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Overwhelmed at the generosity, and feeling confident with Ulla secured to her body, Ronja took the city bus to the bank. She presented her information and signature to the worker who then handed over the safe deposit box. Ronja checked her surroundings, never satisfied that Peter’s shadow was far, and went into a tiny room with Ulla. When she opened the box, the horse gleamed back. It pierced her heart and swelled her eyes. She spoke to Ulla in Swedish, running her infant daughter’s fingers over the jewels on the horse’s saddle. “This is going to be all yours someday, min lilla älskling.”

Ronja left the bank that day buoyed by the Dala horse’s safety. Yet despite her lavish surroundings, daily walks, and city bus trips, she pined for independence, unconvinced of Peter’s promises. She thought of the damaged baby blue T-bird in the neighbor’s driveway. She walked by it every day, neglected with heaps of snow on top, and showing a hint of rust on the tire rims.

Ronja bundled Ulla in the wrap and marched toward the neighbor’s, determined to make the car hers.

Chapter Eleven

July 1969 – January 1970

Three Months Later

Ronja

Ulla was six months old when Ronja resumed working at Thomas’ Autobody. She promised to never get pregnant again. She didn’t point out the stupid irony that Thomas had kicked her out with a large pregnant belly but now allowed her to strap Ulla onto her body or plop her into a playpen while she fixed cars. What men would make into dirty mysteries!

She did indeed fix the neighbor’s T-bird. It was not hard. It only needed a timing belt from an alternative car manufacturer that no one but Ronja bothered to hunt down. Surprisingly true to his word, the neighbor handed over the title and keys. The first time she drove it with Ulla in her lap, Ronja almost made it to Mora, then pulled over and wept, unable to complete the drive. Who was she kidding? Apart from driving to and from the auto body shop, the car was used for errands, trips to the bank, groceries. What any housewife would do with the luxury of her own car.

She could drive now to pediatrician visits, too. The pediatrician raised concern for Ulla who still exclusively consumed breastmilk but could not argue with the scale or Ulla’s cherub cheeks and plump belly. He frowned at the wrap used to carry Ulla. She would never learn to walk, he said. But Ulla cruised along the furniture as they watched the first man step on the moon and officially walked at nine months on the library’s alphabet-patterned rug. He next insisted Ronja speak English only and not confuse Ulla. Ulla could say mother, milk, more, and book in two languages. His last chastisement: no sleeping together. Ulla would fall out of bed or suffocate. Except, whenever Ronja disrupted the harmony of their synchronous sleep-wake cycles and set Ulla in the crib next door to her and Peter’s bedroom, they were cranky the next day.

Peter announced in December he was throwing a party for Ulla’s first birthday in January.

“Birthday party?” She laughed. “You really were serious about wanting to be Americans. Who would we even invite?” she asked from her seat at the vanity, brushing her hair, while Ulla sat in her lap, nursing. Reflected in the large mirror, Peter shrugged on a sport coat over a sweater vest. “Co-workers, maybe Leo and Bridget. We were friends once. I’m sure Bridget’s over the jealousy. You miss her, no? And you should meet Gabby and his wife, too.”

“What kind of co-workers?”

His eyes clouded.

Ronja paused her brushing and met his stare in the mirror. “Peter⁠—”

“I know a lot of people now, okay? People that actually call me by my real name. Yours, too. Why ask questions?”

Ronja looked at herself in the mirror and then at Ulla, her thoughts a conglomeration of guilt and gratitude. She was dependent upon Peter, a notion she abhorred, one of the reasons she fled from him eighteen months ago. But he also whisked Ulla from Ronja’s tired arms and chapped nipples at the end of the day, slept on the floor when Ulla turned perpendicular on their bed, adjusted his work schedule to allow Ronja uninterrupted time at the auto shop, returning every two hours with a sun-kissed, grass-stained Ulla ready to breastfeed.

This was never what Ronja wanted. Yet it was somehow better than what she ever imagined.

Her eyes went to his, but he looked away and left the house.

On the evening of the birthday party, Ronja had been caught late working at the auto shop. She unbuckled Ulla from the makeshift car seat Peter had assembled in the T-bird. “Come, Ulla baby,” she crooned in Swedish, closed the garage, and plodded up the icy brick stairs of the back patio porch into the servant entrance.

Hired staff were busy in the kitchen with caviar, spreads of gourmet cheese, pâté, fruit, and a full cache of wine, beer, and Peter’s favorite imported scotch. And, of course, enough aquavit to make it the most inappropriate birthday party for a one-year-old.

She took the narrow, cherry-oak stairs two by two and found Peter in their bedroom. He stood next to their dresser, adjusting the cuff links on his starched blue dress shirt. Her favorite. The one that made his eyes electric. The collar was turned up and hugged his ears. He was freshly shaven and showered, his hair still damp. But she smelled the mousse. It mixed with his cologne and aftershave, sending a carnal ache between her legs.

He turned and dazzled her with his smile, but he immediately directed it at Ulla and held his arms to her. Ulla squealed Peter’s name and dove from Ronja’s arms, slippery in her snowsuit. Peter caught Ulla and bounced her in the air, then caught her again, swung her low, and blew raspberries on her rosy cheek, causing Ulla’s belly giggle to emerge. “Pappa,” he said laughing at Ulla with tenderness, “Stumpan, when are you going to call me Pappa?” He set Ulla down, took off her hat, and unzipped her coat. He glanced up at Ronja. “Is she going to call me Peter for the rest of her life?”

Ronja began stripping. “I’m sorry,” she said, breathless and stumbling from her heavy cargo pants. “I can’t seem to shift my brain when I talk about you to her. Can you find her dress in her closet? The blue and silver one you bought.” She paused and eyed Peter lifting a happy Ulla once more, tickling her.

Anyone would think he was her father.

Ronja smiled, unbuttoning her shirt. “I saw the workers downstairs. Is all this necessary? She’s only one.”

Peter swept by Ronja and kissed the sweet spot below her ear. “My family is worth it.” He left the room with Ulla and closed the door.

Ronja piled her hair underneath a shower cap and rinsed off her grime. Though she could never quite scrape the black from underneath her fingernails, she’d remembered to polish them in red last night, and now only had to touch up the chipped spots.

The laughing chatter, music, and clink of glassware traveled up from downstairs. She hopped into her black thigh-high pantyhose and clipped them to her garter belt. Hot rollers tamed her natural curls. She swiped the mascara wand over her lashes.

She was foisting on a strap of her black lace bra, fumbling with the front clasp, when Peter walked in. “My boobs hurt,” she whined, squeezing them, wishing she’d nursed Ulla before the party started.