2. Freya
Impatience fuels my body more readily than the blood in my veins. I’m normally calm in a crisis. But not today. Not since I received the call from my aunt late last night, telling me my mother was in the hospital following a bad fall. I barely slept, willing the hours to pass more quickly so I could be on my way home to her. I’ve been beside myself with worry, and even though my flight from Dublin has just landed in Reykjavik, I’m not feeling much better.
Aunt Embla was still unsure of the details when I spoke to her this morning. She’s my mother’s younger sister, and while I adore her, she’s hopeless when it comes to basic life skills—like asking for information from my mother or her doctor. All she could tell me was that my mother is scheduled for surgery this morning to reset her broken leg. Surgery sounds serious, but the way Embla tells it, it was nothing worse than having a plaster cast put on the leg.
As the plane pulls up to the gate, I check the local time on my phone. I’m desperate to be by my mother’s bedside when she wakes up from the anesthesia. Lucky for me, I’m at the front of the plane, so I’m one of the first off, then through passport control and collecting my luggage in record time. Keflavik Airport isn’t a busy one, and for a local girl, the process is quick. Less than twenty minutes later, I’m in the back of a taxi and on my way to the hospital while texting my aunt.
It looks like I’ll make it just as the surgery finishes. Some of my panic eases knowing I’m going to be there in time, but I won’t truly be able to breathe a sigh of relief until I hear in my mother’s own words that she’s okay.
I don’t think I could stand to see my mother diminished from the active, independent woman she has always been. The thought that her injury may have long-term effects triggers another wave of worry that chews a hole in my gut. This isn’t like me at all. I’m always the strong one, able to flit from one friend’s drama to the next, helping them to see life as a rich tapestry of experiences. But when it comes to family, my heart turns into a gooey, soft marshmallow.
All of my life, it’s really only ever been Mum and me. My aunt and uncle played a supporting role in our partnership when needed, and my father made the occasional guest-star appearance when he wasn’t touring the world to the cheers of thousands of fans.
Sadly, my father’s visits are rare and brief. I learned from a young age that he keeps visits home to Reykjavik to a minimum for our benefit, protecting us from overzealous paparazzi. He’s retired now—if rock stars ever really retire from the public eye. Especially when it”s only from touring with the band, as he still works long hours as a producer in a London or LA studio.
Forty minutes later, I’m sitting in the hospital waiting room, flicking through the curled-up pages of a year-old magazine. My head’s bent like I could be reading it, but the truth is, I’m not even looking at the pictures, which might have been glossy at one point but are now faded ghostly images.
How many other worried friends and family have sat in this exact spot with this exact magazine?
It distracts me for a moment, but then I’m back to checking the time on my phone again. The nurse told me it would be another twenty minutes before my mother was back on the ward, and that was four minutes and thirty-two seconds ago. She tried to reassure me with news that the surgery had gone well, probably because she could see the worry seeping from my skin in a thin sheen of sweat. But I still need to see my mother with my own eyes before I can truly believe it.
I flick past another page and then look up as voices down the hallway disturb the unnatural quietness, which has been like white noise ringing in my ears.
My aunt strides toward me, announcing her arrival with my name shouted at the top of her voice. It’s the outside voice she uses to call her children in for dinner, and it’s jarringly loud through the hushed corridors of the hospital. But I don’t care as I’m folded within her vibrant pink cotton-covered arms. She’s doing her best to squeeze the breath from my body, and it feels amazing. I’m home. The second-best feeling to being hugged by my own mother. My laughter is a joyous, muffled sound against her chest. Every time I return for a visit, which isn’t frequent enough, this is her standard welcome, and I love it. It’s good to be back with my family, and I relax into Embla’s embrace as a few more vestiges of stress are released along with the air in my lungs.
Thirty-one minutes and ten seconds after I last spoke to the nurse, my aunt and I are led to the private room. At least Embla was a better distraction than the tatty old magazine, making the wait more bearable. The door swooshes as I push it open and find my mother propped up in the hospital bed, smiling her beautiful smile. Her mouth is stretched wide, and the soft skin around her eyes is creased into familiar laughter lines. My mother loves to laugh more than anyone I know. And it seems that significant reconstruction surgery on her leg is not going to stop her. I rush to hug her, careful to avoid the tubes in her wrist but not holding back any of my love. Tears threaten to fall, but I manage to hold them in as I swallow the lump in my throat.
“I love you” are the only words I manage to croak out, but they’re all that’s needed.
“Oh, my darling, I love you too, and I’m sorry I worried you.” She squeezes her arms around me with more strength than I would have thought possible, and while it’s not to the level of my aunt’s embrace, it’s enough to reassure me that she’s going to be okay.
The knots of worry finally unravel, releasing the tight ball of tension in my tummy. My stomach has been churning like a washing machine set to on since the second my aunt called to tell me of the accident, and twenty hours later, the cycle has only just finished.
“Let me see your beautiful face,” Mum begs, and when I lean back, she brushes the curtain of thick blond hair back behind my ear. It reminds me of all the times she did this when I was little. Sometimes when I was sad or hurt and other times after we’d cried with laughter from something funny that happened.
But every time, without fail, I felt the love in her touch, just like I feel it now.