“Does she look like her mother?”
“I can’t say yet. I will have a closer look at her when she is awake. She has her father’s color. Her brown hair and brown eyes, those she got from Hank. He had warm skin like her skin. Brown and warm all over. That was Hank. Elsa was fair like me with blue eyes and blond hair.”
“I know Penny is eager to hear anything and everything you can remember about her father.”
Marketta turned to me and tilted her head the same way Penny did when she was trying to discern a situation. “Penny did tell you, did she not? Her father was a pirate.”
Twelve
I tried to read Marketta’s expression as she said the word pirate. Before I could figure out a delicate way of asking what she meant, Marketta added, “First Hank was brave enough to steal my sister’s heart, and then he was more brave to even steal her. We never saw her again.”
A relieved sort of laugh came out of my mouth. The poor man was guilty of being nothing more than a “pirate for love.” Penny would appreciate the irony of the label.
Marketta didn’t laugh. She rose and said we should be about our dinner.
“I’d like to help,” I said.
“Yes, of course.” Marketta tied an apron around my waist and explained that we were going to prepare a typical Finnish specialty, which was from the Karelian tradition. I told myself to look up Karelian in the tour book before the day was over.
First, we made egg butter from hard-boiled eggs. She had me peel the eggs and chop them. With a small wooden ladle, Marketta mixed the chopped eggs with soft butter. She added salt by the pinch, rubbing it between her fingers.
“I made the rice pudding this morning. You can get the bread from the freezer,” Marketta said. “It is the package of ready-rolled bread dough of rye and wheat.”
I pulled out something that looked like small, oval pieces of pizza crust.
“This is what we do,” Marketta said. “Put the rice pudding in the middle like this while it is cold and spread it so.”
I watched Marketta fold the edges of the dough so that the rice pudding could be seen in the middle. I helped a little and soon we were surrounded by the warm, delicious fragrance of “Karelian pies” baking in the oven.
Marketta poured three small glasses of dark berry juice and set the table with three plates and only flat knives. I assumed she was setting for three because she was planning ahead in case Penny woke up.
The bowl of egg butter went in the center of the table. The timer for the oven rang, and Marketta invited me to take a seat. Placing the Karelian pies on the table, she sat down, folded her hands, and said, “I will pray.”
With my head bowed, my heart full, and surrounded by fragrant promises of the meal we were about to share, I listened as soft, lyrical Finnish words rolled off her tongue. Deep in my spirit I agreed with her. Silently I whispered my humble thanks to our gracious heavenly Father. I knew I would never forget this moment when all things eternal seemed so clearly reflected in simple, earthly elements.
I opened my eyes and realized the earthly elements set before me were, once again, bread and juice.
“I hope you don’t mind that I pray in Finnish,” Marketta said.
“No, of course not. I think it would be tiring to speak as much as you have in a language different from your own.”
Marketta nodded and offered me the plate of bread. “It is making me tired. My brain has to work hard to find the right words.”
“We don’t have to talk while we eat,” I said. “I feel comfortable just sitting with you.”
“Yes. Okay. We can sit in quiet. But first, I have to tell you how you make this for eating.” Marketta put her knife into the egg butter and spread the mixture in the open center of the warm bread. “There. Any problems?”
“No, I think I’ve got it.” I spread the egg butter and took a bite. “This is delicious.”
“Yes?”
“Yes. Delicious. I think this could easily become my new favorite comfort food.”
Marketta looked as if she were about to say something when we heard the front door open. Her eyes widened, and she leaned to see through the doorway into the other room. She called out something in Finnish, and a male voice responded.
Heavy footsteps came our way. A broad-shouldered man, wearing a wool cap and jacket, entered the kitchen. He bent down and kissed Marketta while the two of them spoke to each other in Finnish.
I’m sure I must have looked like a Cheshire cat, sitting there, grinning nervously while my glance swung back and forth from him to her. Marketta said her husband was gone. She said her son lives in the north, but this man looks too old to be her son. Is he her boyfriend? One of her strong brothers who rowed the boat to Porosaari?
The man turned to me as Marketta talked to him in Finnish. A look of understanding came over his leathered face.
Without warning, the unidentified man leaned over me, smelling of sardines and tobacco. He planted a brusque kiss on my cheek with two very cold lips. Besides my husband, my father, and Grampa Max, I couldn’t remember any other man ever kissing me.
“Sharon, please meet my husband.”
“Your husband?” I smiled. What a fascinating face he had. “Hello.”
“This is Juhani,” Marketta said.
“Johnny?”
He repeated his name with the j making a y sound.
I tried to repeat it. “Juhani. It’s nice to meet you.”
“He understands English but does not usually speak it.”
Juhani took off his jacket and talked in Finnish while Marketta was still completing her explanation to me. “He wants to know if you speak Swedish.”
“No.”
“Juhani has been to the coast for a week, fishing with his brother.”
I decided to share my little misunderstanding with Marketta. “When you said earlier that your husband was gone, I thought you meant gone, gone. Not gone fishing.”
Marketta began speaking in Finnish before I completed my sentence. I’d never been in a situation before where someone was translating my words. It was unnerving.
