Let the Northern Lights Erase Your Name (18 page)

My mother’s vagina was covered with blond-gray hairs. I used to watch her dress while hiding under her bed. Even then, the hair had been gray. I’d study the scar from her C-section.

That’s where I came from
, I’d say to myself. I wanted to know what she looked like naked now, to see what my body would look like at her age, after carrying a child. I wanted to know how close to death she was.

I sat in the sauna for half an hour. I pictured her face and tried to spit, but the heat had dried my tongue. I ran my fingers over my body—I hadn’t thought of it in days. Lifting my legs, one at a time, I examined my thighs, my calves. I touched my stomach and imagined a small swell.

And then I recalled something I’d read once when I was researching Jeremy’s condition. How overheating during pregnancy could cause birth defects. I ran out of the sauna and into the dressing room.

“Shit,” I screamed to the room, to the steamed mirrors, to the chairs circled around me. The heat had gone to my head, affecting my balance. Pulling on my long underwear, I toppled. My hand broke my fall. Pain shot like static through my wrist and up my forearm.

“Shit, shit, shit.”

I sprinted out of the sauna hut. The cold paddled my face. Down below, past the cabin, the dogs barked crazily. It was clear how someone could be deafened by their cries.

Inside the cabin, Peter and Olaf were drinking beer. So much had happened, and they were sitting where I had left them. Olaf

had taken off his hat, and I was surprised to see he was bald. He looked ancient, ugly without his hat, ridiculous as it was.

“Where’s Olivia?” I asked. I was certain she was gone. “She’s feeding the dogs,” Peter said.

“She say we stay for dinner,” Olaf said.

“Of course,” I said.
Of course she doesn’t want to be alone with me.

I stepped up to the living-room window to look out below. The dogs were chained to their individual dog huts, waiting for food. My mother, with a flashlight on her forehead, was slicing something, doling it into various bowls.

“What do they eat?” I asked, my back still turned to the men.� “Tonight, frozen salmon,” Peter said.�

“Who gets served first?” I watched my mother bypass a �

barking dog. “The lead dogs?”

“The dog that begs little,” Peter said.

My mother returned to the house, pounding her feet on the doormat. She liked to make an entrance. Once inside, she busied herself in the kitchen.

“Can I help?” I said.

“No, why don’t you sit in the living room and relax,” she said. She saw my offer for what it was—another attempt to be close to her.

“Taft’s dead, by the way,” I said.

“Who?” She was peeling a carrot. “Taft. The cat that lived next door.”

“Oh, that’s too bad,” she said. I watched her hand—she continued peeling the carrot without pause.

“I ran him over,” I said.

“I need to concentrate on dinner,” she said. “Are you on drugs?” I said.

“You poor thing,” she said. “You always tried so hard to get a reaction from me.” She shook her head. “Can you put another log on the fire?”

At dinner, I was seated across from her, but she avoided my stare. She winced as she removed her leather thumb-protector and placed it on her lap. On the table, she had set out salmon, bread, rice, and a small salad.

“Wine?” she offered, looking at the salmon.

Peter and Olaf said yes, and she brought out a box. The way she removed the nozzle from inside the box was pornographic. I couldn’t watch.

“Did you like Ice Hotel?” Peter asked.

“It’s fine,” I said. “It’s pretty, I guess.” It seemed a year since I’d been there.

“Expensive,” Olaf said.

“Sure,” my mother said. “But we should be happy. The tourists there pay our bills.”

She raised a glass, and Peter and Olaf clinked theirs against hers.

Olaf turned his glass toward me.

“I’m drinking water,” I said. He took this as sufficient explanation.

“You don’t want wine?” Peter asked. He was leaning back in his chair, playing the man of the house.

“No thanks,” I said. “I’m pregnant.” I hadn’t planned on saying this, but suddenly I wanted my mother to know.

“Congratulations,” Peter said.

“Yes, congratulations,” my mother said. “I miss what you say,” Olaf said.

Peter said something to Olaf in Norwegian.

“Very good,” Olaf said. He raised his glass toward me again. This time, I clinked mine against his to avoid having to avoid him.

“Who’s the father?” my mother asked. “My fiancé,” I said. “Pankaj.”

