Then the tears stopped. The sobbing was over. Penny reached for a cloth napkin on the table and dried her eyes.
I was painfully aware of how controlled all the women in my family were. True, we hadn’t faced a death together, or even remembered a loss together, the way Marketta and Penny had just done. I found their honest expression of grief compelling and a form of humility about which I knew very little.
They kissed each other on the cheek, and the outburst was over.
Marketta stroked Penny’s hair. She looked at me with a little grin that resembled a shy sunbeam, wondering if it’s safe to come out and play after the storm has passed.
“That was my longest friend on the phone,” Marketta said. “We have been close to each other since we were twenty. I think we decided to become like sisters after Elsa went to America.”
Penny looked up, caught my gaze, and smiled at me. Penny and I knew what it was like to be each other’s longest and closest friend. We understood that feeling of one day deciding you’ve become like sisters.
“My Anni called to say she would like us to go to her house tonight for dinner. Just us girls.”
“That’s nice of her,” Penny said.
“She lives in Hinthaara. In the country. I will get Juhani to drive us because I do not see well at night. We can sleep there, and a bus comes to Hinthaara tomorrow, on Thursday, so we can take the bus home. How does that sound to you?”
“Wonderful!” Penny said.
“Yes, wonderful,” I agreed. “It’s so kind of Anni to invite us.”
“Anni has an old house, and this is good because she has the best sauna.”
“The famous Finnish sauna,” Penny said. “Sharon’s been reading about your saunas.”
“You can tell nothing by only reading about our saunas.” Marketta turned to me, and I noticed her left eyebrow was slightly elevated. “Tonight you will experience sauna!”
Thirteen
Penny bathed and put on her nicest outfit to visit Anni. Then Penny handed me a few of her things to pack in my new bag so we would have just one piece of luggage for our overnighter.
I watched Penny curling her hair and thought back to when I was in sixth grade and received an invitation to my first overnighter, a slumber party at Lisa Bachman’s house for her twelfth birthday. The big treat was that we had pizza delivered and root beer floats. We each were supposed to bring a clean, empty soup can so that we could curl (or rather, straighten) our long hair by gathering it on the top of our heads and rolling it on the cans.
I didn’t bring a soup can because I was the only one with short hair. My mother believed all respectable preadolescent girls should wear pixie cuts with curls at the cheeks achieved by bobby pins and pink hair tape every night.
Since I couldn’t roll my hair, I became the beautician for everyone else. My fingers were sticky with the green gel goop that came in a little round pot. Up went each girl’s ponytail, on went the goop, and then I was at my very best, carefully rolling the soup can so that not a single hair strayed.
Connie Kidamon brought an empty frozen orange juice can instead of a soup can and arrived at the party with a big bandage on her thumb because she had cut herself when she tried to wash out the can. Everyone thought she was brave.
All the girls wore pajamas with a top and a bottom. I was the only one wearing a nightgown. Connie called it a “granny gown,” and I didn’t think she said it in a way that sounded as if she wished she had one.
All the girls were running around with green goop on their long hair and soup cans on top of their heads. I dutifully did my bobby-pin spit curls and taped them to my cheeks. No one copied me or asked to borrow my pink hair tape.
One’s identity can be established from a few defining moments in childhood. I learned something about myself at Lisa’s slumber party that stayed with me all these years. I learned that everyone liked me when I helped them. The girls didn’t notice or admire me. They appreciated me because I was useful. My role in life was to be the facilitator.
Pausing over the half-packed overnight bag, I wondered if part of the reason I was drawn to Penny and part of the reason our friendship worked, even though we were so opposite, was because Penny made me feel almost cool. She listened to me and laughed at my jokes. Penny accepted me just the way I was yet wasn’t shy about speaking up when she saw areas where I could stand some improvement.
Yes, I was still a facilitator around Penny. I was the one on the floor packing our bag while she curled her hair. But Penny always made me feel equal or even sometimes above her. She didn’t look down on me. If Penny had been at Lisa Bachman’s slumber party, I might have turned out to be a different person.
