Page 14 of Winter Nights at the Bay Bookshop
I’d adored my little sister and was constantly amazed by her ability to find a positive spin for everything. She could easily have complained about being ill and the limitations her asthma placed on her but, instead, she focused on the gift of how many books she could devour when spending so much time resting, and all the fantastic places she could visit through the pages. I’d always liked books but it was through Pia that I became passionate about them. I spent as much time as I could with her, listening to her read or reading to her when she was too tired. One day she’d be absorbed by a book aimed at teenagers, the next she’d find joy in a toddler’s picture book and she was always eager to talk about the story, often sharing her thoughts on what happened to the characters beyond the final page. I was too young to realise it at the time but looking back on her final months, I’m convinced that the ending-beyond-the-ending was her way of exploring her own mortality and the idea that she could live on even when the final chapter closed on her own story.
I flicked back several pages to a photo taken during Pia’s only trip to Iceland. She’d been four when we spent Christmas with Pabbi’s family in Húsavík. It was my first time seeing the aurora borealis, known as the northern lights or, in Icelandic,Norðurljós. Even though I’d just turned eight, I could remember it as though it was yesterday. Mum and Pabbi had shown us photos but seeing the aurora in real life was something else. The bands of green and aqua were so vibrant as they shimmered and rolled in the sky alongside thinner ribbons of pink and purple. And the stars! I’d never seen so many stars. Pia had been as captivated as me, her mouth open as her eyes darted left and right, as though scarcely able to believe what she was seeing. I’d lifted her up – not easy when she was so bundled up in all her layers and a thick snowsuit – and the image Mum had captured and placed in the album was of the pair of us silhouetted against the lights, both pointing at the sky.
With a heavy sigh, I closed the photo album and gently placed it on top of the tallboy, feeling an overwhelming sense of loss. It would have been our little pixie’s thirty-first birthday in November. If she’d been born to term with fully developed lungs, what would our relationship have been like? My guess was exceptionally close but with merciless teasing. What career would she have chosen? Would she have found love by now? Had children? I thought of her often, acknowledging birthdays and the moments when she’d have reached a milestone like leaving school, college and graduating from university, and it hurt like hell that she’d never been able to do those things.
It didn’t feel right to confine the photo album to storage. I’d keep it at my new place and ask Mum about it when she came back. I couldn’t imagine she’d want to get rid of it, but I barely knew her anymore. She wasn’t around enough to let me. And that hurt like hell too.
* * *
‘I’m impressed!’ I exclaimed, looking round Nanna’s apartment at Bay View on Sunday morning. Pictures had been hung on the walls and everything appeared to have been unpacked. ‘I thought it’d take you longer than a week to get straight.’
‘Me too,’ Nanna said, ‘but the maintenance team have been so helpful hammering in nails and putting up shelves. I feel settled already.’
I adjusted a couple of cushions and sat down on the sofa. ‘Glad you made the move?’
‘Very, although I miss you, of course.’
‘And I miss you. It’s so quiet on my own and very echoey.’
‘What have you been doing with yourself this week?’ she asked, passing me a mug of tea.
‘I did an extra day at the library and completed our old circular walk, which was nice. I’ve been to the house a few times, made a couple of tip runs and packed up Mum’s things.’
‘Did you find somewhere to store them?’
‘I’m going to keep them in my garage. No point paying for a storage unit when I’ve got the room.’ I reached into the bag I’d bought with me. ‘I found this photo album in Mum’s drawers. It’s devoted to Pia, but I don’t remember her making it. Have you seen it before?’
Nanna flicked through the first few pages, shaking her head. ‘No, and she’s never mentioned it either. She could have done it before you both moved in with me.’ She continued working through the pages. ‘My goodness, that little girl had the most beautiful smile.’
She closed the album and handed it back to me. ‘The photos are no surprise – Jayne does, after all, live and breathe photography – but the comments are unexpected. I’ve never known her to express anything in writing.’
‘Yeah, the comments surprised me too. She’s not normally sentimental. I’m going to keep the album in the house and ask her about it when she visits.Ifshe visits.’
‘Oh, she will. I just wouldn’t hold your breath for it being over Christmas or New Year. You know she finds the thirteen days too difficult.’
There were two things I remembered Mum and Pabbi strongly agreeing on which had heavily influenced my childhood. The first was that Pia and I had to be fully bilingual – not just able to speak Icelandic fluently but to read and write it too. The second thing was that, despite living in England and recognising English traditions, we also needed to embrace Icelandic traditions, especially at Christmas. As well asJólabókaflóð, Icelanders recognised the thirteen Yule Lads –jólasveinarin Icelandic – instead of one Father Christmas. The first mischievous Yule Lad arrived on 12 December, triggering the start of thirteen days of Christmas running through to Christmas Eve, during which time children left their shoes by the window hoping that the Yule Lad arriving that night would place a gift inside if they’d been good as opposed to a rotten potato for being naughty. Pia and I loved the Yule Lads. What child wouldn’t love thirteen days of gifts, plusJólabókaflóð, and then the English tradition of putting our stockings out for Father Christmas to arrive at some point in the early hours of Christmas morning? Embracing the traditions of both cultures absolutely worked for us!
If only Mum and Pabbi had been in agreement on more than that, especially when it came to my sister. What they each considered to be best for Pia was frequently debated. Loudly. As though my sister and I couldn’t hear just because we were upstairs in bed. Pabbi wanted us to move to Húsavík, saying the air was cleaner in Iceland. Mum claimed it was too cold for Pia and she was too weak to travel anymore. Neither of them ever asked Pia what she wanted. If they had, they’d have discovered that she longed to live in a hot country, spending her days floating lazily around a pool on an inflatable dragon or unicorn and getting lost in her books.
In the months following my sister’s death, Nanna was the one who comforted me. I don’t know what I’d have done without her because Mum and Pabbi were too distracted with blaming each other, too busy instigating their divorce, too occupied with dividing up their belongings and putting our family home on the market to notice that they had an eleven-year-old son who was falling apart.
It was the evening before I was due to start at secondary school when Mum finally seemed to remember that she had another child. I was filling my new pencil case with the back-to-school stationery which Nanna had bought me from Bay Books when Mum knocked on my bedroom door and entered without invitation. She wandered over to the window and looked out into the street. I waited for her to speak and, when she didn’t, I resumed my task.
‘Are you looking forward to going up to big school tomorrow?’ she asked eventually without turning to face me.
‘Not really.’
‘Your nanna said you’ve got everything you need.’
‘She took me shopping,’ I said, wondering if she’d even registered my response to her original question.
‘I’m going away for a while.’
My stomach dropped to my feet and I felt sick. Pabbi had already left me and now Mum was leaving too. Did neither of them care about me anymore? What was I supposed to do without them?
‘When?’ I’d had to force the word out over the lump in my throat and it came out so quiet, I wasn’t sure she’d even heard it.
‘Tomorrow,’ she said, just as I was poised to ask again.
