Somewhere Else

Chapter 12: Try (i)

"Mama," I say in greeting, when the ringing breaks off abruptly to be replaced with a familiar voice that tells me that the connection has gone through.

There is a pause, and then my mother says sombrely, "What's wrong, sweetheart? You don't sound good."

Tears flood my eyes at this simple assessment from someone who knows me better than anyone else in the world. I blink, hard, to force them back where they came from.

When I've gotten the errant emotions under control, I say, "Aksel and I broke up."

I wait a beat for Mama to process my statement. Then I hear her soothing voice, "How are you feeling, sweetheart? How can I help?"

No questions, no assumptions – just immediate, unconditional love and support. I feel the liquid warmth return to my eyes. This time, I let them spill over.

"I don't know," I say. "That's what I'm calling about. I don't know what to do anymore."

My mother asks carefully, "Do you want to come home? Because you're welcome back anytime. You know that."

"Yes, I know." I hesitate to tell her about my half-formed decision, but I forge ahead. "But I think... I might stay in Finland for a while more. The language class is already paid for and I... well, I just think it would be good to finish it, at least."

"Sure, sweetheart." Mama's ready agreement shouldn't have surprised me, but it does. I would've thought she would have put up more of a fight for me to return to Hamburg, since she and Papa have never wanted me to move so far away from them. Still, I recognise, if anyone can understand my sudden decision to stay in a foreign land, it would be my mother.

Mama is still speaking. "Do you have enough to live off, financially?"

I grimace, thinking of my dwindling bank account. "Well, my unemployment money has stopped now," I say, flushing. "It's only valid for three months. But I have some savings left over. I'll survive for now."

"If you need help, your Papa and I are always here."

"I don't want to take your money, Mama," I say.

"You won't be taking it," my mother says. "Consider it a loan. You can pay us back when you get a job."

I'm silent for a moment. She has come up with the perfect way out for me. "Yeah," I say, through a thick throat. My parents are too good. "Thank you, Mama. I'll think about it."

"Ask for help when you need it, sweetheart. It's not easy trying to eke out a living in a foreign country – I would know." She laughs suddenly, then grows serious again. "So, do you want to talk about what happened with Aksel? We don't have to, if you don't."

I would have told her anyway, but when she phrases the question like this, I find that being given a choice makes me want to tell her more.

The story comes spilling out. Mama doesn't say a thing; just listens, interjecting with a sympathetic hum every now and then. When I'm finally through narrating the whole sordid tale, she's silent.

"Mama?" I prompt, suddenly afraid to hear what she has to say. What if she thinks it was all my fault? Or worse – what if she thinks it was Aksel's?

"Sweetheart," my mother's voice filters straight down the phone line, gentle as the drape of a silk shawl, soothing as the slide of honey down a sore throat. "I'm sorry you had to go through that."

And then I find myself bawling, sobbing straight down the phone line, the sound travelling across the Baltic Sea into my mother's ear a thousand kilometres away.