Then a thought struck me. It’s never too late. If Lisa Bachman’s slumber party established my role in life for the past thirty years, why can’t tonight’s slumber party—or this whole trip—reestablish my identity and role in life for the next thirty?
Those were bold thoughts. They were the kind of bold thoughts that usually came to me only during my stints of January madness. Was I really a different person deep inside, waiting for a chance to break out? Like a brave chick still inside her shell, I saw myself peck, pecking my way to the world outside.
“What do you think?” Penny turned to me with every hair smoothly in place. I thought she looked stylish and elegant enough to have tea with the queen. Or rather, the president, since we were in Finland. Marketta told us they had a woman president, and Penny and I were impressed.
“What do I think about what?”
“Do you think all our stuff is going to fit in that bag?”
“I think so.”
“Did you pack our bathing suits?” Penny asked.
I turned and gave Penny my best poor-me pout.
“Oh, that’s right. Your bathing suit went to China without you.”
Marketta called to us from the hallway. “Ready to go? Juhani has gone to the car to make it warm.”
“Okay, just a minute.” Penny tossed me her one-piece bathing suit and stuffed her cosmetics into her shoulder bag. “We’ll figure out something. Maybe Anni has an extra bathing suit.”
We joined Marketta by the front door. She looked like the cutest, cuddliest, most lively grandma on the planet with her hand-knit ski sweater and stocking cap. Her gloves were a matching deep red and looked fuzzy and warm.
“Ready then?”
“Ready or not, here we go,” Penny said.
Marketta led us out her apartment door and over to what looked like a broom closet door with a big sign on it. She opened the door, revealing an elevator.
Penny and I looked at each other and laughed.
“Guess I should have looked up the word for elevator so we would have known what the door said downstairs,” I said.
“Ah!” Marketta said. “This now explains why you took all the stairs. The lift is faster.”
It was. We were down all seven floors and out into the dark, crisp evening chill in a few quick minutes. Juhani waited with their small white sedan pulled up under the portico. He got out when he saw us and, with a big smile and lots of Finnish words, took our bags.
Penny and I slid into the scrunchy backseat. All the doors closed. Penny reached over and squeezed my arm. Her face silently screamed, “Get me out of here!”
I took one whiff and understood.
Juhani’s fish.
The tiny car was permeated with the overwhelming stench of fish. He may have just hauled those flappers to market, but their poignant memory lingered.
Penny used the crank handle to roll down her window a few inches. She leaned over, stretched her chin up, and elevated her nose to the small opening, gulping in the icy winter air.
Juhani looked around, as if his comfort zone had experienced a breach of security. He used his large hands and punchy Finnish words to notify Marketta of the situation. She answered in staccato words, and the two of them bantered briskly as we moved onto the main highway.
Marketta turn
ed around and with a humoring expression said, “I am sorry for the fish. It is familiar to us. I think it might not be pleasant for you.”
I was feeling overwhelmed, not only from the fish smells but also from the damp, slick seat I had just placed my hand on. I could easily believe that a few hours earlier a rather large, dead fish had occupied the space where I now sat.
Clearly Penny was in physical agony over the stench. “I hope it’s okay if I keep the window open. I need some air.”
Juhani and Marketta conversed. I tried to take tiny breaths and joined Penny in rolling down my window a few inches. It had begun to snow, and bits of the white flakes flew at us through the open windows. Marketta said we should “make ourselves with comfort,” so we left the windows down.
We froze all the way to Hinthaara. It was either the fresh air or the warmth. We chose breathing over normal blood circulation. The noisy airflow made conversation impossible. I think Juhani and Marketta were uncomfortable. I noticed he had turned the car heater to full blast so at least their feet were warm up front.
