The Greenhouse

Twenty-five

I wondered how long I could wait before I told Dad about the child who would probably be coming into the world on Mom’s birthday in August and how I should announce it to him. I was twenty-one years old and living at home; Dad was fifty-five when he had his first and only children, his twins, Jósef and me. The strangest thing was that my greatest worry was having to tell Dad the expected date of birth. Which bits should I divulge and which bits should I keep to myself about the conception and birth of the child? Should I just spill it out over dinner, out of the blue, casually even, like it was no big deal to have a child with a woman you didn’t know, or should I take a more formal approach and tell him that I needed to have a little chat with him in private, as if there were anyone else in the house, and sit down on the sofa and turn off the radio news to underline the importance of this inevitable event? I felt like I was about to reveal material to the electrician from a novel that I hadn’t read yet, and therefore I honestly couldn’t think of any way of making it interesting. I was also afraid of disappointing him, that he might think I was finally going to tell him of my decision to study botany.

When I finally thought I’d found the right moment to tell Dad the news, my friend phoned to tell me that she was on her way to the maternity ward because she was about to give birth. She said she would wait for me, and I thought I sensed a certain vulnerability in her voice, as if she were about to cry.

It was ten thirty on a Friday night, the sixth of August.

— She called me when the baby was coming, I say to the actress.

It’s been three hours since we left and we’re still in the forest. I see my traveling companion digging into her drama student bag again, looking for her red lunch box.

I must admit I was totally surprised that my friend called me before the baby was born; up until that moment I hadn’t even expected the baby to necessarily be born at all. I dove under the shower and then ironed the only white shirt I had; that was my contribution to the birth, to be in a white, ironed shirt like at Christmas. Apart from that I didn’t know what role Anna expected me to play in the birth. I felt I was on my way to an exam I hadn’t studied for. Suddenly Dad appeared beside the ironing board, and I quickly told him that I was expecting a child with the friend of a friend of mine.

— D’you remember Thorlákur? I ask.

His reaction took me somewhat by surprise; he almost looked happy, then he took the iron and wanted to finish ironing the shirt for me.

— I never really expected to experience the joy of becoming a grandfather, he said, your mother and I weren’t even sure you were that way inclined.

I didn’t ask him what he meant by “that way inclined,” but allowed him to help me put on my shirt, as if I were a little boy on his way to his first Christmas ball. He asked me if wanted to borrow a tie from him.

— No thanks.

The moment triggered a memory in him.

— Your mother practically filled up the whole orange kitchen unit in the last weeks she was pregnant with you two brothers, so I avoided going into the kitchen when she was there. The apartment wasn’t big and we were always bumping into each other; there was no way of getting past her. I felt as if I were one too many, as if the apartment just wasn’t big enough for the two of you and me.