The Tricking of Freya (42 page)

"She went three times. Once in the mid-fifties, then in 1961, and again
in 1964 for the centennial of the birth of Olafur, Skald Nyja Islands." I knew
Halldora loved to hear the sound of the poet's name. "Maybe it was then," I
prompted. "After the 1964 visit. That would make Birdie's child about the
same age as me." The thought was startling: Anna and Birdie, who had so little in common, giving birth in the same year. One sister keeping her child,
the other giving hers away. But Halldora was shaking her head.

"No," she said. "Definitely not. I retired from Selkirk in 1963. And it
wasn't in the 1950s either, because I worked on a different ward then. The incurables, we called them. No, it must have been that other year you mentioned."

"1961?"

"Yes. Not that it matters now."

"Why? What happened to the baby?"

"It was given away to a good home. That's all Sigga would say about it. I
never saw the infant. The plan had been to transport Birdie to the hospital
when she went into labor. But she delivered so fast in the end, there was no
time. Or so I was told. I wasn't on shift when it happened."

"Was it a boy or a girl?"

"I told you, I don't know anything else. Sigga didn't want to talk about it.
And of course I would never pry."

I had a hard time imagining Halldora not prying. "But who adopted the
baby?"

"I don't know. It was a blind adoption, that's what they call it. The birth
mother doesn't know where the baby goes and the adoptive mother doesn't
know where the baby came from. It's easier for everyone that way. Or so it's
said."

"I want to find Birdie's child."

"I wouldn't count on that. Adoption records are sealed by the government. Now, I hope this information has satisfied you. And that you won't be
bothering Sigga about it anymore."

"I won't. I promise. Just one more thing."

Halldora raised her eyebrows skeptically, but I wasn't daunted. "I'd like
to visit alone with Sigga today. It's my last day. I promise I won't even mention Birdie's name."

And I kept my word.

Stefan insisted on driving me to the airport at five a.m. that Friday morning.
He picked me up at Oddi. It was still dark when I climbed into the front
seat of his station wagon.

"I had an interesting talk with Halldora yesterday."

"Did you now? I had the impression you don't care for Halldora much."

"I don't. Did you know that she was Birdie's nurse at Selkirk?"

"Well, yes, I did know that."

"Why didn't anybody tell me?"

"Why would anybody tell you, Freya? That was a long time ago. It's not
like anyone is hiding anything from you."

"It feels that way." I stared out the window, caught a glimpse of the sun
rising over the lake. I remembered Birdie holding my hand at the water's
edge for my first sunrise. "She hung herself, you know."

"Yes." Stefan was on his guard now.

"My mother told me she took an overdose of pills. Died peacefully in her
sleep. For years I imagined her that way. Now Halldora tells me Birdie hung
herself. Right at Oddi. In her own bedroom, from the rafters. And Sigga
found her there."

"That's right."

"And you say no one's hiding anything?" He didn't answer, but I didn't
let that stop me. "Why would she do that, Stefan? Make Sigga find her like
that? She was so ... selfish. Why didn't she just drown herself in the lake
or something?"

"She was a sick woman, Freya. That's all I can say. Who knows what
went through her mind that day? But I don't think it was a selfish act. I
think it was the opposite. That she thought by ending her life she would
ease the pain she caused others, stop being a burden to Sigga. I think Birdie
believed she was far more trouble than she was worth."

"Maybe she was right." The sun was up now, spreading light over the
lake. "She never left a note?"

"Believe me, Freya. I looked everywhere. Sigga asked me to take care of
things. After the body was taken away. There was no note. Just the typewriter with three books next to it on the desk. The window was open. It was
February."

"February eighteenth. My birthday."

But Stefan was on his own train of memory. "She'd left the window
open, there'd been a snowstorm, and all around her on the floor were little
sticks and twigs, blown in from the tree, I guess. And snow piled up on the
windowsill."

"How long before she was found?"

"Just the one night. She'd taken her desk and pushed it all the way over
to the window, and then she stepped off of it. So she was hanging in front of the open window, swinging in front of her desk, above the typewriter and
the three books. Very deliberate. There were even ... little tiny piles of
snow on the typewriter keys. Her hair was frozen."

"You saw her?"

"No. I ... I heard Sigga telling the police. I'm sorry if this is upsetting
you, but you seem to want to know everything."

"I do. And I should have guessed that Birdie would never do anything
simple like pills. Not when she could set up a dramatic scene like that." Stefan
winced. "I'm sorry, to bring this all up again. I know how you cared for her."

"Oh, I understand. Believe me, Freya. I was angry too, for years. Bitter.
Wondered if I should have seen the signs. She seemed to be doing so well,
after she was released from Selkirk. Now I realize it was all an act, to get
herself released so she could kill herself. All that talent, all the life that was
in her, vanished from this earth."

"Maybe not. Not completely."

"What do you mean?"

"Birdie's child."

"Freya-!"

"No, Stefan. I know for a fact now. Halldora told me. It was after Birdie
got back from her trip to Iceland in the summer of 1961. She had the baby
in the winter of 1962, while she was committed at Selkirk. It was given up
for adoption."

Stefan gripped the wheel. We were driving now through an old industrial section of Winnipeg, gloomy in the gray morning light.

"Halldora says the adoption records are sealed, that there's no way to
find out who took the baby. But you could find out, couldn't you? You know
how to dig things up, documents and birth certificates, things like that."

"But why?"

"Because I want to find Birdie's child, that's why!"

