Page 68 of Fourth Base with the Alpha
“You are Hjalmar?” she asks me in Swedish. “Klara said you were coming.”
“Yes, I am.” She squints up at me and it’s the usual story, that flicker of recollection as she tries to place me. She fails and thank God for that small blessing. “Can I see him?”
She nods. “He’s been quiet this morning. Just don’t …” she searches for the diplomatic word, “rattle him.”
“I’ll try,” I say, knowing that will be beyond my control.
I see his room has changed as we step through. The large double bed that used to dominate the room had been replaced by a smaller hospital one and there is other medical equipment in the room now, the surface of the oak chest of drawers covered with medicines.
My father’s propped up on an armchair by the window, a blanket hung around his shoulders, spectacles balanced on the bridge of his nose and the newspaper spread across his knees.
He doesn’t look up when we enter and it’s not until we’re standing right in front of him and I say, “Hej Pappa!” that he looks up.
He squints at me with the same perplexed expression the nurse had used, but recognition finally dawns over his face. I’m not sure whether I’m relieved or disappointed.
If he hadn’t known who I was, perhaps this would have been easier.
“Hjalmar,” he says with a frown. “Where have you been? You’re late.”
I go to argue but Isabella interjects.
She steps forward and crouches down by his chair, her hands resting on his arm. “I’m sorry. That’s my fault. I was admiring your lovely home.”
My father blinks at her but already I can see his features softening. My father never could resist an omega and Isabella’s scent is calming, unthreatening, unlike my own, all tense and on edge.
“Who are you?” he asks her in Swedish.
“This is Isabella, Pappa,” I tell him in English.
“Isabella,” he says, patting her cheek. “What a beautiful name. You’re Italian?”
“American.”
My father snatches his glasses off his face and glowers my way.
I’m not a little boy anymore – shit, I haven’t been little for a long time – and my father has withered away in the year since I last saw him. He’s thin and frail and deep lines scrawl over his face. Yet, it doesn’t matter. I feel as if I’m 5 again, waiting for whatever comes next.
“Ahhh America. Why Hjalmar wanted to leave for that country I’ll never understand.”
“To pursue my career,” I answer stiffly.
He’s never once asked me about it. At first I’d send him updates on how I was doing. I told him when we formed the band. Told him when we secured our record contract. Told him the first time our record went platinum. He never responded. Not once. I gave up in the end. What was the point?
“That guitar,” he mutters.
“Bass.”
“Could never stand that awful racket. Bloody awful.”
“I think he plays beautifully,” Isabella says, beaming up at me. “His fingers are like magic.”
“Even better than Jack Mansion fromThe Clouds?”
“Tsk, a million times better than that guy.”
My father looks between us. “Have you mated her?” he blurts out.
Isabella laughs. “He has not. It’s a bit early for talk of that kind.”
