The Day She Came Back(83)

‘Well, good.’ She smiled, thinking of the mild-mannered septuagenarian and how he would like this moniker. ‘Because, technically, you weren’t invited.’

Although I think pistol-toting Gerald might like you . . . Nothing little or turd-like about you at all.

‘I’m glad we have established that.’ Vidar nudged her with his elbow. ‘And don’t take it personally – I hate parties. I really hate parties; I would rather be over at Ekebergparken, walking and reading or just thinking.’

‘Or sitting on your graveyard bench,’ she cut in.

‘Yes, that too. I’m not really the party type. Do you know what I mean?’

‘I know exactly what you mean,’ she whispered, ridiculously wishing that she had more time in Oslo.

‘Victoria! You can come back up now! Come on!’ Jens called again, louder this time, his tone almost urgent.

She stood, leaving Vidar on the bench. ‘I guess I’ll see you.’ She cringed, not knowing how to end this exchange.

‘Yeah, I guess I’ll see you.’ He smiled at her and again her heart did its little rumba.

Victoria climbed the stairs and smiled as the apartment door was flung open and Jens and Sarah stood side by side with matching grins. Sarah held a cake covered in lit candles and they were singing, badly and loudly:

‘Happy birthday to you . . .’

Victoria threw her hands over her eyes in mock embarrassment, then suddenly, behind her cupped palms, she thought of all the years that this had been her wish, for her mum to be standing in front of her with a cake – it made her unbearably sad at all that she had missed, and through no fault of her own. She pictured her six-year-old self holding back tears as Prim wrapped her in a hug.

‘You can’t cry today, darling! Not on your birthday!’

‘I wish my mummy was here . . . I wish . . . I wish I could see her!’

‘I know, my love, I know . . . Shh . . . And I bet wherever she is, she wishes it too.’

Oslo. Victoria thought. That was where she was. Not on a cloud somewhere, but Oslo.

Jens put his hands on her back and guided her into the sitting room, where balloons littered the floor and couch and a ‘Happy Birthday’ banner had been strung across the pictures by the dining table. There was a bottle of champagne sitting in a nest of ice inside a silver bucket, smoked salmon on a platter and bowls of hummus, nuts, olives and other delightful snacks dotted around.

‘This is lovely, thank you.’ She meant it, but was unable to alter her subdued tone, finding the whole charade unbearably sad. She took a seat at the table, where Jens proceeded to pour three flutes of bubbles, oblivious.

‘You need to blow out your candles and make a wish!’ Sarah urged, holding the cake towards Victoria’s face.

‘I don’t know what to wish for.’ She closed her eyes briefly, before looking at the two people in front of her, both with expressions so eager, it felt a lot like pressure. Her tears bloomed and she felt the heat of embarrassment as Jens and Sarah stared at her. ‘I really don’t know what to wish for,’ she mused. ‘This is really hard for me. Every birthday since I was a child I would send my wishes and thoughts up to heaven, hoping you might get them and know that I was thinking about you and missing you. And so this feels . . .’ The words were not forthcoming. ‘This feels a bit odd. I’m sorry.’

Sarah began to cry, loudly. The sound of her sobbing cracked open the party-themed veneer to reveal a dark inner core that was impossible to ignore. It was evident that a few balloons and bubbles were not enough to erase the awkwardness. Victoria felt horrendously ill at ease as Sarah tried to catch her breath and swallowed what sounded like a lump in her throat, and just like that, the jovial atmosphere and all the joy that had bounced from the walls suddenly evaporated. Sarah quickly blew out the candles and put the cake on the table next to a long silver knife, presumably there to make a ceremonial cut. Jens put the glasses down and handed his wife one of the gold napkins meant for cake with which to blot her tears.

‘Th-thank you,’ she stammered. ‘Actually, would you just excuse me for a minute?’ She gave a false smile and left the room, closing the bathroom door behind her. Jens sat in the chair next to Victoria, who felt the hot, swarmy feeling of embarrassment wash over her.

‘I didn’t mean to make her cry.’ She swiped her eyes. ‘I was just telling the truth. Sarah said we have to be able to say the hard stuff to move forward, that we should be honest.’ She hated her own note of desperation, wanting to make it right.

‘I know, I know.’ He held her gaze and she could tell he was not mad, just sad. ‘And the truth is important, honesty is important. But no matter what she says, it’s hard for her too.’

Victoria looked towards the closed bathroom door and felt at a loss as to what to do or say next. Her response was slow in forming. There was an awkward beat or two of silence, which no canny words of distraction from Jens could halt.

‘I have been dreading my birthday,’ she began, rolling the edge of her paper napkin back and forth between her fingers. ‘My first without Prim, and here I am. And all the things I have ever wished for and dreamed of came true . . . but it doesn’t feel like I thought it would. I am feeling every emotion you can imagine. Sarah should be dead! But she’s not. And it’s amazing and weird to be in her house, but there’s a small part of me that doesn’t know how to stop mourning her. Every time I had to say, “My mum died . . . my mum’s dead . . .”, which I have done more times than I can remember, it erased a little bit of my self-confidence and it stole a little bit of my happiness. I wasn’t like the other girls, who ran into their mum’s arms after school. Yes, I had Prim and she was wonderful, and I can see that she only did what she thought was best, but it wasn’t the same – how could it be? It took the shine off any occasion: birthdays, Christmas, parties, any celebration. “Where’s your mum, is she collecting you? Is your mum coming?” And I’d look at the person asking, knowing that what came next would only make them and me feel like rubbish. “No, my mum’s not collecting me, I don’t have a mum. She died . . .” But all that time it was a lie. She wasn’t dead; she was just hiding from me. How do I get past that?’ She wiped her tears on the napkin she was fiddling with.