Anders is twelve now. Tall and thin, he takes after his mother. Angelo hasn’t seen him in person in two years. Since the divorce. Since Liv decided to move back to Stockholm with him. It’s an arrangement he wasn’t happy with, but he thought it better for Anders. Anders… He could never get used to that name. So Scandinavian. With an Italian surname. He was named after Liv’s father. He wanted to name him Stefano, after his own father, but he relented after Liv made an issue of it. Perhaps it’s just as well. He looks more Scandinavian with his mother’s blonde hair and light eyes. He’s already showing signs of considerable height, another trait inherited from his mother’s side. Although they now lived an ocean apart, they kept in touch via video chat, text messages, and emails. Until recently, that is. Anders stopped answering his messages about a year ago. He didn’t push the issue. That’s what happens when a boy starts growing up. Sooner or later, they distance themselves from their fathers, assert their burgeoning independence. He did the same thing when he was Anders’s age. 

It is snowing rather heavily now, and the cab ride from the airport is quiet, sombre. The driver speaks little English, and he doesn’t talk much, and when he does, it’s mostly about the weather. It’s brutally cold. Everything is bathed in a soft white, and the light — there’s something odd about the light. It’s a different kind of light than one sees in New York. He’s anxious. It’s one thing to talk on the phone, video chat, text, or email. It’s quite another to be face to face. 

When he arrives outside Liv’s apartment building, he pays the driver and grabs his small duffel bag from the seat beside him. He isn’t planning on staying long. Only a few days. Until after the funeral. He always loved his mother-in-law, but her time had come. She lived a long, prosperous life. She was one of those rare individuals who was always full of light. It felt good to be around her. Liv has some of these qualities, too, but not to the same extent. Liv has a much darker side. He wonders and worries; Anders will also inherit this trait. His emails, though full of youthful exuberance, sometimes showed signs of that. He’s still a kid, though, but he’s starting to grow up.

He stands outside the apartment building on Linnégatan, a rather quiet residential street, rendered even quieter by all the snow. He looks up at the building. It reminds him of the cast iron buildings one finds in SoHo in New York. Before ringing the bell, he ducks into a nearby doorway for a quick smoke and prepares for what he feels will prove to be a tense reunion. He’s more concerned about Anders’s behavior than his ex-wife’s. He knows what to expect from her. Looking around this quiet, clean street, he understands why Liv wanted to come back. It will be better for Anders, she told him repeatedly. Now he thinks she was right. 

He finishes his smoke, picks up his bag, and rings the doorbell. A few moments later, the door clicks open. He takes deep breaths in the elevator to the fourth floor. What will Anders’s reaction be? Did he miss him, or was he forgotten? And Liv… He’s not sure how to handle her. It will depend on her mood. 

He rings the bell. The door opens. Anders looks at him without expression. Then he smiles. ‘You came,’ he says. 

‘I came,’ Angelo says, holding onto the boy as if clinging to a life raft. In some ways, he is. Anders steps aside, and Angelo enters the apartment. It’s clean and full of natural light. It looks much different from the glimpses he’d gotten from the video chats. It’s big and spacious. One can breathe here. Anders disappears into the kitchen. Liv emerges, dressed as elegantly as ever in a black turtleneck sweater and navy blue jeans. Her hair looks a bit longer than he remembered, and a bit lighter. Almost golden. She wears no makeup. She never had to. She envelops him in a warm embrace. It feels good. It’s been a long time. 

‘I’m so sorry,’ he says. 

She doesn’t say anything and holds him close. Then she lets go, her eyes searching his face. The smell of onions emanates from the kitchen. It clashes with the scent of her airy perfume. That’s new, too. ‘You look good,’ she says. 

‘Thank you. So do you.’

She plays with the ends of her hair, her eyes never once breaking contact. ‘Make yourself at home,’ she says. ‘Give me a moment. I have something on the stove.’ 

Anders had been watching from the kitchen doorway. He betrays no emotion. He just watches, observes. Angelo removes his coat, and Anders immediately walks over to take it from him. He picks up his father’s duffle bag and says, ‘I’ll show you to your room.’ 

The guest room is at the far end of the hallway. The hallway’s walls are adorned with old family photos — some of Liv’s family, some of themselves. He’s pleased to see that. He hasn’t been completely dismissed. Seeing them only reinforces how much Anders had grown. 

