I crouched on the edge of her bed, trying not to disturb her careful packing.
‘I know, baby. Melissa…she’s still going through the loss of her father. He passed away four years ago, just short of his 97th birthday. She was there for him when it happened.’
Bridget’s hands froze on her shirt. ‘I didn’t know.’
‘She doesn’t talk about it often.’ I sighed, running a hand through my hair. ‘Look, just give her time. She’ll come round.’
But time wasn’t on our side. The next morning, the storm broke with renewed vigour.
It started with a few drops, and then the sky opened up as if someone upstairs had turned on a fire hose. The wind howled like a goods train, and the electricity flickered once, twice, and then completely gone. At that moment, the phone rang.
Melissa answered it, and I saw her face change. ‘Mum?’ Her voice was strained with worry. ‘Okay, calm down. We’re coming to get you.’
Helen, Melissa’s mother, lived alone in a small house a few blocks away. The storm was getting worse by the minute and we needed to bring her to her place.
I grabbed my mackintosh and car keys, but Melissa stopped me.
‘The road to Mum’s is probably already flooded. We need to walk, but it’s dangerous for us to go alone, and I don’t want to leave the kids here alone.’
As if on cue, Bridget appeared at the bottom of the stairs, fully dressed in her mackintosh. ‘I can help,’ she said quietly.
Melissa seemed about to object, but another roll of thunder made the decision for her. ‘Good. We can’t do this without you. Let’s go.’
The walk to Helen’s house reminded her of something out of an apocalypse film.
The rain slapped us in the face and the wind knocked us off our feet more than once. When we finally reached Helen’s house, she was sitting in an armchair and was calm.
‘Honestly,’ she said when she saw us and adjusted her glasses. ‘I’d be all right.’
But her hands trembled as she tried to stand up, and I noticed Bridget moving immediately to help her. The girl’s movements were confident and practised, as if she’d done it hundreds of times before.
‘In Sweden,’ Bridget explained as she helped Helen put on her mackintosh, ’I was a volunteer at an elderly care centre. Let me carry your bag, Mistress Helen.’
The walk back was even worse, but Bridget stayed one step away from Helen, shielding her from the wind and keeping up her pace with precision. I could see Melissa watching her, her expression unreadable in the stormy gloom.
By lunchtime, we were all gathered in the living room eating cold sandwiches by candlelight. The silence was deafening until Helen cleared her throat.
‘Melissa,’ she said, her voice soft but firm. ‘You’ve been awfully quiet.’
Melissa motioned her sandwich across her plate. ‘I’m fine, Mum.’
‘No, you’re not okay.’ Helen reached across the table and took her daughter’s hand. ‘You’re scared. Just like you were scared when your father was sick.’
The room grew even quieter, if that was even possible. Melissa’s eyes filled with tears.
‘Do you know what your father said about death?’ Helen continued, her voice warm from the memory. ‘He said it was like a birthday: everyone celebrates it sometime, so it’s best to laugh about it while you can.’
A sob escaped Melissa’s throat. ‘He was too young, Mum. Ninety-six is too young.’
‘Maybe,’ Helen agreed, squeezing her daughter’s hand. ‘But he lived each of those years to the fullest. And he wouldn’t want you to be afraid of a silly birthday song.’
Bridget, who had been quietly helping Tommy clear the plates from lunch, stopped short. Melissa looked up at her.
‘I’m so sorry, Bridget,’ Melissa whispered, her voice thick with emotion. ‘I was…I was awful to you.’
Bridget shook her head, her eyes glistening in the candlelight. ‘No, I’m really sorry. I should have explained it better.’
‘You…’ Melissa took a deep breath. ‘Will you stay? Please?’
And just like that, the storm inside our house began to quiet down, even though it was raging outside. As I watched Bridget and Melissa hugging each other and Helen glowering beside them, I realised one important thing: sometimes the worst storms bring out the best in people.
And sometimes a silly Swedish birthday song can teach you more about life and death than you ever thought possible.
Later that evening, as we all sat together by candlelight, Brigitta learnt a birthday song with us. And you know what? We all laughed. Even Melissa. Especially Melissa.