“Is he Indian?” she asked. “He’s Gita’s son,” I said. “Oh,” she said.

“She’s doing fine,” I said. “I’ll tell her you said hello.” “I’m confused,” Peter said.

“Any suggestions for mothering?” I said, ignoring Peter. “No suggestions, really,” my mother said. “People should

act as they see fit.”

Olaf asked her something in Norwegian, and she answered. My mother had learned Norwegian. Peter joined in, and soon they were speaking Norwegian for the rest of the conversation. I couldn’t avoid staring at my mother. At the way she occasionally looked down at her body to make sure she hadn’t spilled anything on her snug black sweater. At the way she

laughed too hard at the things Peter said.

Peter’s face was red with drink. Maybe with love. With one hand, he held a wineglass; I couldn’t see the other hand. I deliberately dropped my napkin and bent down to retrieve it. Under the table, I expected to see his hand on my mother’s thigh, but it was hanging limply by the side of his chair.

At the end of dinner, the men helped clean up. Then they each steadied themselves with a hand on the wall as they put on their boots. My mother hugged them both good-bye. I had the impression that if Peter weren’t there, if he weren’t my mother’s boss, she would have asked Olaf to take me back to the hotel that night.

“I come tomorrow at eight,” Olaf said to me, and pointed to his wrist, where a watch would be if he were wearing one.

“You can sleep in whichever one you want,” my mother said, gesturing to the room of bunk beds. Each bed had a sleeping bag at its foot.

“Where do you usually sleep?” I asked.

“I’m going to sleep on the couch in the living room tonight,” she said instead of answering my question. “I’m so tired I’ll probably fall asleep right away. You can stay up with the lights on in that room.”

I chose the bed that was the closest one to the doorless doorway between bunk room and living room.

My mother used the outhouse, paired the socks that had hung from the clothesline above the furnace, and washed her face and brushed her teeth in the kitchen sink. Between her thumb and forefinger, she extinguished every candle but the ones by my bed and the couch. I was sitting on the bottom bunk, watching her. She was wearing long underwear now, and I could make out her sharp nipples, the circles of fat that seemed to have settled above her thin knees.

“Good night,” she said, as she lay down on the couch. If I strained my neck, I could see the lower half of her body. It was nine, too early to sleep. We both knew that. She blew out her candle.

“Richard died two weeks ago,” I said into the darkness of the living room.

There was a long pause. “I’m sorry to hear that,” she said.

A puddle of wax had formed at the base of the candle by my bed. I dipped my finger in the wax and waited for it to dry. I did this with each finger until all were coated. I clenched my fists and watched the wax crack.

I woke to the sound of whimpers. Fumbling for matches, I lit a candle and carried it to the couch. My mother was sitting up, her head cradled in her hand. I knelt in front of her. She was crying, her fingertips pressed into her eyelids. The sleeping bag was gathered at her waist, so it appeared she was wriggling out of its cocoon. I made my way around the coffee table and sat next to her. She didn’t look at me. I could hear her inhales, little gulps, her frequent swallows. I could smell her tooth-paste, something like licorice. I stayed near her, watching the profile of her face, her shiny cheek, the rip in her earlobe.

I moved closer. Our knees were touching.

“You have no idea what I’ve been through,” she said, finally facing me. In the candlelight, her face was both frightened and haunting.

“Tell me,” I said.

She turned her head, shifted her knees away from me. I put my hand on hers. “Ouch,” she cried out. It was her left hand.

“I’m sorry,” I said.

“Go back to bed or get out,” she said.

I stood and lifted the candle to guide my way.

In the morning, I woke to the sounds of springs sighing and my mother’s socked feet hitting the floor. “Here we go again,” she said to herself. I slithered out of my sleeping bag.

“I’m putting on coffee,” she announced. She showed no sign of anything having transpired between us.

She glanced at her watch. An hour until I was out of her life. “I need to feed the dogs,” she said.

I nodded. I knew she would make feeding them take longer than required. I walked to the window. Wet snow lined the sill. My mother was laughing as she fed biscuits to the animals. From a distance, in her motorcycle pants and with her smile, she looked my age.

