Total pages in book: 102
Estimated words: 97287 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 486(@200wpm)___ 389(@250wpm)___ 324(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 97287 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 486(@200wpm)___ 389(@250wpm)___ 324(@300wpm)
“Everyone knows we know each other.”
“Not in that way, they don’t,” she says, her eyes darting out to the empty hall and back. “Never in that way, or I might lose my job. And you might too. And if you truly want me to bury the very big hatchet that I personally sharpened just for you, then you can’t ever mention that we were…uh, together.”
She has a point. “Aye.” I raise my palms in surrender. “Fair enough. I’ll try to erase you from my memory. Got to say, it won’t be easy.”
“Oh really? Is that so?” The bitterness in her voice makes me step back. “Because you were so fucking good at it before.”
Ouch.
Out in the foyer, there’s the sound of the front door opening.
She gives me one last nasty glare and then turns around, pulling instant coffee out of the cupboard.
“You’re still drinking instant coffee?” I say. “What’s wrong with you?”
“I’m used to it,” she grumbles, spooning it into her cup.
“God morgen,” Sigrid, the cook, says cheerfully as she comes bustling into the kitchen, all smiles. “Good morning to you, James.”
“God morgen, Sigrid,” I tell her. “Best that I learn Norwegian sooner or later.”
The sooner the better, since I don’t think Sigrid speaks a lot of English. She just nods at me and goes about in the kitchen, getting ready for breakfast.
Laila leaves the room with her mug of disgusting instant coffee (black! She even drinks it black!) and I make myself a quick cup from the Keurig, like a proper person does when the French press isn’t available, dousing it with cream.
Then I set about trying to find where Laila went.
I look in all the rooms, then head to her bedroom, knocking on the door.
“What?” she asks through the door, her voice sharp.
“How did you know it was me?”
I hear her exhale and then she opens the door, staring at me with a pinched expression.
“What do you want?”
“I want to drink my coffee with you,” I tell her. “You’re the only one up and the only one I know. Can I come in?”
The struggle behind her eyes is real. I can tell she wants to shut the door on me, but luckily she relents.
“Fine,” she says, opening it just wide enough for me to squeeze past.
I step inside the room, and she closes the door. Then thinks better of it, and opens it, leaving it that way.
I know what she’s doing. She’s being smart. If someone were to walk past her room and hear us talking with the door closed, perhaps they’d get the wrong idea. Also, this is her way of keeping me in line, reminding me that we’re starting over again and nothing from the past is to be mentioned. I’m on the same page as her, but she wouldn’t believe it.
I walk around the room, taking it in. It’s the same size as mine, mint-green wallpaper with silver filigree accents. Her bed is small, piled with thick Nordic quilts, and pressed right up against the wall where mine is.
I stop by a framed photo of her and Helge, her grandmother. The photo is different from the one she used to have in her room in London. In this one, Laila has her arms around her, and though both are laughing, Helge looks much smaller and frailer. I feel a familiar pinch in my chest, that conflicting feeling of wishing I had someone like that in my life, who raised me and loved me, and then being relieved that I never have to deal with anything like the loss of someone I deeply love. I already went through that when my parents gave me up, and then when my wife left me, and I’m making it my life’s mission not to go through anything like that again.
“How is your grandmother?” I ask, my voice automatically going soft, not sure if I’m being too personal.
“She’s good,” Laila says.
I look at her, and for the first time since I’ve been here, I notice the lines of grief around her eyes.
She takes a sip of her coffee, slender fingers wrapped around the mug, then gives me a quick smile. “I mean, she’s as good as she can be,” she says.
“I’m really sorry,” I tell her, putting my hands in my pockets. “I know how much she means to you. When I’d heard from Eddie that you left…”
“You were probably glad I was out of your hair.”
I shake my head. “Not even a little. I worried about you. I wanted to reach out to you to see how you were, but…” God, why does this feel so bloody awkward?
She gives me a dismissive wave. “It’s fine.”
“Magnus mentioned over dinner last night that she has dementia and she’s in a care home. Does she still know who you are?”
I expect her to brush me off with that question, but instead her features soften, looking defeated.