The Last Boat Home (2 page)

‘Did you have fun?’ asks Liv.

‘Yes,’ says Marianne. She kisses Liv’s cheek. ‘I met someone. A Swede.’

‘Did you go to Sweden to meet him?’ asks Else. ‘Don’t you know what the time is?’

‘Mads is his name. He’s a dancer.’

‘What kind of dancer?’ asks Liv.

‘A good one,’ says Marianne and giggles. Else frowns and sits up to reach for the mug of coffee. She rests her head against the wall behind her and traps the liquid in her mouth, savouring its heat until she swallows.

Before long, Liv’s breath meets her mother’s in a tranquil tempo. She dozes with her spine to Marianne’s chest. For some minutes, Else contemplates her girls. She puts down the near-empty mug and eases herself out of bed. She creeps to the bathroom, where she closes the door before flipping the light switch, not wanting to disturb their sleep.

Else undresses. She tidies her clothes into a pile on the toilet bowl, then twists the shower’s knobs. The water pounds. The mirror over the sink shows sharp collarbones, a stern chin.

You look good, Else. Not how I remember my grandmother looking at all.

She purses her lips. Lars Reiersen has a nerve. Else pins her hair off her face and wonders what sort of father he is. He has two children, she has heard: a boy and a girl. He took his time, had his fun and now he has them, too.

Her own child is in the next room, wasting the day after another misspent night. If Marianne had had a father, would she behave
differently? Else knows how this Saturday will evolve: the hours will pass and her exasperation will grow but she will let her daughter sleep, more relieved than angry. As long as she is here, the home that Else has built will be at peace.

Else inspects her reflection until it steams over. With an outstretched hand, she tests the water and, satisfied with the temperature, steps under the shower’s jet.

V
ICTORIA
R
EIERSEN ARRIVES
with a jingle of the spa’s bell. She shrugs off her boat jacket and drops her umbrella into a bucket by the door.

‘What awful weather!’ she says. ‘It’s typical, every winter you live for the summer, and every summer all it does is rain.’ She shakes the water from her hair as her eyes flit from Else’s face down the length of her body. ‘You must be Else,’ she says.

‘Do you want a cup of tea before we start?’ Else asks.

‘Just water,’ she says, ‘if that’s all right.’

Else excuses herself to fetch a glass. When she returns, her client has planted herself on a chair in what has been designated the ‘waiting area’ and chosen a copy of
Se & Hør
from the stack of magazines on the table beside her. It lies open on her lap while she punches the buttons of her mobile phone. She accepts the glass with an apologetic smile and places it on the table.

‘I’ll be ready for you shortly,’ Else says and leaves Victoria to finish typing her text message.

Alone in the treatment room, Else sinks onto the edge of the massage bed and rubs her forehead with the heel of her hand. Victoria is closer to Marianne’s age than her own. She is just as the locals have described her: dark and dainty, as delicate as a porcelain cup. How had a body like hers ever survived childbirth? Else imagines her shattering from the pain of it. She breathes in the
blend of essential oils that her skin has soaked up during the day’s appointments. This was a mistake. She should never have accepted Victoria’s booking, but she had wanted to see Lars’s wife for herself.

To shore herself up, she looks from the facial steamer to the magnifying lamp at the other end of the room. The wax warmer has been pushed to the wall under the Krøyer print that she hung the day before the spa’s opening. Seven years later, she is still in business. She waits to feel the stirring of pride that often comes when she thinks about what she has managed. Today, the space seems shabby with its second-hand appliances. She pulls back her shoulders and prepares herself for work.

Victoria’s nakedness is preserved under a towel as she settles on the massage bed. Her cheek rests on the stacked platform of her hands. Her head bobs when she speaks.

‘At first,’ she says, ‘I wasn’t sure about moving here. But Lars can talk me into anything.’

A self-conscious laugh mimics the sound of glass tinkling as Else opens a drawer. She scans the rows of bottles inside and picks oils that she hopes will send Victoria to sleep. Sandalwood. Lavender. Clary Sage. Floral notes scent the air as she taps a few drops of each into a bowl of almond oil.

‘Do you have any pain or injuries?’ she asks.

‘Not specifically,’ says Victoria. ‘I’m just sore in general after the move. All of that packing and unpacking. It takes its toll.’

Else folds down the top half of the towel to reveal Victoria’s golden back. There is not a tan line, not a single mole or blemish. She scoops the oil mixture from the bowl and rubs it warm between her palms before beginning at Victoria’s tailbone. Her hands slide up her spine.

