It had all the features of traditional Norwegian architecture with its steep roof and wood detailing, but it was three times the size of any other home we passed on the drive. The white paneling with red trim made the house stand out against the green forest background. Even in its dilapidated state, it was a beautiful home.
The car rolled to a stop, and I opened my door, slinking out of the small vehicle before stretching my stuff back. I gulped down the air that was fresh and clean, especially compared to the air in New York City. It was as if I could finally breathe in deeply again. The driver began unloading my bags, but I left him there and immediately started inspecting the house.
Multiple areas needed painting, and some spots where the wood had rotted needed replacing. That was to say nothing of the wild landscape. This was precisely the kind of project I needed to get my mind off the things happening at home.
“Alexander! You are here!”
Chapter two
Agotia
Agonyrippedthroughmychest like a five-ton weight crushed the bones that protected my heart, leaving nothing but dust in its place. It had been almost three months, and I still found it hard to breathe when the wave of grief grabbed me.
“Good morning, miss,” one of the farm workers called. “Where would you like us today?”
The ache spread as I met his gaze. Even though we all knew what was coming, the ever-loyal workers had been by my side every step of the way.
"We need to wash the lambs. I want to bring them to the festival and do a petting zoo-type thing this year. Charge for people to pet and feed them. I'm going to head into town for some things. I will be back soon."
Without saying much, the men in front of me nodded and headed to work. I followed them out and walked to the truck. Lost in memories, I drove on autopilot, soaking in the view.
The sun's rays peeked through the white-dusted tops of the mountains, giving the world below a magical feel. The morning breeze was a little cold as it wrapped around me, pulling my hair this way and that. I had forgotten just how breathtaking Voss could be when I had lived in New York.
“You should go, darling,” my father had told me.
We had been standing on our porch, looking out at these beautiful mountains, when he saw the letter in my hand. I was not sure what had prompted me to apply to the New York University other than some wistful thinking and wanderlust. But that morning, my acceptance letter had been in the mail, and my father had not hesitated to push me to go.
“But it’s so far away. And plane tickets are not cheap,” I had argued.
It is one thing to dream of a future in a faraway place. It is a different thing to be confronted with the opportunity for that dream to become a reality. And when the chance to leave Norway and see the world presented itself, I was terrified.
“We will figure that out, Agotia. You worry too much,” he had told me, chuckling at my obvious distress. “You applied because you wanted to go. So, go. If you do not like it, there is always a place for you here.”
It had all seemed so logical. My father helping me pack my things and register for classes had smoothed the transition, and it felt like the best possibility. Never once had he questioned why I wanted to go. Never once had he asked me to stay home and work with him. And it was after he had put me on the plane with all my things shoved into three suitcases that I saw him shed a tear. He had not realized I was watching him from the plane window, my own tears a mix of sadness, fear, and excitement streaming down my face, mirroring his.
For the first few months, we talked every day on the phone. I would call during my lunch break while he was eating dinner, and it almost felt like we were together again. The first semester had been the hardest. New York was different from what I had expected, and neither were the people.
It had been a huge cultural shock, and I cried most days, often from missing my father. It had been just the two of us for as long as I could remember. Not having him by my side at every turn was almost as hard as getting used to the American culture.
Eventually, I made friends in the introductory business class. My lunches turned into time to chat with them, and phone calls with my father dwindled from daily to once or twice a week. I did my best to fly back for the holiday breaks, but more often, I didn't have the money for a plane ticket. During the summer, I found internships, one of which turned into a job; by the time I graduated, there was no reason for me to move back home.
“I am so proud of you, darling,” my father had said during the phone call when I told him about my new job. “They are lucky to have you.”
"You don't mind me staying here? I know the plan was for me to come home after I graduated and help you with the farm."
“Of course, I don’t mind. Plans change, Agotia. You must do what you think is best.”
His words had left me torn. Part of me was thrilled with having a position at one of the biggest marketing firms in the city. But the other part wished that my father had told me how much he missed me and wanted me to come home. He never did, so I stayed until I got the phone call from the hospital.
One of the benefits of a small town like this is that there are no such things as strangers. At least, I have never met one here. Dad's nurse, Ingrid, had been an old family friend. She had called to tell me to come home without my father ever knowing.
It had taken me a few days to quit my job, sell what I could, and pack the rest. I wish I had pulled out my phone to snap a picture of my father's face when he saw me walk into the house. At that moment, our time apart flooded me with a wave of regret. The man I had come home to was no longer the man I had left.
Our last week together was not enough. I am convinced that there is never enough time to spend with the people we love. I am equally confident that there are wounds that time does not heal, despite widespread belief. Three months after my father breathed his last breath, I still could not suck in enough air when a wave of grief came, regardless of how clean the air was.
Deciding I had waited long enough, I blew out a breath and headed inside the shop. The floor creaked loudly underneath me as I walked down the aisles, halfheartedly scanning for the things I needed. I could not focus on much and had trouble remembering what I needed so badly from the hardware store so early in the morning. I shut my eyes briefly, trying to recall why I came.
“Excuse me.”
