Chapter Text
It’s true what they say. Don’t wish for something until you actually think it through, and think it through properly. Twice, and perhaps more, even then, go write those wishes down on paper. Then sleep on it before you make that wish.
Because Even Bech Næsheim, always wished for more time. More time to spend with the kids, more time to spend renovating his apartment, more time to cook, more time to read. Perhaps even time to catch up with Netflix and sort out his home office. Because this working from home thing is nothing new, he’s done it before when the kids were smaller, when he was unwell, when the kids were unwell. He’s completed whole projects from the small back room where he works, the room that is supposed to be a storage closet, but is the only place left to hold his work kit and equipment and screens, that has a lockable door and a gate to keep the kids out. Because there are things in there the kids shouldn’t see, and definitely equipment that wouldn’t survive a badly aimed Brio train, or god forbid a flying Nerf bullet. He keeps telling the kids, keeps hiding the damn Nerf guns, but to no avail. They had made rules as parents when Thor was born, no violent toys, no gun toys, no plastic crap. Yeah right. Even’s apartment is overflowing with the stuff, and Sonja is absolutely no help whatsoever. Not that he blames her, because they are both, the worst parents ever.
They are in lockdown. Quarantine. Bloody Corona Virus shite. Whatever. Home schooling, home office, home entertainment, and the only breather he gets is at night when the kids finally fall asleep in his bed, because none of them have grasped that they have their own rooms. Not that they care, when they go and stay with Sonja, they all sleep in her bed. Then they come home and sleep in his. The little brats.
Not that he will get that break from the kids this week either, because Sonja is working as much overtime as she can manage, being a surgeon at the University Hospital, and is of course at risk from transmitting the damn virus and they decided early on that she should not have the kids anywhere near her, until this whole shit show of a pandemic is over. They facetime, and message all the time, and Even sometimes thinks he loves her more now then he did when they were together. It’s not supposed to work like that, he knows that, and he knows how damn lucky he is to have his family, and he counts Sonja as family. More than family.
These kids though. Right now he is trying to find the damn cheese slicer so he can make toasted sandwiches in the oven, because Thor has been learning about the UK and Brexit at school, and the project this week is to make an English dish at home. The parents in the group chat are showing off bloody Yorkshire Puddings, and roast dinners in carefully doctored Instagram worthy photos, but Even knows better. He can barely make something edible as it is, so he is making beans on toast. With Cheese. He would add cheese to the pathetic looking toaster loaf that he is spreading out over the baking tray if he could find the darned cheese slicer, and because he has no more baking parchment left, and he couldn’t get any in the shop, because the world has apparently gone mad and everyone is at home baking crap and Even just wants to scream because all he wants to do is get all his normal online basket of food delivered and get on with it. He hates shopping for food. He hates baking. He hates making all those little lovely chocolatey biscuits and creating sugar coated memories with his children. He leaves that bit to Sonja, who can’t cook to save her life either. Hence his kids will grow up with permanent damage to their rose-tinted childhood memories.
Well, nobody ever died from their parents not making Viennese biscuits and posting them on Instagram for the world to see, he thinks to himself as he grabs a knife and manhandles the poor piece of cheese into some wonky slices, that he throws on the pathetic cheap bread, before sliding the tray into the oven and slamming the door shut.
“You could have added sliced tomatoes.” Thor snarls, throwing his iPad on the table. “Can you check my essay? It sucks.”
Thor. He’s 12. Going on 18. He pretends he’s vegetarian, and snarls at Even’s blatant refusal to buy him vegan cheese. Not going to happen. Even can barely feed his family as it is, without the added complications of an imposed ethical food intolerance to deal with.
“Ask your sister.” Even huffs out.
“She’s 6.” Thor says, his voice full of defeat. “You didn’t hear a word of what I was saying, did you? Can you read my bloody essay or what?”