The guest room is sparse, functional, and has a lot of natural light. He looks out the window. It faces the street. The snowfall has intensified somewhat. He opens the window. It’s quiet. ‘It’s not snowing in New York,’ he says. ‘It’s been too warm.’ He closes the window and looks at Anders sitting on the edge of the bed. ‘You’re getting big,’ he says. ‘What have you been doing with yourself?’ 

‘School, mostly.’ 

‘Do you like it?’ 

‘It’s all right, I guess. It’s different from American schools.’ 

‘You have friends?’ 

‘Of course.’ 

‘Girlfriends?’ 

Anders blushes. It’s noticeable. His mother’s complexion. 

‘I suppose you’re still not old enough yet,’ Angelo says. ‘It’s good to see you.’ 

‘It’s good to see you, too.’ 

‘I miss you.’ 

Anders doesn’t say anything and stands up. He starts walking towards the door. Halfway there, he turns and says, ‘I miss you, too.’ He leaves the room and enters his bedroom, closing the door behind him.

As Angelo begins unpacking, Liv enters the room and sits on the foot of the bed. ‘How was your flight?’ 

‘Okay, I suppose. Long.’ 

He places his clothes in the dresser drawers. 

‘How are you holding up?’ he asks. 

‘As expected, I suppose.’ 

‘I’m sorry. She was always good to me. I appreciated that.’ 

‘She loved you. Always did. She was always asking about you. Even after…’ 

Angelo nods. They don’t need to say what came after. 

‘Anders has grown so much,’ he says. 

‘He has.’ 

‘He’s almost like a young man.’ 

‘It’s hard to believe.’ 

‘He’s doing all right?’ 

‘He’s okay…’ 

‘But…’ 

‘I’m concerned sometimes.’ 

‘About?’ 

‘He keeps to himself a lot.’ 

‘That’s normal, for his age. I was that way, too.’ 

‘He’s doing well in school, so that’s good.’ 

‘I’m glad to hear that. Another trait of yours, thank God.’ 

He finishes unpacking and walks over to the window. He wants to smoke. Without a word, Liv opens the drawer to the night table and hands him an ashtray. 

‘Just confine it to the room,’ she says. ‘And keep the window open.’

He places the ashtray down on the windowsill and looks at her. She’s as beautiful as ever. Perhaps even more so. 

‘Let me get back to the kitchen,’ she says. Before leaving the room, she turns to him and says, ‘It’s good to see you. I’m glad you’re here.’ 

***

The family photo on the hallway wall was taken around three years earlier. Anders still looks like a little boy in it. Liv looks happy, though at the time she wasn’t. It’s a portrait of a family doing its best to show it was happier than it was. This was all for Ingrid’s sake, of course, who was visiting them for what would be the last time. No one knew that then. She would come to New York every now and again to visit, though their apartment wasn’t big enough to entertain guests. They would often sleep out in the living room on the sofa bed and allow Ingrid the comfort of the master bedroom. She never stayed longer than two weeks. It was an inconvenience they were willing to endure. Her presence lightened the atmosphere. For those two weeks, one would never guess theirs was a marriage in peril. There’s no one thing he can pinpoint which served as the cause of their breakup. It sort of just happened. The fire had gone out. For two weeks, however, one would be hard-pressed to believe anything was wrong. It was Ingrid who took the photo. A portrait of happier times, or so one would believe. 

On the wall across from the family photo, a portrait of Ingrid in her younger years. Such a beautiful woman. Liv is a dead ringer for her mother. Even in the photograph, one could tell she had a light that few people possess. It’s in the eyes, which seem to look through you, even from the photograph. He wonders how Anders is taking the loss. He adored his grandmother, and she him. It would be Anders’s first encounter with death, with the impermanence of things, that is, if you discount the divorce. 

Liv steps out of the kitchen and pauses at the end of the hallway. He sees her in the periphery, but he doesn’t face her. 

‘Lunch is almost ready,’ she says.

She turns away and goes back into the kitchen. 

He knocks on Anders’s bedroom door. 

He wasn’t expecting the room to be clean and well organized, and he most certainly wasn’t expecting to see the type of posters he had on the wall. Mozart, Beethoven, a still life photograph of a violin surrounded by sheet music and a burning candle. Then his eyes fall upon the music stand and violin case in the corner of the room. It was in stark contrast to the video game Anders is playing on his computer. He walks over to the violin case and music stand. A tutorial was open to page sixteen, and there is evidence of formal teaching by the markings of an adult hand. 

‘Lunch is almost ready,’ Angelo says, paging through the tutorial. ‘You play violin?’ ‘Viola, actually,’ Anders says, not looking away from the computer. 

