur says.
Lars pauses. “Sometimes. I miss haying. It would have been impossible to retire if I didn’t like the young man who bought the farm so much. How is Asi doing?”
“He just turned 91,” Bjorn says. “He gets confused sometimes, but Asta is there to help him sort out his memories.”
Everyone finds that amusing.
“I hear the government plans to divert water from the Assiniboine into our lake,” Lars says. “Where are they building the channel?”
“Portage la Prairie,” Bjorn says.
“That can’t be good for the lake. It’s not natural. Surely fishing will suffer.”
“They have widened the outlet at Fairford, saying it will flow out as fast as it comes in.”
Lars thinks for a moment. “What about the farms there? And all the Indians? They will be flooded out.”
Olafur laughs. “They don’t care about them any more than they care about us. All they want is to get rid of the water in Winnipeg.”
“Sounds pretty shortsighted to me.”
“Wait and see,” Olafur says, “When the whole thing backfires, they’ll find a way to blame us. Say we shouldn’t have built along the lake in the first place.”
Solrun goes to the kitchen to finish making supper. It is a special occasion so she has prepared a beef roast. Freyja starts setting the table.
“So you say the same thing every time?” Freyja whispers.
“It isn’t easy.” Solrun sighs, “She retains an inkling of some things, especially if repeated many times.”
“She mentioned her house?”
“We were forced to sell it to pay the medical bills,” says Solrun. “Once Asta was nursed back to health, she moved in with us, but she hated not being a nurse.” She takes the roast from the oven. “Asta was so intent on returning to work. That’s why we moved her to the care home. I think she understands she is retired now, but some days she believes she is still working.”
“Who covers the cost?”
“She receives two small pensions and we take care of the rest.”
“You do?” Freyja spreads the plates across the table.
“No, all of us.”
Freyja counts out the cutlery and says that from now on she will pay all my living expenses.
“That’s not necessary—”
“It most certainly is,” she says. “You think I can’t see this is all my fault?”
“Nobody thinks that.”
“Well it is. Everything that went wrong . . .” She begins putting bowls of food on the table. “Since I cannot be here to help you with Asta, I can do at least that. My husband will make the arrangeme
nts.”
The evening comes full circle as everyone takes a seat in the kitchen.
“Where is Signy?” I ask.
Solrun’s husband slices the meat and Solrun passes around a bowl of potatoes. I take a bun then hand the plate to Freyja.
“She is sick so she stayed home,” Olafur says, pouring gravy over his meat and potatoes.
“And Leifur? I thought he’d be here by now.”
“He has the same flu. Doesn’t want the rest of us to catch it.” Solrun passes Bjorn the carrots.
I accept their explanations and my expression turns giddy as I rub shoulders with Freyja. What a joyous feeling it is to finally have her home.
After supper we enjoy coffee and chocolate cake.
“Did Lars tell you the news?” Freyja asks, looking at each one of us in turn. “He has written a novel and I’m going to help him get it published.”
Lars blushes. I see how the room silently divides between the ones who have moved away and the ones who stayed.
“Isn’t it a bit late to begin a new career?” Olafur asks.
“Not at all, he is a tremendous writer,” Freyja says, “It really is too bad he wasted all those years on the farm.”
Lars quickly tells us that he has no regrets.
“My early writing lacked depth,” he says. “Age is a writer’s friend. If you believe that a part of every writer is in his books, then Eikheimar will be on every page of mine.”
Lars has written a book. That is wonderful news. I can see in his satisfied expression it means everything to him. Pabbi would be proud.
“If I have learned anything,” I say, “it is to follow your heart.”
The kitchen turns quiet as we think back on our lives.
“Don’t let others make your decisions,” Freyja says.
“Live and let live,” Solrun says cheerfully.
“I should have gone first and stolen Asta’s thought,” Lars says. He is thinking hard. “My advice would have to be stop worrying, because things always work out in the end.”
Everyone turns to Bjorn. He is sitting directly across from me, deep in thought. He watches my every move.
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