“Because none of us wanted to take you away from your granny.”
The last words between them dissipate into the air and leave nothing behind. The snowflakes are falling so densely against Audi’s windshield that the world in front of them seems to have disappeared. Elsa holds Dad’s hand. Dad holds hers even tighter.
“It’s hard for a parent to accept that you can’t protect your child from everything.”
“It’s hard for a child to accept it too,” says Elsa, and pats him on the cheek. He holds on to her fingers.
“I’m an ambivalent person. I know this makes me a bad father. I’ve always worried that my life should be in better order before you start living with us for longer periods. I thought it was for your sake. That’s what parents often do, I think, we persuade ourselves we’re doing everything for the sake of the child. It’s too painful to us to admit that our children won’t wait to grow up because their parents are busy with other things. . . .”
Elsa’s forehead rests in the palm of his hand when she whispers: “You don’t need to be a perfect dad, Dad. But you have to be my dad. And you can’t let Mum be more of a parent than you just because she happens to be a superhero.”
Dad buries his nose in her hair.
“We just didn’t want you to become one of those children who have two homes but feel like a visitor in both,” he says.
“Where’s that from?” Elsa snorts.
“We read things.”
“As smart people go, you and Mum are really insanely unsmart sometimes,” Elsa says, and then smiles. “But don’t worry about how it’ll be when you’re living with me, Dad. I promise we can make some things really boring!”
Dad nods and tries not to look puzzled when Elsa tells him they’re going to celebrate her birthday at his and Lisette’s house, because Mum and George and Halfie are still at the hospital. And Dad tries not to look stressed when Elsa says that she has already called Lisette and arranged everything. But he looks much calmer when Elsa tells him he can make the invitation cards. Because Dad immediately starts thinking about suitable fonts, and fonts have a very calming effect on Dad.
“They have to be ready this afternoon, though!” says Elsa, and Dad promises they will be.
They actually end up being ready in March. But that’s another story.
Elsa is about to jump out of the car. But since Dad already seems more hesitant and stressed than usual, she turns his stereo on so he can listen to his crappy music for a while. But no music comes out, and it probably takes two or three pages before it really sinks in for Elsa.
“This is the last chapter of Harry Potter and the Sorceror’s Stone,” she finally manages to say.
“It’s an audiobook,” Dad admits with embarrassment.
Elsa stares at the stereo. Dad keeps his hands on the steering wheel, concentrating. Even Audi has been stationary for a while now.
“When you were small, we always read together. I always knew which chapter you were on in every book. But you read so quickly now, and keep up with all the things you like. Harry Potter seems to mean such a lot to you, and I want to understand the things that mean a lot to you,” he says, red-faced, as he looks down at the horn.
Elsa sits in silence. Dad clears his throat.
“It’s actually a bit of a pity that you get on so well with Britt-Marie nowadays, because while I was listening to this book it struck me I could have called her She-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named at some suitable opportunity. I had a feeling that would make you laugh. . . .”
And it is actually a bit of a pity, thinks Elsa. Because it’s the funniest thing Dad has ever said. It seems to set him off, as he suddenly becomes animated.
“There’s a film about Harry Potter, did you know that?” He grins.
Elsa pats him indulgently on the cheek.
“Dad. I love you. I really do. But do you live under a stone or what?”
“You knew that already?” asks Dad, a little surprised.