‘That’s good. Very good. I had no idea you were interested in music.’ 

‘Grandma encouraged it.’ 

He should have known. Ingrid was always a learned, cultured woman. It certainly wasn’t a trait inherited from him, nor his mother, who couldn’t carry a tune if her life depended on it. ‘You like it?’ 

‘Very much, yes,’ Anders says. 

‘I’d like to hear you play.’ 

Anders doesn’t answer. 

‘Well, come on. Lunch is ready.’ 

Anders pauses the game and looks at his father, his eyes searching his face. Again, expressionless, as if he were observing a stranger. 

‘Most kids your age don’t listen to classical music,’ Angelo says, gesturing to the posters on the wall. ‘Don’t you like popular music?’ 

‘Some of it,’ Anders says. ‘I like all kinds of music.’ 

‘And it was grandma who turned you onto classical?’ 

‘She was always playing something for me.’

‘Why the viola?’ 

‘I like it.’ 

‘Will you play for me?’ 

‘Maybe later,’ Anders says. 

When Anders rises from the chair, it’s quite apparent how tall he’d become. The last time he saw Anders, he was barely chest height. Now he’s shoulder height. Even his face has changed. The little boy features have morphed into the beginning stages of adolescence. Even the way he dresses is different. Like a European. In two short years, he’s lost his Americanisms. Even his voice has a trace of an accent. 

‘How’s your Swedish?’ 

‘Getting better,’ he says. ‘Sometimes I slip back into English.’ 

“Does it cause you any problems?’ 

‘Everyone speaks English here.’ 

Angelo is glad Liv had spoken Swedish to the boy since infancy, though as he got older, he lost some of it. Liv frequently spoke to him in Swedish, so he wouldn’t forget, as if she already knew something Angelo didn’t. 

Over falukorv, one would be hard-pressed to believe there was any tension between them. Mostly small talk is made — on Anders’s studies, Liv’s daily minutia at the office of the fashion designer who employs her, Angelo’s trials and tribulations as a professor at a New York City college. Whatever tensions do exist are, for the moment, set aside. It’s mostly for Anders’s sake, and they both know it. Once lunch is finished, and Anders retreats to his bedroom, the lightness slowly dissipates. He watches the change in Liv’s expression as she watches Anders walk down the hallway towards his bedroom. She doesn’t say anything and begins clearing the table. Angelo just watches her, placing an unlit cigarette between his lips. It reminds him of the days leading up to the divorce. The silence, the lack of communication, Liv’s inability to sit still for a moment, that her clearing the table and putting the dishes in the sink are merely a method of avoidance. Back then he would have inquired about what was on her mind. It no longer matters now. It amuses him, however. The wounds have not completely healed, even two years later. 

He leaves her to her own devices and retreats to his room. He opens the window and lights his cigarette. He knows Liv is upset due to the increased intensity of the noise the dishes and pots are making as they slam into one another. Just a few days, he tells himself, as the cold air and flurries of snow tickle his face through the open window. He’s less concerned about Liv than he is Anders, and he considers going to his room to continue their discussion. He ultimately decides against it. The kid is under enough stress right now. 

He finishes his cigarette and flicks it out the window. Before closing the window, he sticks his hand out and looks up at the sky. Such a peculiar light. It must have something to do with the angle of the sun. 

***

The funeral is held in a neighborhood church the next morning. Plain white walls, high wooden beams; it is bereft of the Catholic opulence he had grown accustomed to. It’s very Lutheran, he muses. It was another concession he made at the time of Anders’s birth. It mattered not what religion the boy was brought up in. He no longer had religion. Liv, however, had different ideas. Everything about the church seemed cold, sparse, and like Liv’s apartment, functional. As much as he never fully understood the penchant for the Roman church’s bombast, it almost makes sense why those who broke from Rome went entirely in a different direction. These are the thoughts racing through his mind in order for him not to focus on seeing Ingrid laid out in the coffin. That ritual they still share with the Catholics, and it was yet another morbid rite which he never fully understood. He’s uncomfortable, anxious, but he endures, and like a ‘good Catholic’ he was raised to be, he crosses himself before kissing his fingertips and placing them lightly on Ingrid’s forehead. Even in death she emits light. It comforts him.

He stands before the casket, looking directly into her face. She doesn’t look her near ninety years old. Whether that’s natural or the mortician’s doing, he can’t say. The casket is simple, white, like the walls, like the snow outside. He spends his last moment with Ingrid and again places a gentle kiss to her forehead with his fingertips before moving along to allow others to pay their last respects. 

