The Tricking of Freya (35 page)

"Elskan!" Sigga reached up with both hands to clasp mine, then motioned
for me to sit beside her on the couch. Out of the corner of my eye I noticed
Halldora on the other side, pointedly tapping her watch. Was she intimating
that it was late, that I was late, that Sigga didn't have much time? I decided
not to care. Sigga was sparkling, her eyes bright, cheeks flushed.

"Freya win," she said.

It had been so long, Cousin, since I'd heard those words. Freya mine. In
New York I am nobody's Freya. My eyes teared up; she knew me.

"I'm so happy to see you! Just look at you!" Clutching my hands in her
papery thin ones. Then, in a quavering voice, "I'm afraid I was a bit muddled this morning."

"It was my fault, Amma. I should have called first."

"Preposterous is what it is. How could I not recognize you?" She cupped
my cheeks in her hands, fingers tremulous against my skin. "It's just, you've
changed so much.... But Stefan and my dear Halldora have set me straight
now. Tell me, dear, are you all right? I worry about you, alone in that city,
with no family. . ."

"I'm fine, Amma."

Sigga nodded, doubtfully. In her view, it was not possible for a person to
live far from family and be happy. "Tomorrow we'll have a good long visit,
just the two of us." She leaned forward. "I have things I want to talk to you
about. Family things."

"Well ... my flight leaves tomorrow."

"Tomorrow? But didn't you just arrive? Or am I confused again ... ?"

"I have to be back at work on Monday." I hated to say it, partly because it
was hardly true, I had weeks and weeks of unused vacation time, and partly
because of Sigga's disappointment, which drained the pink flush from her
cheeks. Even her pearls seemed to loose their shine.

"I see."

"But I can come to Betel first thing in the morning."

"That will be fine." Though I could see it was not. "Now, tell me, have
you spoken with Vera yet? She is so looking forward to seeing you."

And there was Vera. How long she'd been standing there I wasn't sure. I
don't think I would have recognized her, an old woman in her mid-seventies.
The same age my mother would have been. But Mama had grown old before
her time, so I guess it makes sense that she died before her time. Vera appeared vigorous as ever, pulling me to her in a no-nonsense hug. Like Stefan
and Sigga, Vera sends me Christmas cards every year, and most years I manage to send her one as well. Hers always contain an invitation to visit; mine
never mention the possibility. Still we send the cards, back and forth, year after year, images of Christmas trees and angels and wreaths, best wishes for
the season! No, I'd never been fond of Vera, Birdie had succeeded in turning
me against her, and so I was surprised to find how happy I was to see her again. Dear Vera. A piece of my mother. She led me off to the side and cornered me with questions: how was I managing, was there anyone special in
my life, was I really leaving the next day, would I consider staying longer, she
would so love to have me stay with her in Winnipeg, and her boys too, who
hadn't seen me in years, they were there, at the party, had I met them yet? She
led me over. Men they were now, Vera's boys, both balding and in their forties,
with teenage sons of their own. There, at the back of the room the boys I'd
seen on my way in. Vera's boys had boys of their own. And what did I have?

I began to he. I had to. It wasn't just Vera, it was everybody she and Stefan introduced me to. Here is Sigga's granddaughter. Meet Anna's daughter. I
cringed, and I spun myself. Not in the old way, red-sneakered feet planted
in the middle of our green postage-stamp lawn, twirling with propellerblade arms. A different kind of spin. I spun the life I'd like to have, or think
I should have. A life where I show my photographs in galleries, am busy
preparing for a one-woman show, live with a boyfriend who I'll probably
marry sometime, when we get around to it. Kids, someday soon. Don't wait
too long! Oh, I won't. Stefan overheard one of these conversations, arched
his brow. A one-woman show? he seemed to inquire. I hadn't heard. No, you
wouldn't have, I answered back silently. And then moved on. I was introduced to the director of the Icelandic Collection at the university library in
Winnipeg and various members of the Icelandic Department. All who
knew and admired my grandfather's work. Olafur, Skald Nyja Islands! It had
been so long since I'd heard that name. There were people who knew about
me and people who didn't. The people who didn't would make innocent remarks, like I never knew Sigga had grandchildren. Or Do you get to Gimli Often? The people who knew about my kidnapping and Birdie's suicide and
my long neglect of Sigga, they were easier to pick out. Asked me fewer
questions. Studied me more keenly. Or so I imagined.