"And then what? The child was given up for adoption, Freya. Presumably
to a couple who wanted children but couldn't have any. A couple who were,
presumably again, screened carefully, prequalified as being able to provide
for the child's physical and emotional needs. These are the only parents the
child knows. The child grows up, and then ... what? You write a letter?
Phone out of the blue? Show up at the door and say, `By the way, did you know that the woman who gave birth to you was a manic-depressive who conceived you out of wedlock and eventually killed herself, nice to meet you?"'

I'd never heard this kind of sarcasm from Stefan before. I'd pushed him
too far. I knew that. But I didn't stop. I was angry too. "There was a lot more
to Birdie than her illness and her death-you of all people know that. And
maybe I'm not the most socially graceful person on the planet, but I think I
could manage a bit more tact than you give me credit for."

We were sitting in the airport parking lot. Neither of us got out of the car.

"Of course you would," Stefan replied, though he didn't sound convinced. "But my point is, that child, who is now an adult, can never know
Birdie. It's too late for that. So what's to be gained here, other than satisfying your curiosity?"

"My curiosity? Honestly, Stefan, I can't believe that you, of all people,
don't see it. Here you are a professional genealogist, spending all your free
time researching people's lineages back to their great-great-grandparents to
the umpteenth power. Don't you think this child might, just possibly, have
more than an ounce of curiosity about who his or her biological parents are?
I don't know about Canada, but back in the States there are legions of
adoptees searching for their birth parents. It's all over TV, the searches and
reunions. And I have to say, it's pretty heart wrenching. Even for a man of
reason like yourself."

Stefan smiled wryly.

"And presumably there was a father as well. He could still be alive. They
could meet."

"Not all adoptees are even told they're adopted, Freya. How would you
feel, if you suddenly found out your mother wasn't your mother?"

"She'd still be my mother. Nothing could change that. Really, Stefan, I
think people should know the truth. People want to know the truth about
their origins. It's instinctual."

"Some people do, granted. Listen, I give you my assurance that if a
stranger ever drives into town claiming to be Birdie's long-lost child, I'll phone
you straight up."

"Thanks."

"I just don't think it's ethical, Freya. Besides, it's all speculation. We
don't even know if there is such a child."

"But we do! Halldora told me herself."

Stefan nodded wearily.

"Are you saying Halldora is lying?" The thought had never occurred to
me.

"I know how insistent you've become about this subject, that's all. Halldora may have resorted to telling you exactly what you wanted to hear. Just
to get you to let up on Sigga. Halldora is a fierce protector."

"You're saying she invented the entire story to shut me up?"

"I just think it's strange, that no one else has ever heard a word about
this so-called child of Birdie's. I've never seen a shred of evidence that such
a child was ever born."

"But you yourself said there would be no access to records."

"True."

"You know, Birdie was right about you."

"How so?"

"You're trapped in a closed little world of the past, where only facts matter, details and documents, birth dates and death dates, and anything that
can't be proven doesn't exist and never happened. She said you're the most
literal-minded person she'd ever known." I knew I'd gone too far, probably
wounded him deeply, but I no longer cared.

"Is that what she said about me?"

Strangely, his tone didn't sound hurt. Almost ... pleased? Flattered?
Maybe because these are, after all, the values he openly adheres to in life,
truth and documentation, fact and logic. Or maybe it was being reminded
that Birdie used to talk about him, know him. Even if she teased him. He'd
spent years of his life in love with her, after all. He was probably trying, in
his way, to protect Birdie. And that allegiance was far stronger than any inclination he might have to help me get at the truth. A truth which might, in
his mind, further tarnish Birdie's already tarnished memory. As if an innocent baby could ever be a tarnish.

"You won't help me."

"Freya, even if I wanted to-even if I believed that is what Birdie would
have wanted, and somehow I doubt that very much -I wouldn't be of any
use to you. I've tried a few adoption searches myself, you know. In the past
it was nearly impossible, but recently they've begun to liberalize the laws. Here in Manitoba, they've set up a mutual consent registry, so that all parties to an adoption can get information on request. But both parties have to
register in order for a search to be initiated. Obviously, Birdie can't register,
since she died before the registry was initiated."

"I could register."

"You're not a close family member."

"Not a close-"

"What I mean is, not a party to the adoption. If you were a child searching for a parent, or a parent searching for a child, or even a brother trying to
track down a sister ... but a cousin?"

Stefan was polite enough to wait with me at the gate. Neither of us could
find much of anything to say. A stiff hug, a wave good-bye, and we parted.
The plane rose up, the flat expanse of Manitoba drifted farther and farther
outside my window. The rest of the flight was all cloud.

And so poof! it goes, obliterated as if by the wink of a clever god. Tiny Gimli,
mere speck on the lip of a vast sparkling lake, gone. The Betel Home for elderly descendants of Icelandic immigrants, vanished. Marvelous Tergesen's
Store with its tin-stamped ceiling and neatly stacked balls of woolly Icelandic yarn. The bakery offering its seven-layered vinarterta. The house on
Second Street, former residence of the great Skald Nyja islands, and of my
Gimli summers, and of Birdie's wintry demise: emptied room by room. And
Sigga, Stefan, Halldora: my holy triumvirate, my three inquisitees. Poof!
Poof! Poof! Lost under the dense blanket of cloud.

Funny how a place can change on you while you're not looking. My first
thought on opening the door to my apartment after my return from Gimli
was that I'd been robbed, emptied out. The only things the burglars left
were a few pieces of ratty furniture. The brown vinyl-topped card table I'd
found on Avenue D. The futon on the floor left by the previous tenant that
doubles as couch and bed. The small black-and-white TV sitting on a blue
plastic milk crate. Was this all I had? Was this really my home?