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Chapter one
Rory
Friday
Uncomfortable is not a strong enough word for how I’m feeling right now. My English friends would call my current situation unpleasant in their usual stoic way. But while we might all be grouped together as British, I’m a Scotsman to my very bone marrow, and we aren’t so polite.
I’m fucking pissed, and if I weren’t so constrained in my movements, I’d be tempted to put my fist through the wall of this flying tin can for fucking up my booking. I tilt my ass from one butt cheek to the other in the narrow seat, temporarily relieving the cramping in my lower back, but it’s doing nothing to temper the hot stew of anger bubbling beneath the surface of my skin.
I’m not normally worked up by life’s inconveniences, but coming off the last week—no, make that months—of stress, I’m finding the fuse on my temper has been cut very short. Continuing in this way is not feasible. As an angry teenager, I was always getting into trouble, and I refuse to go back to stoking that destructive flame. Now that I’m in my midthirties, I should know better. Closing my eyes, I suck in a few deep breaths to stomp on my rising irritation.
My early years were tough—growing up in the small coal-mining village of Bilston, not far from Edinburgh, with a total population of less than two thousand and featuring an abusive, alcoholic father and a mother who took the worst of it to protect her five children while managing to work three jobs to keep the roof over our heads.
I didn’t have it in me to shed a tear when booze finally took him from us, and the heavy burden of responsibility as the oldest son was eased. My father was a mean bastard who, as far as I’m concerned, did one honest thing in his whole life, and that was to marry my mother when he got her pregnant at seventeen. But he ruined it by filling her with his seed four more times before she was twenty-six. That was shameful.
Even though I love my siblings, my father made my mother’s life a living hell up until the day he died. Thankfully, his nastiness died with him, and we’ve all inherited our mother’s strength, resilience, and work ethic in bucket loads. My three sisters are equally successful in their respective fields as is Drew, my younger brother, though only by fifteen months. He’s a best-selling author and the reason I’ve squeezed my six-foot-four frame into this way-too-small plane seat. He’s getting married, and the buck’s party weekend is in Reykjavik, Iceland.
I arch my feet as best as I can, hoping to bring some feeling back into my toes, then lift my shoulders up before dropping them down again. This being the only arm movement possible if I don’t want the diminutive elderly lady on my right to slip under my armpit or risk poking the larger gentleman on my left in the stomach. It’s not their fault they have my tall, broad frame wedged between them.
I still don’t understand how the fuck the airline managed to reallocate my prebooked, spacious emergency-exit seat to someone else, leaving me cramped and uncomfortable in my current position.
It's bad enough there’s only a direct flight from Edinburgh to Reykjavik on Wednesdays and Saturdays, so I had to fly the Friday route via Dublin. It meant a few hours on the ground there before finally boarding this flight for the final two-and-a-half-hour leg of the journey.
In hindsight, I should have flown on the direct flight Saturday morning instead of thinking the extra day would give me a chance to do some solo sightseeing before the buck’s party began. Drew’s friends know how to party hard. I learned that a long time ago. And while Drew may be settling down after the birth of his first child a few months ago and his proposal to Katie, I’m not sure the same could be said for his mates.
Either way, I’m up for it, because it’s a relief to have the next three days away from work. These last couple of months have been hoachin with my company going through a merger—or, more accurately, a takeover. The board promised it would be a smooth transition, yet it’s been anything but. The new management has completed the final paperwork, which means the company is now within their control, and they’ve been flexing their corporate muscle. Numerous demands to cut costs and reduce staff, some of whom have been with the company for twenty years, have meant long days for the remaining employees. I don’t understand what management’s goal is, but I suspect the takeover was more about eliminating the main competition than anything else.
It’s time for me to make some decisions about my future. I’ve reached a career crossroads as an architect working for Balfour Homes, and for my own sanity, I need a new direction.
A message from the cockpit announcing that we’ll be arriving at Keflavik Airport in thirty minutes eases some of the tension I’d been holding in my shoulders. With an audible sigh I’m unable to hold in, I drop my head back onto the headrest. I think I can survive thirty more minutes.
Finally, I’m free from the torture chamber the airline claims was a perfectly acceptable option to transport a larger-than-average-sized adult male through the air for two and a half hours. I’m feeling every one of my thirty-five years, and I know I should get over my bad mood. I really was trying to until I banged my head on the overhead locker while trying to extricate myself from the seat. The slightly raised bump on the top of my head seems disproportionate to the pain. My head is mince, and this headache is like a hot poker stabbing into my temple. I’m so over this fucking trip already. Please let me collect my luggage, grab a taxi, and get to my accommodation without any more drama so I can pop a couple of Ibuprofen.
Chapter two
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.