All of us were relieved when the drive in the dark concluded at the end of a gravel road. A small cabin tucked under evergreens of primeval proportions awaited us. My dream at the hotel about the Hansel and Gretel cottage came to mind. Anni’s home certainly had all the charm and ambience of a storybook setting.
Juhani retrieved our bags from the car’s trunk and carried them to the front door for us. With a gruff kiss on the cheek for all three of us, he turned and left.
“Did we upset him?” Penny asked. “With the open windows, I mean. Did that make Juhani mad?”
“No, why should it? He is not angry. If he were angry, he would not kiss you, and he would make you carry your own bags.” Marketta turned and waved to her husband. With a twinkle she said, “Juhani is himself, and no one tries to make changes to him.”
The door of the storybook cottage opened, and Marketta’s “longest” and “closest” friend greeted us with hugs and kisses. Anni welcomed us into her small home as if we were her long-lost daughters.
Anni reminded me of a bird, even though she wasn’t small by any means. She had to be in her early seventies, like Marketta. Her quick movements, long nose, and keen, darting eyes made me think of a brilliant blue jay that visits my bird feeder every winter and upstages all the dull brown wrens.
Anni took our coats. “Please. Come. Sit. You are my guests.”
The first thing I noticed was a round table covered with a beautiful lace tablecloth and set with china and crystal. An assortment of candles glowed from the center of the table. Boughs of freshly cut evergreen hung from the rafters. Bright flute music floated around us.
The four of us gathered at the sparklingly elegant table. On each plate perched a white cloth napkin, folded in the shape of a swan. Anni nestled herself snugly into the chair to the right of me and reached for my hand. For such a large woman, she had slim, bony hands.
“I would like to pray,” Anni declared.
We all joined hands. I drew in a deep breath, as if I could absorb the meaning of Anni’s lyrical words and hold them always in my heart. Her voice carried the same depth of sincerity and tender humility I’d heard in Marketta’s voice when she prayed. These two women, who each held one of my hands, sat up straight, like warriors awaiting their marching orders, yet they both spoke as softly as handmaidens called upon to nurse a wounded soldier back to strength.
Anni said “Amen” in English and served us a generous spread of cold meats, cheeses, meatballs, thin rye bread, and some sort of creamy pudding. I watched her movements. She was strong, like Marketta. I could picture Anni chopping all her firewood each fall and stacking it outside in the snow. She didn’t move or act like a woman in her seventies. Neither did Marketta. They were young in spirit and strong in body.
I wanted to be like them.
After we had eaten, Anni announced she had a song for us. Penny and I exchanged glances, not sure what that meant. Anni rose, went to the stereo and turned it off, then clasped her hands together. With her chin up, she sang in English a song I’d never heard before.
Her sweet voice rose passionately on the chorus. She lifted her hands, like an opera singer, palms turned up toward us, open and inviting. She was offering us her song as a special gift.
I cried.
When I tried to describe Anni’s song a few days later in my travel diary, I couldn’t find a way to convey the sense of honor I felt. I’ve heard many people sing over the years. I’ve been moved by many performances. But what made this so over-whelming was that Anni wasn’t performing. She was simply giving. Giving us a song. That’s why I cried. No one had ever given me a song before.
When Anni hit the last note, Penny rose to her feet, applauding and shouting, “Bravo!”
I didn’t want to clap. I wanted to say thank you, the same way I would say thank you if Anni had handed me a box with my name on it, wrapped in lovely paper and tied with silver ribbon.
At that moment, I felt as if my instincts were tapping on the shell of my life, urging me to respond to what my heart was telling me to do. And so I did.
I didn’t clap along with Penny. I didn’t follow or facilitate or hang back in the shadows. Instead, I got out of my chair, with tears still wet on my cheeks, and took three giant steps over to Anni. Taking her hands in mine, I looked her in the eye and said, “Kiitos!” Then I kissed her on the cheek.
Anni cried. She pressed her soft cheek against mine and murmured a string of words in Finnish. Switching to English she said, “A blessing on you for your kindness, young Sharon.”