All around him, Swedish is spoken. He doesn’t understand a word but that doesn’t matter. He can feel the sentiment, the empathy. Grief has its own language. 

Liv and Anders stand beside the coffin, accepting everyone’s condolences. Tears trickle down Liv’s cheeks. Anders appears more in shock than anything else. Neutral, expressionless, he accepts the condolences and sympathies given, mostly from those he’s meeting for the first time. He wants to comfort Anders, for he knows how he must feel. He’d been there, too. As a child. For Anders, this is uncharted territory. 

He turns his attention to Liv. For a brief moment, they make eye contact. He simply nods, for the eyes are saying all that needs to be said: Thank you. A little smile tugs at the corners of her lips. Again, it’s a message, one that only they will understand.

***

After the burial, they go back to the apartment, with some of Liv’s extended family in tow, along with a few neighbors and Ingrid’s surviving friends. Angelo sits on the sofa, listens to everyone speaking in a language he does not understand, save for the occasional word he had picked up over the years. He sips a strong cup of coffee and occasionally glances out the living room window whenever trying to decipher the Swedish bored him. It’s snowing again. The coffee makes him want to smoke a cigarette. Poor Anders sits and endures it. Angelo knows he wants nothing more to do with this and is aching to retreat to his bedroom and his video games. They make eye contact. Angelo nods his head in the direction of the hallway. Anders glances at his mother and stands up. Liv says something to him in Swedish. 

‘Let him be, Liv,’ Angelo says in English.

She reluctantly sets Anders free. Angelo watches him as he darts down the hall, desperately fleeing towards his sanctuary. Before he enters his bedroom, he looks at his father. Angelo winks, and an ever so slight smile appears on the boy’s lips. 

***

When all the guests are gone, Angelo sits on the far end of the sofa and watches Liv pace about the living room. It’s what she usually does whenever she tries to decompress. He knows well enough to allow her to be. It’s been a highly emotional day. 

After a while, she stops pacing and sits beside him. She places a gentle hand on his thigh, kisses his cheek. 

‘What was that for?’ 

‘She would have liked that you came,’ Liv says. 

‘Thanks for saying so.’ 

‘I didn’t know if you would.’ 

‘Would or could?’ 

‘Would,’ she says, turning her gaze away from him. 

‘I didn’t know, either, if I could be perfectly honest with you.’ He turns her head to face him. ‘You knew I would. Just as I knew I would. How could I not?’ 

‘Because of everything.’ 

‘One had nothing to do with the other,’ he says. ‘Something tells me that she wanted me here.’ ‘Anders is happy to see you, too. He may not show it, but he is.’ 

‘It’s good to see the both of you in the flesh. It’s been too long.’ 

‘That’s easily fixable.’ 

‘I’m not the one who decided to go home.’

She doesn’t say anything. She begins pacing the living room again. She pauses by the window and looks out into the evening snow. ‘Did you ever think we made a mistake?’ 

‘What are you saying?’ 

‘I’m not sure.’ She turns to face him. ‘Anders really misses you.’ 

‘I miss him, too, Liv. Again, I’m not the one who decided to go home.’ 

‘Did you ever think…’ 

‘It’s over, Liv. We both know that.’ 

She turns away and looks out the window again. 

‘That doesn’t mean I love you any less,’ he adds. 

***

Angelo can’t sleep. A sudden nicotine fit forces him out of bed. He opens the window and lights a cigarette. Whether it was the weight of the day or the conversation with Liv, he isn’t sure. A surge of cold air blows through the window. A light snow tickles his face. It’s a beautiful neighborhood, he muses, looking down at the cone of light over a patch of glistening snow at the street corner. Such silence, one New Yorkers are not used to. It’s peaceful, solemn. Pure, he reckons. Clean. He looks up at the evening sky. Even that has a strange light to it. The position of the moon? Where he is on Earth? The nights are long here. 

His thoughts are interrupted by a gentle knock on the door. 

‘Come in,’ he calls out without turning around. 

He had expected Liv when he finally does turn around. Anders enters the room, closing the door behind him. He’s in his pyjamas. They seem rather boyish on him now. 

‘You can’t sleep either,’ Anders says, then sits at the foot of the bed. 

Angelo flicks the half-smoked cigarette out the window and fans the excess smoke from the air with his hand. He leaves the window open to clear out the rest. He sits beside his son and puts his arm

around his shoulder. Anders lays his head against his father’s chest. They sit like that for a while. Neither of them speaks. Then, after a long silence, Anders says, ‘She wasn’t afraid.’ 