Juhani laughed heartily at my translated comment and replied in clipped English, “I am not dead yet!”
We all laughed together, as if we had been friends for years. I decided I liked this crusty man with the cold lips and his adoring Marketta with her blue eyes and deep laugh lines.
Oh, Penny Girl, you are missing all the good stuff!
After a leisurely dinner and the most confusing, overlapping conversation I’d ever been part of, I helped Marketta clean up. Juhani apparently had fish in the car that needed to be dealt with, and he disappeared.
Marketta and I concluded it would be best to leave Penny on the couch with another blanket since she didn’t want to get up when we tried to rouse her. That meant I had the bed in the compact guest room all to myself when I retired for the evening.
I closed the door and realized that was the first time in many days I had been by myself. The quiet was refreshing. I slipped into my new pajamas and pulled out the stack of postcards I’d promised Uncle Floyd I would send home. All the stamps were the same, and I couldn’t guarantee they were exceptional, but at least I was writing notes on the postcards. On each one I mentioned something different about what we had seen and done. I told Kaylee about the baby incident on the plane and wrote, “You won’t believe this, but I threw away my soiled clothes.”
On Jeff’s card, I mentioned my lost luggage and added, “So the credit card will have a few unexpected expenses this month.”
When I came to Max and Gloria’s card, I wasn’t sure what to say. Should I tell my mother-in-law that Penny was sacked out at the moment due to a drug overdose?
No.
How about if I told her that we ate reindeer?
Probably not a good idea.
What if I wrote that my practical tennis shoes, which she had insisted I bring on this trip, had returned to their country of manufactured origin?
/> The truth, as I now saw it, was that it didn’t matter what I wrote. Gloria would find a way to bend my words in a negative direction. That was her choice. Her way of viewing life, or at least her way of viewing my life.
With a light heart I wrote, “We’re having a wonderful time. Finland is a beautiful country. Penny’s aunt is making us feel very welcome here. Love you both, Sharon.”
Thinking back over the years, I realized that Max had loved me enough for both of them. I figured there was nothing wrong with my choosing to love them both. That was my choice. My new and improved way of viewing life. I could love my mother-in-law even if she didn’t choose to or care to love me the way I thought she should.
I rummaged through Penny’s suitcase and found her Bible. In the back of my mind, I was trying to remember a verse in the Psalms about how good it is when relatives dwell together in unity.
Opening up the Bible right in the middle, I flipped through the Psalms and was amazed at all the notes Penny had written in the margins. Her Bible looked like a workbook. I never knew anyone who had read so much of the Bible or read it as often as she apparently had.
I remembered years ago when Penny quoted a verse to me and referred to her Bible as her “owner’s manual.” At first I thought the term irreverent. Then she explained that she felt as if she were rebuilding her life after messing it up for so many years.
“It’s imperative,” Penny had said, “that I read my Bible to find out how to make my life work the way it was designed to work.”
I noticed now, in my quiet guest room, that Penny had underlined the first few verses of Psalm 126. I read them with my lips moving, without making any sound.
“We were like those who dream.
Then our mouth was filled with laughter
And our tongue with joyful shouting;
Then they said among the nations,
‘The LORD has done great things for them.’ ”
My sister-in-law, Bonnie, had given me a travel diary for this trip. I’d only written in it once, on the long plane ride while we were still seated in business class.
Reaching for the diary and a pen, I wrote, “Theme Verse for Trip” and copied the words I’d just read from Psalm 126. Then I added,
I love these verses! They capture the essence of our trip. I feel as if this journey is like a dream, and that Penny and I have been filled with laughter.
Yes, the Lord has done great things for us. Even Tuija said that God was showing us mercy. I know I will never be the same after this journey; I don’t want to be the same. I want to learn how to drop my bucket deep into the well of possibilities and be strong and
Trying to quote Penny’s admonition to me sent me to the last chapter of Proverbs because I vaguely remembered her words sounding a lot like a passage we had studied in our home Bible study group years ago.
I found the verse in Proverbs 31. “Strength and dignity are her clothing, and she smiles at the future.”
I finished my journal entry with,
… full of dignity. That’s it. I want to be clothed with strength and dignity, and I want to laugh with no fear of the future. I want to live each day with a full, open heart to the Lord and always be thankful for what He does.
I felt good as I closed the cover on my travel journal and thought about the future being filled with laughter. When Penny and I had a chance to be alone, I planned to tell her about our theme verse.
When the sun rose the next morning, wide-awake Penny was back on top of her game. She was at last experiencing the joys of being Marketta and Juhani’s niece.
Seated at the kitchen table with Marketta, Penny was listening intently to her aunt’s stories. The two of them appeared to have been up for several hours.
I watched Penny’s face. She was soaking it all in. I felt so happy for my friend. This was it. Right here. The whole trip could be summarized by this connection between these women who were bonded by their blood and so much more.
I slipped out of the kitchen and returned a moment later with my camera. Before they realized what I was doing, I’d snapped a picture of them leaning in over the simple white ceramic coffee cups.
“Oh, please! My hair!” Penny held up a hand in front of my camera.
