The Mistletoe

Chapter VIII

I gazed out the window at the storm clouds over the Atlantic and thought, "Wednesday... if lightning strikes us, we'll fall in the middle of the ocean." It was a mix of fascination and terror, imagining all possible scenarios.

"Storm's making you nervous?" my dad asked.

"I don't know, a bit. I had a strange dream again," I said.

"The girl again?"

"No, actually, my memory is so bad that I had forgotten about that dream. I don't even remember the girl's face anymore. Today, I dreamt about a plant, for the second time in a row. The plant was green, and it had these round, red fruits. The first time, it adorned my forehead like a Ravenn, and the other time, a man was holding it, touching me with it, like a blessing," I explained.

My dad pondered on it, and suddenly something clicked. "Ahhh, I think I know. Look, when we baptized you, when you were a few months old, your mother invited your grandfather at the time, whom we never saw again. I had never seen so many ladies and young women so excited; it was quite a show, as if the old man was some kind of rock or movie star, he looked too young for being a grandpa. I think he brought one of the plants you mentioned and gave it to us; he said it was a "godfather's blessing". Your mom held him in high regard; she was very grateful that he had attended, and he was very polite. He also brought us a drink typical of where he came from; it was delicious," my father remembered nostalgically.

"What plant was it?" I asked with curiosity.

"Mistletoe. Your gramps name was Baldwin. He brought us mead, supposedly very typical in Scandinavia," he said enthusiastically. "He made a kind of Ravenn with the plant for you and kissed your forehead. Then he said, 'Watch out, this child is going to be very handsome.'"

"Weird story. So, it must be some memory stored in my subconscious..." I summarized.

"Most likely," he said. "The guy had a resemblance to your mother. He emphasized how interesting you looked, the perfect mix between your mother and me. After trying that drink, I tried to buy it online, but nothing compared. It was out of this world; Hilda said it was homemade, it would be difficult to replicate. He also gave me a sprig of mistletoe, and I kept it in my office as a decoration. Somehow, it gave the atmosphere a tremendous sense of calm," he remarked, smiling.

"Did he tell you his full name? Where did he live?" I asked, even more curious.

"He told me he runs a company; he was an entrepreneur in the alcoholic beverages sector, and the mead was from his business. He was from Norway, his surname was Solberg, a straightforward man. We talked about many things, and he seemed to have business knowledge. I don't know why, but no one asked for his phone number or contact. I didn't want to either, you know how I am – if I'm not asked, I usually don't offer. He seemed very interested in you and your future; he joked that you'd be his competition when you grew up. A friendly guy, maybe a bit vain, but I can't blame him with all the exaggerated attention he got from everyone," my father recalled, taking a pause as he remembered.

"Oh, I wish I could get my hands on that mead again," my father seemed to daydream once more.

"Baldwin Solberg... from Norway, father of my mom... Why is my mother's family so peculiar? If he was interested in my future, he should have come to see us," I thought, feeling a bit frustrated.

Have you ever had that family member who's cool and charismatic with everyone but couldn't care less about you? Or uses you as a way to impress others chicks? Such weird people. Well, I shouldn't make assumptions based on what others say. My godmother, chosen by my father, passed away when I was only two years old, may she rest in peace. She was already an older lady; I always loved her "sopaipillas", or fried tortillas, and the "calcetines rotos", or broken socks, a funny name for a typical chilean sweet. She made it in her wood-fired kitchen.