“Where do you get all this bad language from?” Even whines, sitting himself down on the kitchen chair, throwing the wet kitchen towel over his shoulder, only to throw it on the floor in disgust. Now his shirt is wet. The last of his clean shirts. He needs to book another laundry appointment in the basement laundry room. He forgot, again, because that old lady who lives on the ground floor was standing there and he’s kind of scared of her, so ran off instead of going up and booking his appointment. That’s the kind of person Even Bech Næsheim has become. Someone who can’t man up to a little old lady with aggressive tendencies, and who can’t remember to book his laundry appointments when he’s actually down in the laundry room. Like normal people would.
“YouTube.” Thor heckles, finishing his words with an evil laugh. Then he sits down opposite his father, pushing the iPad across the table. “Check it?”
“I’m sure it’s fine.” Even sighs. Because Thor is usually word perfect with these kinds of things, having inherited his mother’s constant strife for perfection.
“Just read it, Dad. Pretend that you are really into English Literature.”
“It’s a Harry Potter spinoff, T.” Even sighs.
“Dad, it’s fine English Literature. You should try watching the films sometime, without falling asleep before the opening credits are even over. You are such a grown-up.”
“That is because I am a grown-up.” Even lies. He’s hardly a grown-up.
“No, you are just my designated adult.” Thor smirks. “Mum is grown up, she has a responsible job saving lives. We are stuck with you most of the time, and you can barely get up in the morning.”
“ I get up.” Even laughs.
“We are always late for school.” Thor counters.
“At least we get there.” Even tries. He knows, it’s useless. He admits defeat and picks up the iPad, fishing his glasses out of his shirt pocket, before placing them on his nose so he can read. Age hasn’t matured him, one bit, apart from his vision that has gone dodgy. There is nothing wrong with his hearing though, as the first chord thunders through the ceiling.
“Oh, biscuits!” Thor shouts, covering his ears with his hands. “Here he goes again.”
“As long as he doesn’t sing.” Even whines.
“Oh, he will sing. Just wait.” Thor laughs, and looks at the ceiling. “Any minute now.”
It’s a new thing, the neighbour upstairs. He moved in a few months back, and Even has only seen him rush past on the stairs, a tall bloke, huddled under the weight of a rucksack. There’s a kid too, they can hear shouting and running around sometimes, but it hasn’t been a problem. Not until now. Not until the bloke decided to teach himself to play the guitar. Even supposes that this lockdown thing does strange things to humans, since it makes them think that this extra time on their hands should be spent picking up new skills. Learning a language. Baking strange inedible concoctions that cause your kitchen to explode. Even has barely kept up with his own work, yet his two children are surprisingly still alive, and Sonja still speaks to him, so at least he’s doing something right.
“Please make it stop!” Thor shouts, banging his head against the kitchen table. “How am I supposed to do my homework with all this noise going on?”
“And there goes the timer!” Even shouts over the deafening chords from upstairs. “Dinner’s ready!” Not that the kids can hear him, because not only is the bloke strumming the guitar, he also has it plugged in to some sort of loudspeaker, so the sound booms like ripples through the walls, making the cutlery on the worktop bounce as Even slides the tray of cheese topped bread out from the oven.
“Look, T, here is the classic British dish, cheese on toast. Tonight, we are adding baked beans as well, for a British twist, and that is what the English eat for dinner. OK?”
“Can’t hear you!” Thor shouts from under the kitchen table, where he is taking shelter from the noise from upstairs.
“BISCUITS!” Even shouts. Yeah, because you don’t shout swearwords in front of your children, and Thor came up with Biscuits , to use instead, and that is what they shout when things are shite. And now the bloke upstairs is singing. His droning voice, again completely out of tune.
“It’s smoke on the water.” Even whines, as Thor laughs.
“Sing it, Dad.”
“No way!”
“Look, he’s coming up to the chorus! Let’s all join in!”
“I can sing it better than the dickhead upstairs.” Even mocks, throwing his fist up at the ceiling. “Can you sing it in tune, mate?” He shouts at the white plasterboard, knowing full well the bloke upstairs can’t hear a thing, his badly out of tune guitar riffs being drowned out by a bit of additional feet stomping and there is the singing again.
