“I don’t care if you’re polka-dotted.” He came up behind her, put his arms around her, his arms resting under her breasts, staring at their reflection in the mirror.
Us.
She and I are an us.
He searched his head and his heart, but he didn’t feel the old rising panic at the thought, and it was liberating. He leaned around and pressed his lips to the pulse point in her neck, then rested his chin on her much-shorter shoulder as she reached up to hold onto his arms. She tilted her head and smiled at him, sunlight shining off the lenses of the thick glasses that she’d been wearing the first day he met her, and he smiled back at her.
Midsommardagen would certainly be interesting.
Chapter 13
When Erik was six years old, his father had taken him and his brothers to Big Sky Mountain for his very first day of downhill skiing. That fall Nils had turned eleven and their father had decided he could supervise Lars, which cleared the way for Erik to have his father’s attention and instruction.
But, at six years old, Erik knew he didn’t have the same non-stop adrenaline gene that his older brothers had. When his parents divided to conquer parenting their offspring, Erik was often left behind with Jenny and his Mamma while the older boys joined their father for weekend adventures. Exciting for them. But Erik, who listened to stories of their escapades, felt deeply grateful that he’d been “left” at home. No part of him grieved that he was missing out on skiing or snowboarding, ice fishing or long, cold hikes in the snow to see wildlife. He was content to stay behind with his mother and sister, happy to be surrounded by their loving warmth, stories, baking, crafts, and hot cocoa.
So, sitting in the back of his father’s station wagon headed to Big Sky, he felt covered, surrounded, infused with dread. Aside from the fact that he had no interest spending the day skiing, he simply wasn’t as physically adroit as his older brothers, lacking their coordination and strength. It was going to be a disaster.
Many times he overheard his Mamma ask his Pappa after one of these sorts of manly excursions, “And my Minste?”
Erik was all too familiar with the hope in her voice, and the awkward response his father would offer, something quiet and embarrassed along the lines of: “Oh, he’ll get there. He’ll get there someday. He’s a Lindstrom.”
Big Sky Mountain loomed like a frozen monster in the distance, closer and closer, challenging Erik to fall, to fail, to embarrass his Pappa. He wished he was anywhere but here, headed to certain doom, where he would prove, once again, with embarrassing finality, that he wasn’t the Lindstrom Nils and Lars were. He was consigned to be Minste, the littlest Lindstrom, the biggest disappointment.
His stomach rolled over as he stared with increasing panic out the window, occasionally distracted by Lars leaning forward to smack the back of Nils’s head in the front seat. Nils’s long arms would reach back and grab whatever flailing body part of Lars he came in contact with first, gripping and twisting it mercilessly until Lars cried out in pain.
“Cut it out, boys. Nils, sit up. Lars? Touch him again and you’ll feel my hand later.” His Pappa looked at Erik in the rearview mirror. “You ready for your first day of skiing, Minste?”
“Ja, Pappa.”
Nils looked back at him with sympathetic eyes and an encouraging smile. It occurred to Erik that Nils was so much older he might see things clearly. He might even understand. “You’ll do great, Erik.”
“Wait ‘til he feels the rush of wind in his hair,” said Pappa, grinning at Nils in agreement.
“More like the rush of the snow in your face when you tank, scaredy-cat.” Lars elbowed him.
Erik looked away in misery, leaning as close as possible to the door, trying to keep his body out of Lars’s reach.
“Shut up, Lars,” Nils said. “Everyone falls at first. I remember a few crybaby tears during your first run.” Nils chortled then turned to Erik. “Try to stay up, little brother. You’re a Lindstrom.”
“That’s right. Erik’s a Lindstrom. Lindstroms ski. Been skiing since we got to Montana and long before that in the old country. Our people skied Åre before it was fancy. Before it was the Aspen of Sweden. Erik’s got skiing in his blood and his bones.”
Erik gulped at the firm, hopeful tone of his father’s voice. He wanted to bawl like a baby. I’m going to fall and he’s going to see it again: I’m just Minste, the disappointing one, the littlest, the worst.
“Lars, you’re to stay with Nils. You’re a pair. Nils, I better not see you come down that mountain without your lillebror on your wing. We’ll all stay on Eastern Exposure for today. Green trails, Nils.”
Nils groaned at this, muttering something about dragging a baby along.
“I’m not a baby, Pappa,” whined Lars. “I can do the blue ones.”
“Oh, yeah?” Nils said. “Well, I can do the black ones. Pappa and me even did a double black last weekend when you were sick at home, baby. I’d be doin’ them today if’n I wasn’t babysitting you, Lars.”
“There’s enough of that, Nils. It’ll be green for today. I need to concentrate on Erik and can’t be distracted worrying about my other boys. Mind me now, Nils, you boys go up and come down as much as you like, but you stay on the green. I catch you on the lift going up to the summit, you’ll feel my hand later, son.”
Nils nodded, and turned around to face Lars. “You hear that, Lars? Green. And I’m in charge. You follow me or you’ll feel Pappa’s hand.”
His father had caught his eyes in the rearview mirror