‘There,’ Victoria says. ‘A little higher. Can you feel the knot?’

‘Mm,’ says Else and kneads the spot where she supposes she is meant to find it.

‘I’m so relieved it’s over,’ Victoria says. ‘Only death and divorce are more stressful. That’s what they say. Than moving, I mean.’

‘Mm,’ Else says.

‘All of that
stuff
! God knows where it came from. You don’t realise how much you have until you see it packed into boxes in your living room. It’ll be worth it, though. A little country living will be good for the kids. They just have to settle in. The main thing’ – Victoria takes a breath while Else rolls circles into her flesh – ‘is for them to make a few friends. Moving has been hard on them. I keep trying to remind them that Oslo is only a drive away.’

Without meaning to, Else jabs her thumbs behind Victoria’s left shoulder blade. Her client gasps and she lets go her grip. Scolding herself, Else tries to soothe the area, keeping her touch light as her knuckles glide over skin.

Victoria’s eyes close once more. Else decides that the oils are doing their work and, while tropical waves break from the stereo’s speakers, she relaxes into the rhythm of her hands. Then Victoria clears her throat.

‘We visited the school yesterday,’ she says. ‘It isn’t at all what the kids are used to. But Lars was excited, showing them around. He had a story for every room.’

A tiny flare goes off in Else’s chest, like the onset of heartburn. She turns to the counter to add a new drop of sandalwood to her bowl.

‘He’s always telling them stories about growing up here,’ says Victoria. ‘You knew each other then. Isn’t that right?’

Else swirls her bowl. The blobs of oil slip and slither and never merge. ‘A little,’ she says.

‘But you were friends, weren’t you? Didn’t your mothers know each other?’

‘It’s a small town,’ Else says.

‘I’d understood you were good friends.’

‘It was smaller then,’ she says.

Victoria opens her mouth as if to press her further, but her words melt into a sigh as Else resumes the massage. She leans into her arms, her oil-dipped fingers squeezing Victoria’s tan up to her neck. Her thumbs grease the roots at the base of her hairline and Victoria groans.

‘I’ll feel better,’ she says, ‘once the house is in order. The kitchen can’t have been painted since it was built. The walls are brown, for goodness’ sake.’

Her back rises with a yawn and she says no more. Some minutes pass in silence before her breathing begins to thicken. Else keeps her strokes steady over Victoria’s softening muscles and picks details from the recesses of her memory. A high ceiling. An American fridge. Countertops that span from one side of the room to the distant other. A pantry large enough to fit a family is stocked with tins and cooking chocolate, Solo and Cola bottles and foods she has never tasted. The view of the fjord from the window reaches for the horizon. Poor Victoria, she thinks, whose worst problem is the colour of her walls.

At four o’clock, Else wakes her client and leaves her alone to dress. While she waits, she washes her water glass in the bathroom sink and checks her schedule for the following morning. All day, she has been looking forward to spending a quiet night in with Liv. She has rented a DVD that she knows her granddaughter will like and, when the film is over, they will sit together and gossip until way past Liv’s bedtime.

Her jacket is on and zipped to her chin when Victoria emerges from the treatment room. She takes her payment and deposits it in the till’s drawer. Else collects the bags of groceries that she stowed in a cupboard earlier before seeing Victoria out. She locks the spa’s door behind them.

‘Thanks for that,’ says Victoria. ‘I feel like a new person.’

Else nods. ‘My pleasure,’ she says and turns into the rain.

When she arrives home, the house is in a flurry. A thudding music greets her from upstairs, boxing her ears as she hooks her jacket on the coat stand.

‘
Hallo
?’ she calls.

In the living room, Liv is watching television. Her face pops up from behind the armrest of the sofa. ‘Hi, Mormor,’ she says.

‘What’s going on?’ Else asks.

‘It’s Mamma,’ says Liv. ‘She’s meeting Mads.’

Else rolls her eyes before bending to kiss Liv’s forehead. Her granddaughter pats the wet snarl of her hair.

‘Did you forget your umbrella?’

‘I did,’ Else says. ‘How was the last day of school?’

Liv shrugs. ‘It’s raining,’ she says.

Marianne’s shout interrupts them from the second floor. ‘Where’s my necklace?’ Her footsteps thunder down the stairs. ‘Mamma, have you seen my necklace? The one with the shell?’

‘Where’s he taking you?’ Else asks.

‘To the cinema,’ says Liv.