“It sounds like he is being strangled.” Thor giggles, sticking his head out from under the table, looking up at the kitchen light, that is swaying dangerously above them.
“The light is dancing again.” Freya shouts, standing in the doorway, holding a Nerf gun tight to her chest. “Can you make it stop, Daddy?”
“I can’t make it stop.”
“I can shoot at it?” Freya offers, pointing the Nerf gun to the ceiling, shooting off a yellow foam bullet with a determined look on her face.
“Yeah, make it stop, Dad.” Thor mocks. Because he is a little shit, and Even just stares at him.
“I am not going to go up and cause a scene.” Even sighs.
“Can you bang on the ceiling with the broom again?” Freya smiles, running over to the cupboard, dragging the broom out, alongside about 20 reusable shopping bags, that dance across the floor, making Freya twirl around, laughing at the mess she just created.
“Broom?” Even says, shaking his head.
“Do it, Dad.” Thor eggs on.
“Make it stop!!” Freya shouts, clapping her hands, bouncing up and down like the ball of energy she is.
“Take this, you bad singing wannabe rockstar!” Even shouts, banging the broom handle, hard, at the ceiling.
“Stop it!” Freya shouts, picking the Nerf gun up again, aiming it up in the air, shooting off anohter round of yellow bullets.
“Biscuit eater!” Thor joins in, crawling out from under the table. “BISCUIT EATER!”
Even wants to shout. Scream. Curl into a ball on the floor.
“Look, he’s not going to stop. Can we just sit down and eat?”
“Are there meatballs?” Freya asks.
“It’s English food for dinner.” Thor explains. It’s not really. It’s a mess of melted cheese on bread that has now gone cold. And the baked beans are still sat in a bowl in the microwave oven.
“I want meatballs!” Freya shouts.
“But it’s not English, Freya!” Thor shouts back.
“Can you stop shouting!” Even tries, as the bloke upstairs launches into ….
“Queen!” Thor laughs. “God help us, he’s trying to do ‘I want to break free!’ “
“How do you know?” Freya pouts. “It just sounds like noise to me.”
“It is noise, but listen, ta da da da da daaa daaaa. Ta da da daddada daaa daaa. That’s the chorus. ”
”No, he’s doing Peppa pig. Listen, it’s Peeeepppa Pig, snort!”
”BISCUIT!” Thor shouts. ”Dad, do the broom again.”
“Not going to help.” Even sighs, “Please kids, can we just eat?”
“What is that?” Thor says, poking his finger into the now cold congealed cheese on the plate Even hands him.
“Food.” He tries.
“I’m not going to eat that.” Freya turns her nose up, sitting herself down at the table. “I said Meatballs.”
“Do I need to write this down on my report?” Thor sighs. “This is embarrassing Dad, is this really what the English eat?”
“I went on one of those language trips when I was a teenager, and we stayed with an English family and they made this for us. So yes. This is what English people eat.
“It looks disgusting.” Freya sighs, and pushes her plate away. “I’ll just have a glass of milk. Can I have ice cream for dessert?”
“We only have dessert at the weekend…” Even starts, before the noise upstairs accelerates into something that suddenly is intolerable. Some kind of screeching noise followed by a steady drumbeat.
“And, he has bought, a drum machine.” Thor professes, sounding like a doomsday voice from hell.
It’s day 18 of lockdown, but it seems like day 328, at least. It’s also the day Even Bech Næsheim snaps, because there is only so much a father can take from his kids, there is also just that much time a father can take, without a single break to clear his head. This is the day, when Even Bech Næsheim stomps out of his flat, leaving the door wide open behind him as he takes the steps two at a time up to the 4th floor of their building in suburbian Oslo. He doesn’t stop to think about social distancing measures, or virus protection, or perhaps wearing some ill advised gloves, before banging his fist against the door, hard. The door that bears the name Valtersen.