From the buffet I piled my plate with smoked lamb imported from Iceland, creamed potatoes, pickled beets, but the food I hardly touched. It was
the beer that sustained me, loosened my tongue. One, then another. After
my third I was ready for a cigarette. I found myself circling the outside of
Betel for the second time that day. This time the air felt unmistakably autumnal, the sky black, the stars crisp. I took comfort in that: the day was
nearly done. The party nearly over. Then I'd visit with Sigga in the morning, drive the rental hearse back to Winnipeg, and be airborne. It would all be
over with. That wasn't so hard now, was it? I leaned against the building
and lit a second cigarette. Out the window came the sounds of the party:
the chatter of voices, the clatter of dishes and glasses, someone at the piano
again, tinkering at a tune not quite remembered. And then I heard it. Unmistakable, Cousin, clear as ice. Two women, in lowered voices.

"Ingihjorg's child," said one.

"Oskilgetid," said the other. A word I didn't know.

I edged closer to the window frame, but not directly in front of it. I
didn't want to be seen. I wanted to hear more, and I did.

"Birdie's, I tell you."

"Don't speak of it."

And that was it. A scrap of conversation. Then the piano rose over their
voices and they were gone altogether. Ingibjorg's child. Birdie's, I tell you.
What could they have meant, Birdie's child? I dropped my cigarette, picked
it up, took one last drag, snubbed it out with my foot. Birdie never had a
child. Someone else's child? But there was no other Birdie than Birdie. A
child? I rushed back inside, to see who had been standing by the window,
but by the time I entered no one was near the windows; everyone had gathered in the center of the room, around the birthday cake. A hundred candles lighting up Sigga's ancient face. "A hundred wishes for everyone," she
announced. "Please, you all must help me." And so we did, as a group, blew
out the candles on the three-tiered cake, in a single collective gust of goodwill. Stefan began a speech about Sigga, her long life, her many contributions to the community, her devotion to the library, not only to preserving
the Icelandic literary tradition but to fostering the love of literature in new
generations. "A librarian is the true heart of any community of Icelanders,"
Stefan concluded. "And the heart of Sigga Petursson is the richest, biggest,
warmest heart-" He paused for a moment, and I wondered if he too had
been drinking. "It is Sigga's heart that sustains us all!"

"Hear, hear!" Applause. Someone began playing the piano, the same
tune tinkered with moments earlier. But this time I recognized it: the Gimli
Waltz. Sigga, I saw, was crying. With happiness, at the love that had risen
up in the room for her? Or grief, that she had outlived the majority of her
friends, her beloved husband, and worst of all, her two daughters? The party began breaking up. Vera helped Sigga back to her room, guests started
collecting coats, saying good-byes. I wanted to say good night to Sigga, but
I couldn't move. Birdie's child?

"And you are Freya?" It was the elderly woman from the bakery, who indeed turned out to be Thorunn, Sigga's niece visiting from Iceland. "It is
too bad we are only just meeting, Freya. I hear you are leaving tomorrow. I
am leaving then too."

"I'm sorry," I said. Had I done anything except apologize since I'd arrived
in Gimli?

"We met once before, Freya. I don't think you remember. In Akureyri,
when you were in hospital, with Birdie."

"I'm sorry," I lied. "I don't remember you. It was a difficult time."

"Of course. We are hoping, you know, that you will come to Iceland
again. To visit us. Sigga has many relatives there, we would love to have
you, Freya.

Iceland! At that point in my life, you could not have paid me to return to
Iceland. Gimli was enough, more than enough. I nearly laughed. "That
would be nice," I answered. "Thank you."

