James Thompson: Lucifer's tears

“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.”

She looks at me deadpan, considers her response. Then her anger dissipates and her bravado dissolves. She doesn’t cry, but her face falls. In that moment, she looks like an upset young woman of her age rather than the dour middle-aged woman she so often appears to be.

Mary keeps her voice low, stares at the floor. “You have a baby. I’m not able to have one myself. My husband is older than me, about the same age difference as you and Kate. When we married, we planned on having a big family. But after trying for a couple years, I found out that because of something that happened to me when I was young, I’m unable to have children. It makes me worthless in my husband’s eyes. I’m a disappointment to him and to myself.”

Now she looks at me, teary-eyed. “I’ve sometimes behaved badly, I know. I’m jealous of Kate, pure and simple. Please don’t make me leave. I don’t want to go home. I’m happier here.”

I don’t want her to feel worse than she already does. I give her a moment to collect herself, then say, “Let’s go back and join the others.”

We go back to the living room. Kate is holding the clothes Taina knitted up against our little girl, saying how lovely they look. Jari is downcast, standing in front of our bookshelf, perusing, with his hands in his pockets. I get it now.

“Jari,” I say, “would you come out on the balcony with me while I have a cigarette?”

I see he doesn’t want to. I give him a pair of slippers to keep his feet dry, and we step outside together. “Tell me,” I say.

He feigns confusion. “Tell you what?”

I light a Marlboro. “I had the MRI this morning. The results are supposed to take a few days, but you were worried about me and rammed them through. Tell me.”

He shakes his head and stares down Vaasankatu. “Not today, Kari.”

“Yes, Jari. Today.”

“Today should be joyous. You just had your firstborn child. Let it be joyous.”

I put an arm on his shoulder. “I just had my firstborn child. No matter what you say, today is joyous.”

He can’t look at me. “Little brother, you’ve got a brain tumor.”

I had already guessed as much. “Is it malignant?”

“We won’t know until you’ve had a biopsy.”

“Look at me,” I say.

He manages it.

“Am I going to die soon?”

“It’s not a large growth, and because of its placement, we may be able to remove it without causing you cognitive damage. I can’t tell you much more.”

“Give me a survival percentage. What are my odds?”

He makes himself spit it out. “If the tumor is benign, eightyfive percent survival. If it’s malignant, significantly lower.”

Poor Kate. She was ambivalent about staying home for months to take care of the baby. Now she’ll have to care for both of us. “Jari, we’re going back inside now, and you’re going to smile and chat and pretend everything is okay. Not a fucking word. Understood?”

He nods. “Leave me here for a minute to compose myself.”

I flick my cigarette onto the street below and step in. Kate, Taina and Mary are talking and smiling, all three comfortable together. Taina brought a head of cabbage. She’s explaining to Kate that putting a cabbage leaf inside her bra will keep her nipples from getting too sore when she breast-feeds. I pick up our baby girl and cradle her in my arms. She grips my little finger. We sit together and listen.