Afterward, I drive to Katiloopiston hospital. Kate is up and about, packing her things. “Mary told me you were here most of the day yesterday,” she says. “I’ve never been so tired in all my life. I slept nearly around the clock. But they tell me I can go home now.”
Mary has stayed at the hospital with Kate and the baby since I brought her here. I appreciate that, it makes me value Mary more than I thought possible. I sit in a chair with our little girl. She grabs my little finger and hangs on for dear life. “We may have a female wrestler in the making,” I say.
I drive Kate, Mary and the wee one home. John is on the couch, sleeping off his hangover. We all follow his example and nap for a while. Our baby lies on the bed between us. I can’t sleep, because I’m afraid I’ll roll over and crush her. Around noon, we all rouse, and I start to make lunch for everyone, but it isn’t needed. Jari and Taina arrive, arms full of food and gifts.
“What’s all this?” I ask.
“It’s called rotinat, ” Taina says. “In my hometown of Imatra, our tradition is that when a baby is born, all the relatives cook and knit something for the baby. The idea is to take care of the mom so she can take it easy and heal, and also to celebrate the baby. We brought enough food for a few days, baby clothes, diapers, towels and some other little things.”
Imatra is in Eastern Finland, and we don’t have this tradition in my part of Lapland. I’ve never heard of rotinat. I’m touched and surprised, don’t know what to say. Kate gets up from the kitchen table and walks over. She’s not wobbling anymore, got her balance back as soon as she had the baby. Kate hugs Taina and speaks for both of us. “That’s the sweetest thing anyone ever did for us. Thank you so much.”
I look around. John yawns, his hangover is bad. Mary’s face is troubled. Jari stares at the floor. I wonder if he’s concerned because of the last time he and Taina came here.
I check the thermometer. It’s minus thirteen, the warmest day we’ve had for a long while. I ask no one in particular, “Do you think I should get the stroller out of the closet, bundle up the baby, give her a first taste of winter and put her out on the balcony for a few minutes?”
Mary hits the roof and yells, “What?”
Once again, her anger confuses me. “What did I say?”
She stands up and walks toward me, waggling a finger, spluttering with rage. “Are you insane? You can’t take an infant out into subzero cold.”
I’ve had mixed feelings about Mary over the past week, mostly good lately, but I just reached the end of my rope. “Mary,” I say, “could I please speak with you in private?”
She storms into the kitchen, which isn’t as private as I would have liked, folds her arms and glowers at me. I keep my voice down to avoid embarrassing her. “In this country,” I say, “putting infants, dressed warmly, outside in the cold for a little while is considered a healthy practice. Everyone does it. What’s your problem?”
She deflates, drops her arms to the sides, looks down and stares at the refrigerator.
“Mary,” I say, “I’ve tried hard to like you, and sometimes I do. At the hospital, I saw your love for Kate and got my first sense of our being family. But you’re a guest here, and this home belongs to me and Kate. We have ways of doing things you’re not accustomed to, but we’re good people and you have no right to criticize us. There are two options. You either accept and respect our cultural differences, or you leave. If you prefer to leave, I’ll drive you to the airport today.”