The moment ended awkwardly with my pulling away and bumping the table when I tried to sit down. Penny looked at me with both eyebrows raised as if to say, “Well, aren’t you full of surprises?”
Marketta asked if either Penny or I had a song we would like to sing, and both of us shook our heads. I felt as if we had come to a birthday party empty-handed.
“No songs,” Penny said, “but Sharon and I have a few small gifts for you.” She went into the other room where our luggage had been placed. I couldn’t imagine what Penny had in mind. I hoped it wasn’t leftover Finnish chocolate from the department store. I wasn’t sure if Penny knew that Marketta made chocolate and therefore wouldn’t be impressed with such a gift.
Penny surprised me.
Again.
She had several small, gift-wrapped boxes, which she presented to Marketta and Anni. “Just a little something sweet.”
The first gift was a package of five different Ghirardelli chocolate bars.
“From San Francisco,” Penny said. “You’ll have to tell me if you think it’s as good as your chocolate.”
The women seemed delighted. The other two small gifts turned out to be miniature-sized bottles of expensive perfume. Marketta and Anni’s appreciation was evident. Suddenly I was on the receiving end of their squishy hugs of thanks, even though I had nothing to do with the gifts.
“And now for sauna,” Anni announced. She suggested that she and Marketta clear the table while Penny and I got ready.
Penny carried in our bag, and Anni opened the door to a bathroom that didn’t seem to fit the rustic cottage because the room was large and modern with tile covering the floors and the walls. I noticed that the shower fixture came right out of the wall with no separate, enclosed area to serve as a shower. On the left side of the room was a door.
“That is the sauna.” Anni pointed to the door. “Would you wait until Marketta and I come back?”
“Yes, of course,” Penny said.
Anni left us, and I made a brave decision. As Penny opened the bag to find her bathing suit, I announced, “I’m going to wear my underwear. The black set looks like a bathing suit. You even said so. I doubt that Anni or Marketta will think I’m immodest because I don’t have a one-piece bathing suit. Besides, who cares? It’s just us girls.”
Penny slowly turned to me with the most wonderful expression on her face. It was a mixtu
re of amazement and glee. Applauding, she shouted, “Bravo! Good for you!”
I felt proud of myself.
We did our customary turning of our backs to each other as Penny and I stripped down. I folded my clothes neatly and tucked them back in the bag. Ignoring the feeling that too much of my flesh was showing or that the black bra and panties did nothing to cover the lily-white rolls around my middle, I reached for a bath towel to hold in front of my stomach.
Penny pulled a shower cap from her cosmetic bag. “I hope they don’t think I’m weird. I’ve never gone in a sauna before, have you?”
“Are you kidding? No.”
“Well, I’m guessing that all the steam will make my hair frizz. I just washed it, and I don’t want to have to mess with it after the sauna. Especially if Anni doesn’t have a hair dryer.”
I reached for another white towel and wrapped it around my hair in a tightly wound turban that pulled the skin back from my eyes.
Penny tucked her hair under the plastic cap. “Does this look really dumb?”
“No, not really dumb. Just a little dumb.”
“Oh, aren’t you the punchy one tonight.” Penny checked her reflection in the mirror.
“I’m not punchy. I’m emerging,” I declared with a broad grin. I pictured a fuzzy little chick pecking out of its shell. That was me. I was almost all the way through.
“I noticed,” Penny said. “You sure surprised me when you gave Anni a kiss after her solo. I think she was surprised, too, but I could tell she liked it.”
“I wanted to do it, and so I did! I’m changing on this trip, Penny.”
“Yes, you are.”
“We both are,” I said quickly. “We’re emerging into the women we’re going to be for the next half of our lives.”
Penny dipped her chin and squinted her eyes. “The next half of our lives, huh?” Her voice carried the same somber tone it had in the hotel room the night she reminded me that her mother had died when she was forty-six.