The Wild Heir(8)

I’m not sure how long I seem to stand here at the head of the table, maybe no time at all, but Britt clears her throat and says, “Well, well, well, look who it is. Mr. Sex Tape.”

I pinch my eyes closed, pretending she didn’t just say that.

“Oh my god,” Irene mutters. “Can we not talk about that?”

“It’s the elephant in the room,” Britt argues.

“It’s not proper dining room etiquette,” Irene argues back.

Cristina snorts. “What is etiquette anymore than just an antiquated set of rules set to control our society? It’s a prison of manners, that’s what it is.”

“Hello to all of you too,” I tell them, taking a seat beside Cristina. “Now that it’s out of the way, the elephant has been revealed and shit on all the rules of etiquette or whatever, let’s just go on and pretend it never happened. Okay?”

All three blonde heads nod. Creepy. Do they know they do it in unison?

Suddenly Mari appears at the doorway, giving us all an anxious smile.

“Hi, Magnus,” she says quietly, then addresses everyone else. “Father is coming. He’s, uh, feeling pretty good because of the drugs the doctor gave him, but they don’t give him much of an appetite and they tire him out. He’ll only be here for the soup and then I’ll take him back to his room.”

Shit.

Here is beautiful young Mari helping my father, the fucking King, like she’s his nurse. Not only is she way too young to be doing this, but it’s reminding me that I’ve been a fucking moron, living my life without a single thought to others, oblivious to the lives straining around me. This is my family, in pain, and I’ve absolutely let everyone down, including myself. Maybe my mother is right. I really should get married. I spent all last night and all today stewing over what a horrible idea this whole thing is and how terribly unfair, and how I wouldn’t agree to it no matter what…

And now I’m thinking maybe this is the kind of punishment I deserve.

As Wayne Campbell says, marriage is punishment for shoplifting in some countries.

So I sit here, tongue-tied and feeling like garbage while Mari disappears around the corner, presumably to get my father.

I glance over at my sisters, and all their brows are furrowed, lips being bitten and gnawed on in fear and sympathy. How much do they know? More than me? Am I the odd one out, the prodigal son with his head in the clouds?

I’m about to open my mouth to ask them how he really is when their attention is diverted to the doorway and my father appears, with Mari and my mother on either side of him, arms hooked around his elbows as he slowly shuffles forward.

My first thought is that it isn’t my father. That they’ve hired some actor to portray him as “sickly” and they’re doing an overdramatic version of it. The way he’s hunched over, the ashen pallor of his skin, his hairline that seems to be reduced to wispy tufts. He’s changed a staggering amount since I last saw him and that honestly was only a few weeks ago. Has he always looked like this only now I’m actually seeing it for what it is?

“Father,” I say, the words escaping me in a hush and I’m ready to get up and help him, embrace him, tell him I’m sorry for bringing all this fucking trouble and shame to us when he’s barely hanging on.

“Sit,” he says with a smile. “You just stay put there, Magnus.” And with those words, his warmth flows through him. He is my father after all, buried beneath an exterior that seems to shrink from pain.

I hang on to that because I can’t let myself fall to worry. If I do, it will be the end of me. I’ll obsess over it, as I often do. I’ll let myself luxuriate in darkness, in pity, in the travesty of it all. I know myself enough to keep out of those low spots when I can.

“I hope dinner is klipfisk,” he says, looking at my mother as she holds on to him. “The Lord knows I have to be nearly dying for you to let Gette indulge that delicacy.”

The word nearly springs some hope into my heart, and of course, we all laugh in relief that there’s something to be laughed about. My mother was raised in a fishing town on the coast where klipfisk is a specialty. It’s salted cod, which makes for a tasty stew or even pizza. No one else in Norway really eats it that much, but when my father was dating my mother, he tried to impress her every chance he had by making it.

Turns out my mother detests the stuff, all while he was growing a real appreciation for it.

Mari pulls out a chair for him at the head of the table while my mother eases him into his seat. I’m surprised they’re helping him and not a private nurse. After all, he is the King and I know he has the best medical care.

But maybe that’s exactly why. As easygoing as my father is, he has an insurmountable amount of pride and probably doesn’t think he warrants the help of a nurse in front of us. He’s been the same in the few public appearances he’s made—so far, the public only thinks he’s had a bout of mild pneumonia.

As it is, the starter for dinner is his beloved klipfisk soup, brought out by the head cook Gette, who looks rather proud of the meal, waiting for a few moments before my father takes a hearty sip and gives her his approval.

My father doesn’t talk much, just takes time sipping tea (no more brandy for him) and slurping the soup, asking everyone questions when the conversation lulls.

I’ve noticed that the questions never quite come my way and I’m both grateful and disappointed. Usually my father and I are discussing Formula One, rally driving, or moto racing or he has me filling him in on all that I’ve been up to. But this time there’s nothing.