When she returned to the cabin, she was humming a song I couldn’t identify. She used to hum songs no one knew the words to, because she didn’t want anyone joining in.

She placed a plate of toast and cheese on the table.� “Olaf will be here soon,” she said.�

“Can I ask you something?”�

She shrugged as she buttered her toast.� “Who was my father?”�

Her eye twitched.�

“Richard,” she said after a moment. Her voice was soft, �

without its usual edge.

“No,” I said. “Who was my father? Richard wasn’t my father.”

“He told you that?” she said, feigning outrage.

“No,” I said. “I met Eero Valkeapää, your first husband.” She put down her bread. “Have you been playing detective?” “At least I’m fairly positive he was your first husband.

Maybe there have been others.”

“Did Eero know I was here?” “No,” I said.

A look of disappointment crossed over her face. “He was always so out of it,” she said. “But he probably told you the truth. Eero is your real father.”

I shook my head. “No, I know what kind of person my real father was.” I looked at her hard, and she stared at me. Her expression shifted from disbelief to indignation.

“Do you know who he was?” I asked. For the first time I could remember, I felt stronger than my mother.

She stood up, she sat down. She grabbed the hair at the nape of her neck and released it.

“I did,” she said. “That’s why I didn’t report it. We were all working toward the same goal.”

“Protesting the dam.”

“Yes.” She seemed surprised that I knew. “He was sick in the head,” she said as she scratched her neck.

I stared at her.

She took my plate, and I followed her into the kitchen. She turned the faucet on and threw the dishes in the sink with a sudden clatter.

“Please,” I said. “Stop cleaning.”

She turned off the water. I was surprised. “So you forgave him?”

“You want to talk about forgiveness?” she said. She faked a laugh. “You probably believe in redemption, too. He did himself enough harm. He tried to blow up a bridge a week after

another man tried. He blew off his hand, lost one eye or both. I don’t know.”

Sweat slid down the backs of my arms.

“An eye for an eye,” she whispered, as though it was her own private joke.

“Was he from Kautokeino?” She nodded.

“Was his mother’s name Anna Kristine?” “I don’t know. Some kind of witch doctor.” “Not a witch doctor, a healer,” I said. “Same thing.”

My body couldn’t have moved if I had willed it to. Anna Kristine had sought me out.

My mother started cleaning again. Forks and knives squealed against the counter. For a moment, she looked so small, so sad. Her motorcycle pants, folded into cuffs at the ankles, were too long for her legs. She lived by herself with eight dogs above the Arctic Circle, on the verge of deafness. I wanted to have known her before the night on the river.

“You poor woman,” I said.

“Don’t feel sorry for me,” she said. “Being patronizing is just a way to make yourself feel better. That’s why I left Inari. I was being patronized. I was the woman who was raped. And you were the rape baby. I couldn’t do that for the rest of my life. You should be glad I left.”

“But how did people know?”

“Even if they didn’t know, Eero knew. That was bad enough.

It made him pathetic. His wife raped, and he raises the child. I couldn’t look at that kind of man.”

I thought of Eero, how much he would have loved me. “People pretend things didn’t happen. Or so what, they

happened, it’s okay. Well, it’s never okay. It’s always ruined.”

She finished cleaning. She dried her hands on the back of her leather pants. “We’re done,” she said.

Outside, the headlights of Olaf’s approaching snowmobile shuddered across the windows. He was early.

It was over. My time with her was over.

Olaf stomped his feet on the mat outside and stepped in, bringing all the cold of the world.

“How you find it?” he asked.

“I didn’t get as much out of it as I had hoped,” I said. “You have to lower your expectations,” my mother said.

Olaf made a production of looking uncomfortable. “It is custom to tip Olivia,” he said to me.

I searched for what I would leave her. In the bottom of my bag, I found a letter I had composed to the child growing inside me. I had written it after tearing up the first draft. This version was more to the point.
I promise to never disappear
, it said.

I rolled up the letter. As I left the cabin, I handed it to my mother. She would read it later.

“Bye,” I said.�

“I don’t expect you to understand,” my mother said.� “Say my name,” I said.�

“What?”� “Just say it.”�

She paused and looked not at my nose, but at me. “Good�- bye, Clarissa,” she said.