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“When you’re an adult, you don’t need friends as much.”
“Why?”
“You’re busy working and taking care of your children. And you’re my friend, min lilla älskling. My best friend. What more could I ask for?” She would kiss Ulla’s nose and tug her close. They slept in the same bed even though Ulla had her own room, where she kept pilfered camshafts, cylinders, valves, compressors, radiators, and batteries from Curlers’ junkyard to futz with. Besides, she loved the heat and scent of her mother’s presence, something she once feared was lost forever.
Chapter Eighteen
December 1977
Ulla
The lake froze early—before Christmas. An icehouse appeared a week before the last day of winter break. Her mother was now even more insistent on telling bedtime stories of bäckahästen. It was one thing to fall in the water on a summer day, quite another through the ice. The added danger meant the added chance of catching the mythological creature, even if Ulla was highly doubtful of its existence.
Blue light seeped through the curtains in her mother’s bedroom, and Ulla reached over and picked up Beskyddaren from the nightstand. She twirled him in her hand while listening to her mother’s tranquil slumber.
That was when she heard it. Singing. It sounded like a girl’s voice. Heart pounding, Ulla checked her mother was sound asleep, then went to the window and peered between the curtains, straining her eyes at the fluorescent lake, lit by the moon. The singing grew louder, its melody like the Simon & Garfunkel song from the album her mother bought at Kmart.
She crammed Beskyddaren into his hiding spot and padded through the living room to the sliding glass door that led to the backyard. She inched the chain of the plastic slatted shades, anxious her mother would awaken. Once the door was clear, she smushed her face against the cool glass, waiting for the singing to reach her again. There it is!
She set about dressing in full winter garb and shoved her feet into the boots. She opened the sliding door with her mittened hands and paused. The singing stopped. Disappointment flooded Ulla. Was it her imagination? She held her breath, tuning her ears to its frequency.
Yes. Ulla scampered through the door, making sure to close it quietly, and ran. Her blood picked up steam from her racing heart and pumping limbs. Snow crunched and twigs snapped under her boots, and the singing grew clearer as she reached the edge of the lake. She squinted, looking for bäckahästen. She grabbed a stick. If it was bäckahästen, she’d have a weapon. Her limbs were stuffed now with terror instead of excitement, but she persisted. Ulla approached the embankment till she was standing on the lake. The snow was up to her knees. She followed the melody.
Finally, she locked eyes with the voice.
My fairy!
Ulla released the stick, kicking up clouds of snow as she sprinted. Even if this were bäckahästen in disguise, Ulla would gladly be taken away. “Linnea!” she gasped, hauling in elated breaths.
Linnea ran to her as well. “No!” she screamed. “Stop!”
Ulla plunged into the black water. It burned like a million needles. She grappled to the surface, the weight of her snow gear dragging her down, but she heard Linnea shout, “Grab this!”
Ulla saw a wooden rod poke at her, and with sopping mittens, snagged it.
“Got it?”
“I’m going to drown!” cried Ulla.
“No, you’re not.” Linnea shimmied backward on her belly, grunting, still holding firm to the rod, scaling Ulla from the hole with a strength Ulla thought impossible for Linnea’s bird-like limbs. Sprawled on the ice, together they stumbled to their feet and hurried to the shoreline.
“You saved my life.” The relief sent a surge of warmth through Ulla’s blood, her breaths spewing in hot, white clouds. “I-I hurt everywhere.” Tears poked her eyes.
“Come to my house,” said Linnea, helping Ulla along. “You can borrow my clothes. Just don’t let anyone see you.”
The sopping winter gear weighed Ulla down as she trudged step-by-step. “Wait . . . you—you can talk?”
Linnea gave Ulla a sideways glance, her face partially concealed by the oversized gray hoodie, clearly meant for an adult. “Of course I can talk.”
Ulla tried to respond, but her teeth-chattering prevented her. Snow caked up to her knees, gluing onto her wet snow pants. Linnea’s house seemed so far away, even though they were nearly at the back door. She noticed lights and faint music. Linnea paused and chewed the sleeves of her hoodie. Her wide eyes grew fearful. “Let’s go through the garage.”
That felt like a mile to Ulla! But she obeyed. She wasn’t going to die from the cold but rather the pain of being so cold. The girls entered the side door on the driveway where a Grand Am and a Corolla sat next to a pop-up trailer rusting on the side of the lawn. Inside the garage, they passed haphazard piles of fishing gear and a dull green flat-tired Buick Skylark, where Linnea helped Ulla strip from pounds of soaked outerwear, out of her frosted boots. Ulla’s hair had frozen into crunchy strands. Linnea put a finger to her own lips, signaling silence. “They usually don’t notice me.”
“Your parents?” Ulla shivered in her pajamas and soggy socks, wishing she could take those off, too.
Linnea shook her head and motioned for Ulla to stay close. Once inside the house, they darted up a short flight of stairs, and Ulla caught a glimpse of a few adults occupied in a card game, others sprawled on the couch, and some hovered by a coffee table covered in liquor bottles and plastic cups.
Alone, finally, in Linnea’s bedroom, Ulla thought of her mother, praying she was still sleeping. Linnea switched on her ceramic lamp, casting the room in a glow. On a dark oak dresser, with loose brass handles, sat a neat stack of Boxcar Children paperbacks atop Teen fashion magazines, next to a neat line of sample perfume bottles, and a small pink purse. Linnea rummaged through her closet. Unintelligible voices emitted from downstairs. She offered Ulla two sweatshirts: a purple Vikings football and another with a cherry sundae that said Mora Café & Bakery. Ulla took the cherry sundae and stripped her clothes. She paused when hooking her thumbs in her underwear.
