Read Online The Tricking of Freya by Christina Sunley - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Christina Sunley
Tags: Family & Friendship, Iceland
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hack to Stefan. "So?"
"So what?"
"So, you have to admit, even a skeptic like yourself. That was a prophetic
dream."
"You know what your father would have said about it, Ingibjorg? Draum-
s ro !"
"What's draumskrok?" I asked. It was a hard word to pronounce with a
mouthful of mashed potatoes.
"Dream nonsense," Stefan explained.
Birdie left the table in a huff.
Stefan and I cleared the dishes, then I sat with him in the parlor while
he smoked his pipe. I thought maybe he was waiting for Birdie to come back downstairs, but he seemed content enough to sit there with me, side
by side on the moss green couch. He asked if I would like to light his pipe,
and then if I would blow out the match.
"You must be worried, elskan, about your mother."
I nodded, too choked to speak.
"I think she'll come out of this just fine." He draped his long arm around
my shoulders and gave a squeeze. Even though he was skinny, his body felt
solid, something I could lean against. I wondered if that's what a father
might feel like.
That night I woke screaming in my sleep. A sheep was biting at my ankles
with its rubbery black lips. Birdie heard me cry out and came to me from
the next room. "A sheep dream?" she asked. I must have spoken in my
sleep. I nodded.
"Oh, those sheep dreams can be awful. I know. But think about it, baby.
Those sheep never hurt a soul."
During the week my mother was in the hospital, I woke at least once a
night with bad dreams. I dreamt Amma Sigga fell out of my maple tree. I
dreamt the ambulance men were piling broken cups onto stretchers and racing them out the door. If I woke screaming, Birdie would soon appear at my
bedside. "I'm gonna wash that dream right out of your head," she'd sing, and
scrub my scalp with her fingers like she was giving me a shampoo.
One night I dreamt that my mother was curled in a ball floating on the
lake. I didn't call out. I woke up silent. I went across the hall to Birdie's
room. She wasn't typing, for once. She was sitting on her bed, looking out
the window. I stood next to her. We could see the full moon above the lake,
its reflection floating on the surface. Birdie was crying. I knew why without
asking.
"It's not your fault," I said, stroking her lank blond hair. "It was that
fylgja."
As each day passed that Mama didn't wake up, Birdie sank further into
gloom. The house smelled close, days of dishes heaped in the sink. I'd
been wearing the same clothes every day. I had no clean underwear. Who
needs underwear? Gloom-Birdie said. I hadn't had a bath. I'd eaten no vegetables. Mama would not be happy. But Mama didn't know. Mama
was sleeping.
Time passed slowly. I wandered the house, into the bedroom Mama had
shared with Sigga. I opened her dresser drawers and took out each item-the
simple cotton blouses, the knee-high stockings-and refolded them clumsily.
I climbed into her bed and discovered underneath the pillow her nightgown
with the embroidery across the chest. If her nightgown was here, then what
was she wearing in the hospital? I wrapped the gown around Foxy so I could
sleep with it at night. Tracing the embroidery with my fingers, I wondered if
the doctors were trying hard enough to wake Mama up. Couldn't someone let
loose a super scream into Mama's ear? Or jump up and down on her bed?
Mama's best friend, Vera, told me on the phone that God would be the one to
wake Mama up. I imagined him with his great white beard and a megaphone:
TIME TO WAKE UP! TIME TO WAKE UP!
How could Mama eat and drink if she was sleeping all the time? Was
she dreaming? Was she lonely? Did she miss me in her sleep?
"Mama tucks me in every night," I instructed Birdie. "Mama sings me
the church songs. Mama tells me to brush my teeth."
"Mama does this," Birdie mimicked. "Mama does that."
Through the gaps in the lace curtains I caught sparkling glimpses of day.
Sometimes Birdie got sick of my moping and ordered me to play in the yard.
I'd stand on the lawn
"So what?"
"So, you have to admit, even a skeptic like yourself. That was a prophetic
dream."
"You know what your father would have said about it, Ingibjorg? Draum-
s ro !"
"What's draumskrok?" I asked. It was a hard word to pronounce with a
mouthful of mashed potatoes.
"Dream nonsense," Stefan explained.
Birdie left the table in a huff.
Stefan and I cleared the dishes, then I sat with him in the parlor while
he smoked his pipe. I thought maybe he was waiting for Birdie to come back downstairs, but he seemed content enough to sit there with me, side
by side on the moss green couch. He asked if I would like to light his pipe,
and then if I would blow out the match.
"You must be worried, elskan, about your mother."
I nodded, too choked to speak.
"I think she'll come out of this just fine." He draped his long arm around
my shoulders and gave a squeeze. Even though he was skinny, his body felt
solid, something I could lean against. I wondered if that's what a father
might feel like.
That night I woke screaming in my sleep. A sheep was biting at my ankles
with its rubbery black lips. Birdie heard me cry out and came to me from
the next room. "A sheep dream?" she asked. I must have spoken in my
sleep. I nodded.
"Oh, those sheep dreams can be awful. I know. But think about it, baby.
Those sheep never hurt a soul."
During the week my mother was in the hospital, I woke at least once a
night with bad dreams. I dreamt Amma Sigga fell out of my maple tree. I
dreamt the ambulance men were piling broken cups onto stretchers and racing them out the door. If I woke screaming, Birdie would soon appear at my
bedside. "I'm gonna wash that dream right out of your head," she'd sing, and
scrub my scalp with her fingers like she was giving me a shampoo.
One night I dreamt that my mother was curled in a ball floating on the
lake. I didn't call out. I woke up silent. I went across the hall to Birdie's
room. She wasn't typing, for once. She was sitting on her bed, looking out
the window. I stood next to her. We could see the full moon above the lake,
its reflection floating on the surface. Birdie was crying. I knew why without
asking.
"It's not your fault," I said, stroking her lank blond hair. "It was that
fylgja."
As each day passed that Mama didn't wake up, Birdie sank further into
gloom. The house smelled close, days of dishes heaped in the sink. I'd
been wearing the same clothes every day. I had no clean underwear. Who
needs underwear? Gloom-Birdie said. I hadn't had a bath. I'd eaten no vegetables. Mama would not be happy. But Mama didn't know. Mama
was sleeping.
Time passed slowly. I wandered the house, into the bedroom Mama had
shared with Sigga. I opened her dresser drawers and took out each item-the
simple cotton blouses, the knee-high stockings-and refolded them clumsily.
I climbed into her bed and discovered underneath the pillow her nightgown
with the embroidery across the chest. If her nightgown was here, then what
was she wearing in the hospital? I wrapped the gown around Foxy so I could
sleep with it at night. Tracing the embroidery with my fingers, I wondered if
the doctors were trying hard enough to wake Mama up. Couldn't someone let
loose a super scream into Mama's ear? Or jump up and down on her bed?
Mama's best friend, Vera, told me on the phone that God would be the one to
wake Mama up. I imagined him with his great white beard and a megaphone:
TIME TO WAKE UP! TIME TO WAKE UP!
How could Mama eat and drink if she was sleeping all the time? Was
she dreaming? Was she lonely? Did she miss me in her sleep?
"Mama tucks me in every night," I instructed Birdie. "Mama sings me
the church songs. Mama tells me to brush my teeth."
"Mama does this," Birdie mimicked. "Mama does that."
Through the gaps in the lace curtains I caught sparkling glimpses of day.
Sometimes Birdie got sick of my moping and ordered me to play in the yard.
I'd stand on the lawn
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