‘Of dying?’ 

Anders nods. 

‘She was a very strong woman, your grandmother. She lived life on her terms. She was rather remarkable. You were there when she passed?’ 

‘I held her hand. She told me not to worry, that she was ready. She said it would be just like going to sleep, only she would no longer wake up.’ 

Angelo doesn’t say anything, strokes Anders’s hair. 

‘She said I can always talk to her, that she will always listen. She said she would always be here.’

‘Will you?’ 

‘I already have.’ 

‘And?’ 

Anders shrugs. 

‘Give it time. I’m sure she’s here right now, listening to this conversation. She’s probably highly amused, too.’ 

‘Why amused?’ 

‘At me, not you. I don’t think she would have believed I’m saying the things I just said to you.’

‘She was talking to me like I was still a little kid.’ 

‘And that bothered you?’ 

‘A little.’ 

‘Well, grandma was almost ninety. Even I would seem like a little kid to her.’ 

‘That’s not what I mean. The way she tried to explain…’ 

‘She was just making sure it wouldn’t hurt you. It’s difficult to watch someone you love pass away.’

‘Reverend Dagerman said that it’s all part of the cycle of life. We’re born, we die. Just like everything else.’ 

‘Who’s Reverend Dagerman?’ 

‘The reverend who was at the funeral. From church.’ 

‘And he spoke to you about this?’ 

‘When grandma was close to the end.’ 

‘Do you believe in God, Anders?’ 

‘I guess so.’ 

‘You’re not sure?’ 

‘I don’t think about it, really. I just assume there is.’ 

‘Sometimes it’s important to have faith.’ 

‘Do you believe, Dad?’ 

‘Honestly? I’m not sure. I did when I was your age.’ 

‘But not anymore?’ 

‘Let’s just say that I don’t know.’ 

‘When are you leaving?’ 

‘The day after tomorrow.’ 

‘I wish you were staying longer.’ 

He holds Anders close to him. ‘We’ll see what happens.’

***

It’s snowing again, though not as heavily. Angelo offered to take Anders out. Liv does not join them. She has business to attend to at the office. They start out early, first walking through the neighborhood, through the snow and the light wind. It’s not as cold as Angelo had expected. The snow drifts down more than it falls. It’s relatively quiet, and there is morning traffic, but it’s nothing like the early morning rush of New York. He can get used to this. However, he was never much of a winter person, and he doesn’t think he can deal with these Swedish winters. 

He allows Anders to be his tour guide. He can tell the boy is relishing the role. His enthusiasm is infectious. He’s learned the terrain quite well over the past two years. He mostly points out spaces he’s familiar with — the comic book store, the music shop where he takes his viola lessons, his school, the supermarket where Liv does her shopping, and the soccer field where he sometimes plays before the winter came. Angelo had no idea that Anders was sports-minded. He’d never mentioned it. It’s good to know that he doesn’t spend most of his time in front of the computer like most kids do these days. He can tell Anders enjoys being here, and thinks Liv may have been right to bring him here. They continue on further into the city, across Strömbroh into Gamla Stan, past the semi-frozen canals, past the yellow and ochre buildings with steep roofs, the narrow cobblestone streets, past the shops, cafés, and boutiques. He’s concerned Anders will tire out from so much walking, but he’s holding his own. It is Angelo who tires out first, so he points out a nearby café and suggests they rest awhile over hot chocolate and coffee. 

‘Do you miss us?’ Anders asks. The question comes out of nowhere. 

Angelo looks at his son and is a little startled to see his own expression in the boy’s face. ‘Of course,’ he answers. ‘Haven’t I told you as much a million times?’ 

‘Why did you and Mom break up?’ 

Angelo stirs his tiny spoon in his espresso cup. Not that there’s anything in it to stir. ‘It’s hard to explain,’ he says, after a long pause. ‘Your mother and I… we just couldn’t make it work any longer.’

‘Why?’ 

‘There’s no easy answer to that.’ He doesn’t want to talk about this now. He hoped it would wait until later in the evening. ‘Sometimes people grow apart,’ he continues. ‘It’s not that we still don’t care about one another. It’s just that…’ 

Anders waits.

‘You’re a smart kid. It really doesn’t make sense to you?’ He pauses to sip his espresso, which he had already finished. ‘It’s hard to explain. Sometimes people change, and they begin to grow apart. Their needs are different. Your mother and I had different needs…’ 

Anders doesn’t say anything, looks out the window. 

