Page 15

“No, he cannot,” Ronja replied, raising a defiant brow at Peter, who didn’t object, simply crossed a leg over one knee and squeaked further into the plastic seat.

After the nurse took her vital signs, the doctor entered. He appeared young, with his smooth white skin and brown mustache. He examined her and frowned after studying the head wound. “Good stitches. Should heal up, but what happened?”

She waited a beat. “Accident.”

He finished the history and physical, told her she’d need to come back in a week, and had her pee in a cup. The nurse wrote a phone number on letterhead while Ronja finished dressing, and she followed her out to the waiting area where Peter flipped through a Reader’s Digest. The nurse handed the paper to Peter. To Ronja, she said casually, “We’ll call you with the results of your pregnancy test, but, if you don’t hear back in a few days, give us a ring.”

Peter’s wide eyes locked onto Ronja’s.

He silently held the passenger door of the taxicab for her, making Ronja duck underneath his outstretched arm. He settled in but kept a fair distance while she hugged the opposite end. He’d said nothing about the nurse’s faux pas, but she felt him mentally snap the pieces into place, working out the answer. The possibilities. There was no need for a test to confirm the pregnancy. When she absentmindedly put a hand to her stomach, Ronja felt his eyes land there as well. She removed it, tucked a curl behind her ear. She pressed her forehead against the warm glass, heated by the afternoon sun, and closed her eyes to cage the tears.

Ronja opened them when the car came to a full stop, and the driver shifted into park. Red and tan brick buildings were stacked next to one another. A white sign ran across a window: Mike’s Groceries and Meats. On the corner: Adam’s Dry Cleaning. Next door: Lucky’s Liquors.

Peter paid the driver, got out, and opened Ronja’s door. She welcomed the help from him this time. Her stomach was fighting her again. She bit down the sourness and blinked her eyes rapidly to refocus her drifting head.

As if sensing her weakness, Peter circled his arm around her waist and walked them into a building that appeared to be a set of apartments.

They mounted a threadbare, carpeted staircase. Each step summoned ghostly fumes of fiber-embedded cigarette smoke. “Where are we?” she asked in Swedish, knotting her fingers through her tote.

“You’ll see.”

They walked down a dank hallway past the first door. Faint music with scratchy guitar chords came from underneath the crack, along with someone belting, “The answer my friend . . . is blowin’ in the wind . . . ” They stopped at the second door, and Peter knocked.

Weighty footsteps made a slow climax toward the entry. A man’s deep voice rumbled from the other side, “You forget your key again?” A chain rattled, and a deadbolt clicked. It opened to reveal a large, bald man. His light, tawny skin was wrinkle-free, he wore a gold earring in one lobe, and a tattoo covered the entire left side of his skinned head. It looked like a lizard, or maybe a dragon inked in black, with initials. Ronja leaned into Peter.

The man’s eyes went first to Ronja, then rested on Peter. “You’re not Bridget.” His deep baritone laugh was as enormous as he was. Ronja felt its vibrations in her chest.

“You must be Peter.” He extended his massive hand. “I’m Leo. My Uncle Gabby told me about you. Parla italiano?”

“Alquanto,” Peter replied in rudimentary Italian, accepting the handshake, and the two men shared a laugh like old chums. In English, Peter introduced Ronja.

“Ron-ya! Ha, that’s how you say it? Welcome to your new home, Ronja,” Leo said boisterously.

Strange. Peter rarely introduced either of them using their real first names. This was the second time in a row now, if she counted a couple of nights ago in Stockholm.

From behind, dainty footsteps skittered toward them. “Leo, look what I found for our new friends!”

Leo spread his arms. “There’s my girl!”

Ronja turned to see a petite, fleshy woman in a low-cut striped jumper, holding a six-pack of beer in one hand and a bottle of Captain Morgan in the other. Her mouth worked a wad of gum as she smiled and raked her eyes over Peter.

The sight of alcohol triggered Ronja’s gag reflex. The walls narrowed in on her, and though her stomach was nearly empty, it erupted. She slammed a hand over her mouth.

Peter cursed, grabbed Ronja, and hauled her inside, dragging her over to the kitchen sink.

She retched into it. Bridget swore, and Leo delivered a few soft cuss words, but he patted Ronja’s shoulder in sympathy, and, with Peter’s help, gently guided her to sit on the linoleum floor. Bridget ran the tap and kneeled in front with a dishrag, her short brown ringlets falling over her pale forehead. A strong perfume wafted toward Ronja, threatening more vomit.

“Does she need a doctor?” Leo asked as Bridget patted Ronja’s lips.

Ronja’s vision cleared for a moment onto Peter’s disconcerted eyes. She gazed past him into a living room with stained beige carpeting. A television sat opposite a couch with holes left by cigarette burns, and next to it, a worn-out armchair. On the television screen, a western show played on low volume.

Bridget popped her fruity-scented gum and said to Ronja, “So what is it, honey? Sick? Or pregnant?”

They placed Ronja into a bedroom, and she rested on a scratchy patchwork quilt that smelled of cedar. The light in the room was muted by the heavy, flowery curtains that were drawn. A foreign anxiety rippled through her limbs. Pregnant. Would Peter insist on an abortion? Was it legal in America? He set down a green box of crackers and a glass of water and crouched at eye level. He gently removed a tress from her forehead.

“I hate you,” she whispered to him, and they spoke to one another in Swedish.

“I know,” he conceded. “But I can take care of you.” He placed a tentative hand on her stomach. “Both of you.” And there was her answer.