Five Tuesdays in Winter(25)

“And you brought that gross deodorant that makes you smell like rotten vegetables.”

Above them light footsteps traveled the length of the ceiling, another heavier pair close behind. Silence. A wild howl.

“Great,” Hanne said. “Children.”

She went down the hall to shower and Oda sank into the pink-and-burgundy chair. She didn’t want to be here, spending money on this room and its view of fog. She wanted to sleep in her own bed and go to work in the morning. Her friends, her sister, and the whole culture had pushed her into this vacation. She didn’t want it. Hanne didn’t want it. Why were they subjecting themselves to it?

She went to the window. It had cleared slightly. She could see the sea and it was not placid. The waves were churned up white and whipped by the wind. Far out, great fishing vessels vied for territory. The horizon line was broken by several oil rigs, jagged prehistoric creatures on strong legs. She felt the ferry’s rumble before she saw it curve around the east side of the island and pull into the harbor. People were shimmering in their raincoats.

Hanne was back and combing out her hair.

“The ferry’s nearly in.”

“I can see it.”

“Go get your bag then.”

Hanne put down the comb.

She appeared below and ran down the street in bare feet with wet strings of hair rising up behind her.

The kind man met her with her suitcase. They spoke, a surprising number of back and forths that Oda could not fill in, and then Hanne came back up the hill, slower, with her bag.

They were Australians, the people above them. Their three long-haired children streaked around the dining room in their pajamas, grabbing decorations off the table and books off the shelves until the father caught up with them and they all disappeared in a flurry of giggles and flailing limbs.

“You were never like that,” Oda said.

“You tamped me down early.”

“Crushed your free spirit, did I?”

They ate in silence like the couple from Belgium beside them. The Australian man returned, the three children trailing soberly behind him.

“Do you remember the song you used to sing me about the girl in the polka-dot dress?”

For a time Hanne had begged for that song every night.

“Polky Polky I used to call it.”

“Dot Dot, actually.”

Hanne smiled. “Dot Dot. I thought you were the most beautiful singer in the whole world.”

Oda felt pitched up onto the crest of a wave, like one of those boats far out at sea.

Back in their room there was nothing to do but get into bed. Cold air, much colder than it ever got in Munich in July, came through the lifted windows. The quilt on the bed was heavy, the sheets tucked in tight. Hanne took the right side, closest to the wall. The bed cracked and creaked when Oda got in. She shut off the light.

Here it was, the moment, the reason for the vacation, the one thing that had convinced her to spend this money. After Fritz died, Oda’s friend Frauke told her that when she lost her husband the children had slept in her bed for a year. But Hanne, even that first night, wanted to sleep in her own bed. If Oda tried to cuddle with her in her room, Hanne said she was too hot and asked her to leave. But here they would be together in the dark, where perhaps it would be easier and safer to talk to each other.

“Are you comfy?” Oda asked.

“Mm-hmm.”

“Sleepy?”

“Not really.”

“We could tell each other stories.”

“What do you mean?”

“I could tell you a story about something. About me or you when you were little, or Grandmother. Or Papi.” She let that hang there a moment. “Then you could tell me one.” Oda rolled onto her side to face Hanne. She hoped Hanne would turn toward her but she did not. She remained on her back, in profile, her face dark against the last blue light of the day.

“I’m tired.”

Oda woke up several hours later. The room was black, the kind of dark that had terrified her as a child when she slept at her grandparents’ in the country. It still made her uneasy. She turned sideways on the bed so she could see through the window. Out on the water there were specks of light from the oil rigs. Metal things clanged on boats moored in the harbor. Against their hulls the water sounded like dogs lapping, quick and frantic. She lifted her head off the pillow and found a few green lights closer in, running lights on the ferry in its hold. She didn’t know it slept here at night. It made sense, in case of an emergency. It wasn’t rumbling now, but she remembered what its rumbling felt like, and the thought of that comforted her.

When it was light enough she read in bed, turning the pages quietly, careful not to wake Hanne. Down below, plates were being placed on tables. The smell of fresh bread and sausage filled the room. Oda felt a racing in her body, an urgency that had no reason to exist now. She didn’t have to get up for work or make Hanne’s lunch or get her to her Saturday lessons or to church. She wondered how other people adjusted to vacations. It was such an unpleasant feeling, like gunning a car in neutral. It pulled her from the book she was reading. Her eyes could not take in the words. It was like the months after Fritz died all over again.

But he had been dead nearly two years. He’d gone to work at the hospital on his bike and been hit by another doctor in a car. The ambulance had traveled less than half a kilometer to reach him but he was already gone.