"My mother always missed her sister so. She could never believe that
Sigga would just leave like that, just pack up and move to another country!
All her life she missed Sigga!"

"Didn't Sigga visit?"

"Only twice, in all those years. The expense, you know."

I nodded. And then, maybe because I was a little drunk, I said, "My
mother and her sister were never close. There was so much trouble between them."

"It's like that sometimes, in families. Fraendur eru fraendurn verstir."

Kin are worst to kin. I smiled. "Sigga used to say that. About the two of
them."

"We were so sorry to learn ... Both of them, imagine! And you without
family. I do hope you will think again about this invitation to Iceland. We
are quite serious, you know.

Stefan offered me a ride back to my motel. That's when I remembered that
I'd already checked out. My suitcase was in the rental car, parked in front of Oddi, so I told Stefan I'd decided to sleep at Oddi instead. And then declined his offer of a ride, graciously, I hoped. I felt unworthy of his company, certain that he was probably glad to see me go, sick of my lies and
excuses. The truth was I needed to think. Clear Canadian air is good for
that. A brisk Manitoba night, stiff breeze off the lake, a full moon to boot.
It shone on me as I walked, it shone on me as I lay in my child-bed at Oddi.
A shiny dime-silvery light blasting through the frail lace curtains. My head
lay on one of Mama's pillowcases. I fingered the embroidery, the green
vines and pink flowers. Manua! The moonlight did nothing to clear my head.
Mama and her spruce green eyes and gentle touch, gone. Birdie with her
pupils black and shiny as a vinyl jazz record, gone. As I child I'd found myself too often standing between the two sisters, the subject of yet another
argument. Back then, it seemed only natural that they would fight about
me. I was trouble, wasn't I?

Or not. Maybe the trouble wasn't me, not who I was, but the fact of me.
The fact that Mama had a baby and Birdie did not-anymore. Birdie had
had a child. That's what the woman had said. Ingihjorg's child. Birdie's, I tell
you. A vanished child. Stillborn? Given up for adoption? In any case, illegitimate, if a child can be such a thing. Oskilgetid, that word that had floated
out Betel's window and into my ear: I'd looked it up in the Icelandic-English
dictionary in Olafur's study when I returned from Sigga's party. Birdie never
married. Mama married, Birdie had affairs. I'd always sensed that Mama
was forced by some sisterly logic to share me with Birdie, because Birdie
was childless. Sisters share. And if Birdie had had a child, and lost it,
then ... it could explain things. Why Birdie took to me so, took over me so.

I lay awake for hours in my child-bed at Gimli, twisting and shifting, displacing pillow and covers, trying to force-fit my long-limbed body into a
space it had outgrown. That miraculous feat of shape-shifting known as
growing up. I curled on my side, legs bent at the knees, my thighs, back,
neck, and head curved into a half circle. The very line of my body resolved
into the shape of a question mark.

Sigga's kitchen the next morning. Plates, cups, saucers stacked neatly in the
glassed cabinets with the bronze latches that went cliclkety click, clickety
click. The yellow Formica table with the bowed chrome legs. A row of tin
canisters labeled in white cursive SUGAR, FLOUR, SALT. A glass Cadillac of a
blender with a black rubber top. The kinds of things people in New York
buy for a lot of money and call retro. I felt retro, sitting there with Stefan
eating chocolate donuts and coffee he'd brought from the Gimli bakery.
Retrograde to the old days, when Stefan would often drop by unannounced. Hoping for a visit with Birdie, happily settling for me or Mama or
Sigga. On this morning he'd knocked loudly, then let himself in. "Sorry to
disturb you," he'd called up the stairs. I was awake but far from up. "I'm
hoping to get an early start on packing this place up."

What a good man, old Stefan of the stiff upper lip, in his rust-colored
sweater-vest and corduroy slacks. A man with no family of his own who
devoted himself to minding other people's families. Teaching pimply high
school students, researching obscure genealogies of common people, assisting old women who have outlived their relations. Or been neglected by
them.