We Run the Tides(17)

“Then Steve will know the pain he’s caused me.”

I look around the room and quickly understand why I’m sitting alone with Tall Mia. The Bitchers warned Tall Mia, they expressed their distaste for her affair, and now she is my problem. Aside from feeling a little out of my depth, I don’t mind. I know most thirteen-year-olds are sheltered from this kind of conversation, so I’m proud to be privy to it. I rest my head on an ivory bolster and listen to Tall Mia talk about Steve and how she’s going to kill herself as though it’s a goodnight story. At some point she switches from speaking in English to Swinglish, and then she makes the transition from Swinglish to pure Swedish. She’s speaking quickly and intently and I’m having trouble grasping exactly what she’s saying. But I listen to her words and see her mouth moving and I know that she’s telling me something terrible and suicidal and probably not at all suitable.

“Okay,” my mom says, and claps her hands together loudly. “Let’s move into the study to watch the show!”

We all gather in the study—Svea, my parents, and I sit on the rug to make room for all the Bitchers. We turn the TV on five minutes before 7 because we don’t want to miss the establishing shot.

Someone asks me for water and I ignore them. Then the show starts and we get a quick glimpse of Joseph & Joseph’s exterior. Then the next scene shows the interior of the gallery. “What happened to the establishing shot?” I say.

“Shh,” say some of the Bitchers, loudly.

“I’m sure they’ll use that shot later,” my dad says.

But we watch the whole episode and toward the end of it, it becomes evident that Maria Fabiola, Julia, Faith, Svea, and I have been cut. I look at Svea and she shrugs. She doesn’t know how important it was to me to be in the show. She doesn’t know how I was counting on my friends seeing it, and things going back to normal.

The final credits roll and the Bitchers applaud. I excuse myself, claiming exhaustion, and say I have to study for a big test. I make a point of hugging Tall Mia. The hug is awkward, as she’s still seated, but the elliptical embrace allows me the chance to whisper in her ear: “Don’t take the bridge on the way home.”

“Why would I?” she says, not whispering. “I live in the other direction.”

Upstairs in my room, I can hear the women laughing and the occasional clattering of silverware—they’ve moved into the dining room for lutefisk. I hear collective gasps and wonder what story is being told and about whom.

I think of other TV shows and movies and how every movie star must be upset about a scene that was cut. I recently saw Out of Africa—my mom took me to the theater because she wanted to see the film and I had no plans. Since then I’ve thought a lot about the scene with Robert Redford washing Meryl Streep’s hair. Now that, I thought, is love. And Meryl Streep’s skin looked incredible.

I get up and check my complexion in the bathroom mirror. Four zits, not terrible. Not as bad as some of the girls in my class. Poor Angie. I reapply Clearasil and go back in my room and do twenty sit-ups. Then I lay in bed listening to the explosions of laughter, followed by the rearranging of chairs, the trickling of voices, and the closing of the front door. My room is directly above the kitchen and I hear my mother tidying up after the party. I picture her pulling on the gloves she uses when cleaning dishes. This is the same sink where she used to wash my hair. She’d place towels on the kitchen counter and I’d rest on top of them, with my head extending out to the faucet, and she’d shampoo my hair and talk about her day. Now I listen to her turn on the water—I find the sound comforting. I spread out my hair on the pillow like Medusa, like Meryl Streep, and imagine it’s my hair my mother’s washing in the sink, the way she did when I was young.





11


In Swedish culture December 13 is a holiday. A ritual. The oldest girl in the house acts out the part of Santa Lucia, dressed in white and wearing a crown of lighted candles, waking her family with singing and saffron buns.

My radio alarm clock goes off early, and after staying in bed to listen to the end of a Police song, I get up. I slip on the white, ironed nightgown that my mother has hung from the doorknob to my room. She’s done this—the ironing and the hanging—while I was sleeping.

Quietly, I walk downstairs to the kitchen and remove several saffron buns from a cookie tin and place them on a silver tray. I find matches in a drawer and contemplate the crown of candles. This is the hardest part—placing the crown of candles on my head and walking up the stairs. It requires balance, and when the wax drips down onto my scalp, it burns. I decide to carry everything up to the second floor. Then I light the candles and secure the crown on my head. I pick up the tray of saffron buns and walk into my parents’ room. Their door has conveniently been left wide open for this annual ritual. I start to sing the Santa Lucia song about how dark the night is, and my parents quickly sit up in bed. I can tell they’ve already been awake, waiting. I finish the first verse of the song and place the tray on a side table.

Sock-footed, I step into Svea’s room. She’s a heavy sleeper and hard to rouse. I’m singing loudly and the candle wax is starting to drip onto my head. Finally, I give up singing Swedish. “Wake up!” I yell. Svea sits up and I squat down, and she knows to help me blow out the candles. “Use your hands,” I say, and she cups each candle before she blows.