“Your hair is fine,” I told her. “Keep talking. Pretend I’m not here.”
“If you’re going to take more, at least make sure you have both of us in the picture.” Penny got up from her side of the table and went to Marketta’s side. She wrapped her arms around her aunt’s neck and pressed her cheek against Marketta’s short, silvery hair.
You just wanted to hug your auntie, didn’t you, Penny? Go ahead. Hug all you want. You are going to love having these photos.
I took several shots from different angles as the two charmers posed for the camera. Penny hugged Marketta, and Marketta hugged her right back.
Penny always had been a snuggler with her husband and children. She was the first woman I knew who regularly greeted me with a kiss on the cheek. My mom never had been demonstrative. My sister-in-law hugged on occasion. And you know about Gloria. Penny was the one who gave me that womanly gift of affirmation with her hugs and kisses.
I loved watching Penny get back some of the huggin’ and lovin’ she so generously gave to others.
I found my place at the kitchen table, and our day was dedicated to storytelling. Marketta pulled out a marvelous old photo album, and Penny studied every picture of her mother, listening with her entire being to each story that accompanied the picture.
A stack of old letters rested beside where I sat. The penmanship was feminine. I guessed these were letters from Penny’s mother to Marketta. They were, of course, all in Finnish. It would be quite a job to translate them into English.
Around two o’clock I interrupted briefly to ask if I could fix some lunch for us. Marketta’s voice sounded hoarse. I imagined she was weary from using English and talking so much.
“Of course!” Marketta said. “My guests must eat. The soup is ready. I can make it warm for us now.”
“I can do it,” I said. “Please don’t get up. I can figure it out. Is this it?”
“Yes. Kiitos.”
“Eipä kestä,” I replied tentatively.
“Eipä kestä!” Marketta repeated.
“Listen to you!” Penny teased. “I sleep through one day, and you double your Finnish vocabulary.”
“She also can say ‘Reindeer Island,’ ” Marketta said. “Show her.”
“Porosaari,” I spouted with a cocky tilt of my head.
“Impressive. Where did I hear that before? Oh, I know. The island where my mom caught the fish, right? Marketta told me the story this morning.”
“Did she also tell you that you get your skills in the fine art of persuasion from your father?”
“No, we haven’t talked about my father yet. I have a question to ask you, Aunt Marketta. Did my father love my mother?”
Marketta paused. “Yes,” she said at last. “Your father loved your mother.”
I’m sure Penny had the same feeling I did. Marketta was hiding something. It was as if she were really saying, “Your father loved your mother, but …”
The phone rang just then. Marketta got up to answer it in the other room.
I turned the flame under the soup kettle to low and went over to Penny. “How’s your cold?”
“Cured! Although I don’t recommend my method of treatment. I can’t believe I overmedicated myself! I’m so bummed I missed a whole day with you guys. Marketta said you are ‘precious,’ and she and Juhani loved spending time with you yesterday.”
“They are amazing, aren’t they? So full of life. And your uncle! I’ve never met anyone like him.”
“I know. I love him. I love them both to pieces.”
“Where is Juhani?”
“Off to market with his fish, or something like that, from what I gathered. My conversation with the two of them earlier this morning was a bit hard to follow.”
“Yes, I know what you mean.”
“This is so much more than I’d hoped for, Sharon. Being here and listening to all these stories. I think God outdid Himself when He answered this prayer for me.”
I nodded.
“Marketta said her daughter in England could translate all my mom’s letters for me. Can you believe that? I have a cousin in England.”
I could see the glitter flecks gather in Penny’s comet-riding mind. She was planning her next adventure. I secretly wanted to be her companion whenever she took off on that jolly lark. I told myself it was too much to wish. I needed to stay in the present and be content with this trip’s abundance.
“Penny, how are you doing with all this? Is it overwhelming?”
“Yes, but in a good way. It’s much better than I thought it would be, seeing Marketta and being in her home. She has been giving me bits of my mother that I never had before. It’s so amazing to me. I feel as if I didn’t know much about my mother at all. And you know what? The more Marketta tells me about her,” Penny paused and took a deep breath, “the more I miss her.”
The tears began to come.
“I’m so sad that my children never knew her. I’m so sad that I didn’t love her when I had the chance. I never got to know her as a friend. Woman to woman. I just took her for granted. From the time I was fifteen, all I wanted to do was get away from her.”
Penny buried her face in her hands and let the tears roll down her arms. I gingerly touched her elbow and gave it an awkward pat. I never was good at moments like this.
Marketta entered the kitchen and nearly flew to Penny’s side. Wrapping her arms around Penny’s shoulders, Marketta nestled her nose into Penny’s neck and spoke to her in low, melodic tones.
“I miss my mother,” Penny blubbered. “I miss her.”
Marketta drew back her head. Tears were tumbling from her eyes. “Yes. Yes, I know. I miss Elsa, too.”
I leaned back in my chair, sensing this was a hallowed moment between niece and aunt. The two of them clung to each other and cried big tears that came from deep caverns of their souls. Marketta slowly rocked Penny back and forth.