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“Ronja,” Peter said quietly.
Her mind rewound to her original plan for America. To live in Mora. The map she’d bought all those months ago—where was it now? Ronja sensed Peter’s presence close in. She smelled his aftershave and felt his breath on her cheek. “Well, that confirms her misunderstanding,” he said.
Ronja opened her eyes, masking her voice with indifference. “Do what you want with her, with any woman, I don’t care.”
Peter said with force, “Don’t you?”
Ronja lowered her eyes to Ulla.
“Min lilla fågel, will I never be able to hold onto you?” he whispered in a constricted voice.
My little bird. Something shifted inside of Ronja.
“Let’s be a real family.” He lowered a kiss onto Ulla’s head and then gently pressed his lips on Ronja’s cheek. “Stay with me, and I promise you’ll never have to tell another lie as long as you live.”
She felt the electricity of his mouth near hers. “And what about you?”
“I believe everything I say.”
“Pet—” His deep kiss silenced her protest. Ronja felt Ulla nestled comfortably between them, still latched to her breast, releasing a tiny, contented grunt.
The hospital nurses taught Ronja how to breastfeed and change a diaper. So why did she feel useless at caring for an infant?
And what about the pain? When Ulla nursed that first week, Ronja sobbed in agony. It felt as if she were having labor contractions again when her milk let down. The only thing that would keep Ulla quiet was to nurse her. And nurse her evermore.
The bassinet Peter had bought and assembled sat unused in the apartment that Bridget had vacated, leaving Ronja with two men. Ronja held Ulla day and night. As long as she remained in Ronja’s arms, then surely nothing terrible would befall her. Peter and Leo tried helping, but Ulla would squawk once away from Ronja. And what if the men dropped her! So in Ronja’s arms, Ulla stayed. Ronja, therefore, persisted in a sleep-deprived haze between waking and lucid dreaming, besieged with despair that she might never be able to take a shower.
A hospital nurse told Ronja she’d eventually stop bleeding, but Ronja thought maybe she was hemorrhaging to death. Then who would take care of Ulla? She called the nurses’ line several times to make sure. Finally, a home nurse came and commanded Ronja to nap while she, the nurse, watched the baby. Ronja, with bloodshot eyes and greasy hair, surrendered.
It was Peter who gently nudged Ronja awake and asked if she wanted to take a bath. Ronja bolted upright. The room was dark. How long had she slept? Her breasts ached and were swollen to her armpits, leaking milk. “Where’s Ulla?”
He smiled, put a finger to his lips, and lowered his gaze to the swaddled bundle that fit in the crook of his arm. Ronja saw Ulla’s perfect face and puckered lips in blissful serenity. Peter whispered with a wink, “She might smell you and wake up. Hurry.”
Every hour at night, when Ronja awoke and nursed Ulla in bed, she’d look over and find Peter sleeping next to them. He left for work these days later and came home earlier. She grew re-accustomed to the scent of his cologne on the linens.
Six weeks passed, and Ronja, nursing Ulla in the passenger seat of Peter’s new Ford Falcon on a frigid day, watched as he drove past ornately crafted houses with multiple wraparound porches and detailed turrets. He parked in front of a modest yet no-less-opulent brownstone. It was nestled high on the bluffs overlooking the valley near the Walker Art Museum.
She hugged Ulla to her breast, buttoned inside her oversized wool coat, as Peter led them inside. He toured each room, detailing its function, what he envisioned, and which room was perfect for Ulla. There was even a servant staircase and a dumbwaiter. It had sparse furnishings, save for a scratched dining room ensemble. “I thought you could decorate,” he said.
Ronja laughed. “You know the only part of the house I care for is outside.”
Peter cocked a knowing grin. “I saved the best for last.” The garage. It matched the brick and stone of the home. She gasped. “We could fit two cars in here!” Her delightful giggles spewed puffs into the February air.
Peter beamed and rubbed her shoulders with his gloved hands. “Our neighbor has a T-bird that’s sitting damaged in his driveway. He’s had the best mechanics come look it over, even put in a new engine, and it won’t run. I asked if I could buy it because my wife would know how to fix it.”
“Seriously?” She landed a playful slug into his stomach over his thick coat. “And don’t call me your wife.”
Peter’s grin briefly slipped before he recovered. “That’s not the best part.”
“What is it?”
His chest swelled. “He didn’t believe me. Said if he saw with his own two eyes that a woman could fix a car, he’d give it to you for free.”
Winter lifted its shackles in March and so did Ronja’s new-mother anxiety. During the first weeks in their home, delivery men waded in with plush upholstered couches and chairs, a console television, four-poster beds, antique hutches, rugs, oil paintings, dishes, a crib for Ulla—that Ronja doubted she’d ever use—and a blue Gendron baby stroller with thin large wheels. That, she might use. Unlike the apartment with Bridget and Leo, where every amenity was within a few blocks, it was at least two miles to the nearest grocery store and another three to the library. The only other hindrance to the stroller was the melting snow piled on curbs that she’d have to muscle through.
But if it was certain to be at least forty degrees, Ronja bundled Ulla in mounds of blankets and went to the library, making the hour’s walk to and from. She dallied amongst the book aisles, mostly the children’s section. She read from piles until Ulla fell asleep on her chest, or until Ronja’s breasts screamed and leaked. She learned to time library outings with feedings. But in those moments when Ulla was content and dozing, Ronja would continue reading from the stack of children’s literature: Charlotte’s Web, Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland, James and the Giant Peach, The Little Prince.
On one occasion, a mother entered with her baby wrapped to her chest in an elaborate configuration of fabric, allowing freedom of both hands. A rare, bittersweet memory sprouted: Ronja, at seven years of age, her mother wearing her baby sister. She shook the memory free, but not the opportunity, and struck up a conversation with the woman because Ronja’s biceps were lopsided, the left one meatier from always holding Ulla while her dominant right attended to daily tasks. The woman wrapped Ulla into Ronja and told her to keep the bärsele, she had another at home.