‘What is it, Anders? What is it that you’re trying to ask me?’ 

Anders looks down into his hot chocolate. ‘Was it because of me?’ 

‘Why on earth would you even think something like that?’ 

‘I don’t know. Sometimes I wonder.’ 

‘You had nothing to do with it. That I promise you. Your mother didn’t put any ideas in your head, did she?’ 

‘No.’ 

He didn’t think she would stoop that low, but one never knows. As it is, he’s more or less persona non grata with her side of the family, hence why they all spoke Swedish exclusively at the gathering after the burial. He wouldn’t put it past Liv, despite her step towards reconciliation. 

‘Your mother and I… We both love you dearly. We’d move heaven and earth for you. The divorce had absolutely nothing to do with you. One day, when you’re a little bit older, and you start seeing girls, you’ll understand.’ 

Anders doesn’t say anything, staring down into his hot chocolate. As a father, Angelo knows this is a crucial time for his son. It is now when everything begins to change. Watching him, he can’t help but be reminded of his own childhood experience, but his son has far more advantages; only he doesn’t know that yet. What has twelve years of life taught him? How does he see the world? Before Ingrid’s passing, his world consisted of nothing but school, video games, and his viola. The divorce was his first disruption. Now this, losing someone dear to him. It all begins here. Everything. His role as a father has become even more important. Perhaps Liv understands that, too. 

He looks out the window. The snowfall is intensifying again. The sky is awash with a strange light behind the clouds. Then he looks at his son, sipping his hot chocolate in silence, his mind elsewhere

What is he thinking about? Life? Death? Video games? He can’t help seeing himself sitting there, and under similar circumstances. That’s all he has to go by. It’s impossible to truly know what’s going through Anders’s mind. 

***

It’s late now, and Anders had gone to bed. An uncomfortable silence pervades the apartment. Liv stands by the window, gazing out at the continuing snowfall. Angelo just watches her. He says nothing. Liv turns away from the window and begins pacing around the living room again. He places an unlit cigarette between his lips. A force of habit, since he doesn’t feel the need for a smoke. He feigns taking a drag, then holds the unlit cigarette between his fingers, watches Liv pace back and forth, back and forth, her face concealed behind a curtain of golden hair. 

‘I feel her here,’ she says, after a long silence. Angelo waits. ‘I don’t know why, but I feel her here.’ 

‘Anything is possible.’ 

Liv turns to look at him, eyes the unlit cigarette between his fingers. ‘You can light it if you want,’ she says. ‘In light of everything else, I suppose it doesn’t matter.’ 

Angelo drops the cigarette into his breast pocket. 

‘You must think I’m difficult,’ she says. 

‘You can be. But I’m no saint, either.’ 

She looks towards the hallway. She doesn’t say anything. She doesn’t have to. 

‘It’s been hard on him,’ Angelo says. 

‘It’s been hard on both of us.’ 

‘Did you expect things to be any different?’ 

‘I don’t know anymore.’ 

‘We’ve always had our issues. Even before Anders was born.’

‘But we managed to work through things.’ 

‘We did.’ 

‘What happened?’ 

‘Anders was asking me the same thing this afternoon. I really didn’t have an answer for him.’ ‘He’s been asking me, too, lately.’ 

‘It would have ended long ago if not for Anders.’ 

‘I suppose.’ 

Liv turns away and looks out the window. Angelo joins her, brushes her hair behind her shoulders. Her neck is smooth, white, the one small birthmark where it always was, just above the collarbone. ‘Did you mean what you said earlier about it really being over?’ 

‘I don’t know what anything means anymore,’ he says. 

She reaches up, touches his hand, but she still doesn’t look at him. 

‘You’re leaving tomorrow?’ 

‘Tomorrow afternoon.’ 

‘I suppose it isn’t possible to extend your stay, is it? For Anders’s sake.’ 

‘It’s winter break right now. I suppose I could stay a couple of more days. I’ll just have to change my flight.’ 

Liv smiles, turns to face him. ‘Sometimes I get the feeling Mom is working behind the scenes here.’ 

Angelo doesn’t say anything, brushes her hair away from her face. 

‘For Anders’s sake,’ he says. 

‘For Anders’s sake.’ 

They both look out the window. It’s still snowing rather heavily. Nearly a half a foot has accumulated on the ground, glistening under the streetlight. 

‘Look at that sky,’ Liv says. 

‘A strange light, isn’t it?’

‘Yes. Quite strange.’ 

- New York City, July 2025