‘Is that how people dress for the cinema these days?’

Marianne makes a face and darts into the hallway. A cloud of hairspray hangs after her in the air. Else drops onto the sofa next to her granddaughter. She feels as if her body has been dipped in tar.

‘I rented
High School Musical
,’ she says. ‘And I bought bananas and chocolate sauce for ice cream sundaes.’

‘Where are the umbrellas?’ calls Marianne. Then, ‘Never mind!’

She carries one in her fist when she breezes back into the room, her necklace’s pendant strung up above her cleavage.

‘I’m off,’ she says.

‘What time will you be home?’ asks Else.

Marianne blows Liv a kiss. ‘Have fun tonight. Don’t wait up for me, Mamma.’

‘Don’t forget your jacket!’ Before Else’s sentence is out of her
mouth, the front door slams. ‘Well,’ she says, ‘I suppose that’s that. Shall I make us a cup of tea?’

‘I only have time for a quick one,’ says Liv. ‘I’m going out.’

‘You are? Where are you going?’

‘To Andreas’s house.’

‘Who’s Andreas?’

‘Andreas Reiersen,’ says Liv. ‘His family just moved down here.’

‘But. We’re having a night in,’ Else says. ‘I rented a film.’

Liv pushes herself off the sofa and raises her arms, showing her palms to Else as if to say the matter is out of her hands.

‘But,’ Else says.

She follows her granddaughter into the kitchen, where Liv holds the kettle under the tap and does not look at her. While the water boils, she finds the mugs on their shelf. She removes a slice from a bag of bread and takes the butter out of the fridge.

‘Don’t fill up on bread,’ Else says. ‘I thought we’d order pizza.’

‘Mormor,’ says Liv, ‘I’m going over to Andreas’s house.’

‘I saw his mother earlier,’ says Else. ‘She didn’t mention a thing about it. You have to ask permission for this sort of thing.’

‘I did,’ Liv says. ‘Mamma said it was okay.’

‘Well, Mamma was wrong. When did you meet this Andreas, anyway?’

‘Last weekend,’ says Liv. ‘He was at the harbour with his dad. He’s really nice, Mormor. He let me try his kayak.’

The tide of tar is rising over Else’s head. She closes her eyes.

‘All right,’ she says. ‘What if Andreas were to come here instead?’

‘Not possible,’ says Liv.

‘Why not?’

‘Because we’re painting
his
kitchen, so we have to go to
his
house.’

‘You’re painting his kitchen? But his mother didn’t say …’

‘It’s a surprise,’ says Liv. ‘She’s so tired after the move.’ She consults the oven clock. ‘All of that packing and unpacking. I have to get ready. Andreas’s dad is picking me up in four minutes.’

‘But,’ Else says.

Liv skips out of the room, the bread slice in hand. Else squints at the mugs on the kitchen counter. How can it be that that boy is already in their lives? And Lars – Lars will be here in four minutes. In spite of herself, she hurries out to the hallway mirror. Two smudges of mascara are all that remain from this morning’s make-up routine. She is dismayed to see how old she looks without it. She tousles her hair and fastens it with a clip that she finds in the basket meant for keys. She licks a finger and rubs at the pockets under her eyes. The doorbell rings.

‘Damn,’ she says.

With a final peek in the mirror, she opens the front door to Lars. His build plugs the doorframe. Behind him, the rain falls in silver tacks against the sky. The boy at his side is a younger version of himself. He stays close to his father and peers past Else into the house.

‘Else!’ says Lars. ‘You live here, too? I was expecting Marianne.’

‘Marianne’s out,’ Else says.

‘And Liv?’

‘She’s coming.’

Lars smiles. ‘Long day?’

‘What time should I pick her up?’ Else asks.

‘I’m sleeping over,’ says Liv as she trots back down the stairs with her bag. She has changed into the denim skirt that Marianne says flatters her legs.

‘Enjoy yourself,’ says Lars. ‘You look like you could use a night off. Ready, kids?’ He claps his hands and Liv grabs her jacket from the coat stand.

‘Ready,’ she says and charges ahead of Andreas. ‘Bye, Mormor!’

‘Be good!’ Else calls.

‘Don’t worry,’ says Lars. ‘I’ll return her as good as new in the morning.’

Lars runs after the children to the BMW that is parked in the drive and slides into the front seat. The ignition roars and the car reverses into the road. Through the rain-streaked rear window, Else sees Liv sitting shoulder to shoulder with Andreas. She waves and Liv waves back. Then she is gone.