We bump along for a while and finally come to a stop.
I let out the breath I was holding as the flight attendant starts speaking in Finnish, so fast that I can’t understand a word of it. I have a very rudimentary grasp of the language from what my father taught me as a child, and I’ll admit it was only because Finnish inspired Tolkien’s Elvish language that made me stay interested in it.
It doesn’t take long for me to exit the plane, considering how small it is and it was only half-full to begin with, February being Lapland’s off-season. I still have to wait for my carry-on bag though, since they made me check it because of the diminutive overhead bins, and it’s while I’m waiting at baggage claim in what must be the world’s tiniest airport that I feel a burst of cold at my back.
For a moment I’m disoriented, dizzy, and the skin on my scalp prickles.
I turn around to see a middle-aged woman staring at me, short, with a graying blonde bob and round, weathered cheeks that shine like apples. She’s smiling, though her dark eyes aren’t.
“Welcome to Sampi,” the woman says to me in a thick accent, and though I’ve never met her before, I immediately know it’s Noora. In fact, I can hear her name being sung in my head, as if from a robin on a branch, and I have to blink a few times to right myself. Jet lag is no joke.
“Sampi?” I repeat. Dear god, don’t tell me I got on the wrong flight.
“It’s what we Sami people call Lapland,” she says. Then she extends her hand, like an afterthought. “I’m Noora. But you already knew that. I’m sorry we couldn’t have met under better circumstances. You meant the world to your father. There wasn’t a day where he didn’t talk about his dear Hanna.”
Don’t cry, don’t cry.
I shake her hand briefly and manage to hold myself together, only because I’m still a bit confused.
“How did you know what flight I was on?”
Noora gives a half-smile. “You said you’d be here for the funeral tomorrow, and there’s not many flights coming up here. Lucky guess.” She reaches out and tugs at my black wool coat. “This might be fashionable, but this won’t keep you warm.”
I’m about to point out that she’s dressed only in a thick wool sweater herself, but decide to keep my mouth shut.
“Your father told me that you work for a clothing company,” she says, her attention still fixed on me, those dark eyes of hers sharp as tacks. “Something to do with the internet.”
“Social media,” I tell her, raising my chin slightly. I’m 5’10” and Noora is a lot shorter than me, but whenever I have to explain my job I feel like I’m suddenly very small. The minute someone hears that I’m in fashion, and then hears that I’m in social media, they tend to make an assumption about me pretty fast. “Social media manager,” I add. “It’s basically how we do all advertising and marketing these days.”
She nods and finally looks away to the baggage carousel, breaking eye contact. I feel a strange rush of relief, like I can breathe again. “I told your father we could use someone like you for the resort, but he always brushed me off, saying that the right people would find the place. He was right, in the end.” She lifts her arm and points as my rose-gold hardcover suitcase appears on the belt. “There it is.”
This time I don’t have to ask how she knew. Not many rose-gold suitcases up here.
I stride over to the carousel and pick up my bag, taking a moment to gather my thoughts. I’ve always been someone who can pick up on vibes (my father used to call me an empath, my mother says I’m “too damn sensitive”) and Noora has vibes up the wazoo. But she did take the time to meet me here, and perhaps the strange energy I’m getting off her might be because she’s grieving as much as I am. My father moved up north to open his resort five years ago, and though I’d never heard him mention Noora, it’s possible they were really close, maybe in ways I don’t want to imagine.
I remind myself to stop making judgments and assumptions and roll the bag over to her.
“Good,” she says with approval. “I will drive you to the resort now.”
“Oh.” I pause, gathering my coat collar. “But the funeral isn’t until tomorrow.”
“Yes,” she says patiently. “But you are staying at the resort.”
It’s not a request, it’s an order. I shake my head. “I booked and paid for a hotel room in town already. I won’t get a refund if I cancel.”
She gives me a placating smile. “You will get a refund. I know all the hotels here. Don’t worry about it.” She pauses, light brows furrowing. “I must say I was disappointed when I didn’t see you book a room at the resort.” Then she turns and heads over to the doors to the outside, a marching-like walk.
“I know,” I admit after a moment, following after her. “I guess because it didn’t show up on the hotel booking site I use. Creature of habit.”
That’s not the total truth though. I’d always wanted to stay at my father’s wellness resort, even before it started getting some recognition amongst the travel influencers who stumbled upon it in their quest for something new. But the idea of finally staying there, only to have him gone, felt wrong to me in ways I can’t really explain. Like it was easier to just stay elsewhere, put a bit of distance in, as if that’s going to make any of this hurt less.
We walk through the automatic doors to the outside and the air is a slap to the face, freezing my lungs. It’s cold as hell, with snow covering every inch of land, including the sidewalks, and cars are making fresh tracks on the road. I’m cursing myself for not bringing a parka. I’m also wishing my luggage had skis attached to the wheels.
“So your mother isn’t coming,” Noora notes as we walk to the parking lot and I drag the luggage through the snow drifts.
I shake my head, trying to ward off the anger that sparks inside me. Noora told me she had called my mother before she called me. As soon as I got the news about my father, I texted my best friend Michelle first, then told my roommate Jenny. There was a lot of crying and drinking shots of bourbon in shock.
I didn’t actually call my mother until the next morning. I knew that Noora had told her, but Noora had never told my mother that she was calling me. Which meant my mother had no idea I knew my father was dead and she sat on that fucking information for twenty-four hours. Maybe even more, had I not called her.
And, fuck. Even if I wasn’t an empath I could have picked up on her vibes loud and clear over the phone. She thought it was good that he was dead.
So no, my mother isn’t coming to the funeral.
“I’m sure it would be too hard for her,” I say, but from my meek voice, I know that Noora won’t believe me. I don’t believe me either. It’s all bullshit.
But Noora just nods as we head toward a small red hatchback. Once inside the car, I’m met with a plethora of smells, a lot of them familiar like sage and palo santo, the rest earthy, bitter, and cloying. Because my legs are long they’re crammed up against the glovebox and I have to wrestle with the seat control until it slams back.
Noora looks over me with amusement, and for once I see it reach her dark eyes. “Just like your father,” she comments. “He was tall too. Is your mother the same?”