41
VIGGO
Stairway to Heaven
Viggo’s chest felt suffocatingly tight as he entered the room where his grandfather lay sleeping in the bed. Intravenous needles had been stuck in his forearm, and he was hooked up to several machines that monitored his vital signs.
Even in his old age, Olof Sandström was still an imposing man, strong and physically fit. So it was a shock to see him looking so frail and helpless, the color leached out of his skin and his arms lying limp at his sides.
A well of deep pain opened up inside Viggo, making it hard to breathe.
On leaden feet he walked to the bed and stood over his grandfather. It took him several moments to find his voice.
“Hello, Farfar. It’s me.”
The old man didn’t stir.
“I got here as fast as I could.” Viggo’s lips twisted wryly. “If you were awake, you’d probably call me a damn fool for rushing back here and abandoning my team. But I’m only expecting to miss a few games. As long as…” He trailed off, unable to finish the thought.
The only sound came from the humming machinery and the heat blowing through the vents.
His jaw tightened as he stood there staring down at the man who had brutalized him for six of the longest years of his life. As the dark memories churned in his mind, he reached out slowly and touched the edge of his grandfather’s pillow.
As if he were having an out-of-body experience, he saw himself easing the pillow out from under the old man’s head, placing it over his face and slowly pressing down with both hands. He saw himself smothering his grandfather, watching him struggle and flail as he suffocated to death.
Shaken by the violent turn of his thoughts, Viggo backed away from the bed, his heart beating rapidly in his chest.
Jesus Kristus.
He glanced toward the door, half expecting to see a nurse standing there with a look of stern reproach.
But the doorway was empty, the hall silent.
Shoving his hands into his pockets, he prowled to the window and looked out over the winter landscape. Patches of ice shimmered on the streets, and light reflected off the snow-covered rooftops of adjacent buildings.
He stood there for a long time wrestling with his conflicting emotions. Hate and guilt, love and fury, hope and despair. He felt all tangled up inside. So fucked up and confused.
Turning from the window, he leaned back against the cold windowsill and stared at his grandfather’s pale, unmoving form on the bed.
“I don’t know why I’m not rejoicing right now.” His voice came out raw. “I’ve hated you for so long, seeing you at death’s door should be a relief. I mean, I figure once you die, I’ll be able to let go of all this hate that’s been eating away at me.” He shook his head slowly. “I don’t even think you realize how much I’ve hated your guts, old man. I hated you for hurting me. I hated you for humiliating me. I hated you for being harder on me than my brothers. I hated you for not being kind and doting like my friends’ grandfathers. But most of all, I hated you for making me fear you when all I ever wanted was to love you.”
He swallowed tightly, his gaze lifting to the ceiling as he let out a low, bitter laugh. “There were so many times I wanted to look you in the eye and say, ‘Fuck the gods. Fuck Odin and Thor. Fuck Ragnar Lothbrok and our so-called Viking ancestors. They’re all dead and gone, and there’s no such place as Valhalla.’”
He chuckled grimly, shaking his head. “God only knows what you would have done if I’d ever said such blasphemous things to you. You probably would have killed me. Maybe that’s why I never had the courage to speak up. Maybe I was too afraid. Or maybe…” He swallowed hard before whispering, “Maybe I never wanted to hurt you.”
The words hung, heavy in the silence of the room.
He glanced back at the city beyond the window, his expression softening before he returned his gaze to his grandfather.
“I brought my girlfriend home to meet the family. Her name’s Scarlett. She’s not Swedish. And she’s the most amazing woman I’ve ever met. I am absolutely, desperately, head over heels in love with her. She’s the best damn thing that ever happened to me. I hope you’ll like her. But if you don’t, it’s your loss.”
After a long moment, he straightened from the window and walked back over to the bed. The old man still hadn’t moved. He looked like death warmed over.
Viggo reached out, his hand trembling as he brushed his grandfather’s silver hair back from his forehead.
“Winning the Stanley Cup is the pinnacle of a professional hockey career. I’ve forgiven you for a lot of things. But if you die before I get to hoist that Cup, I will never, ever forgive you. Do you understand? I will despise you to my dying day. So don’t croak on me, old man. Stick around a while longer. If you decide to give up the ghost after we win the Cup, that’s fine by me. Hell, I’ll send you off to Valhalla myself,” he growled fiercely. “But until then, you stay right here in the land of the living. You owe me that fucking much.”
Still no movement. Not even the flicker of an eyelash.
Nostrils flaring, Viggo leaned down and pressed a rough kiss to his grandfather’s forehead. As he straightened, weak fingers suddenly seized his.
He froze, staring down at his grandfather’s hand and then at his pale face. “Farfar?” he whispered, hope stirring in his chest.
His grandfather’s eyelids were fluttering and his lips were working as if he were struggling to speak.
Viggo leaned down to put his ear by the old man’s mouth.
“Svenska.” The word was barely audible.
Viggo frowned. “What was that?”
“Sven…” His grandfather’s grip tightened on his hand. “Prata…svenska.”
Viggo stared down at him in stunned disbelief. As the old man’s words sank in, he threw back his head with a shout of incredulous laughter.
The sound brought his family running down the hall and into the room, their eyes wide and anxious. “What is it? What happened?”
Viggo grinned. “He’s awake.”
With a collective cry of excitement, everyone but Rikard rushed to Farfar’s bedside and leaned over him with hopeful expressions. Their hope turned to disappointment when they saw that the old man was unconscious again.
They looked questioningly at Viggo.
“Why were you laughing?” his mother demanded in Swedish.
“Really.” Freya’s tone was chiding. “There’s nothing funny about this situation, Viggo.”
“Of course not,” he agreed. “I was laughing because Farfar woke up and told me to speak Swedish.”
Everyone gave him skeptical looks.
“It’s true,” he insisted.
“I believe you,” Leif said with dry humor. “You’ve always been Farfar’s favorite. Of course he’d wait until you got here before waking up.”
The others laughed as Viggo exchanged a look with Rikard, who remained by the door with his arms folded across his chest.
There was a mocking gleam in his eyes. “You must have kissed the old devil and brought him out of his coma like Sleeping Beauty. Way to go, Prince Charming.”
“Rikard,” Freya scolded. “That’s not funny.”
“And technically it’s Prince Phillip,” Astrid corrected. “Phillip is the prince who awakened Sleeping Beauty with a kiss. Prince Charming is from Cinderella.”
Svea snorted. “Who cares? They’re both responsible for promoting the sexist notion that women are damsels in distress who need—”
A collective groan went around the room.
“Not now, Svea.” Hedda reached up and brushed a lock of Viggo’s hair off his forehead, then tenderly touched his cheek. “You’ve had a long trip. Why don’t you take Scarlett home, have some dinner and get settled in. If you’re both asleep when we get home, we’ll see you tomorrow at breakfast.”
Viggo hesitated, glancing down at his grandfather.
“We’ll call you if anything changes,” his mom assured him. “Take Rikard’s car—”
“Wait a minute,” Rikard protested. “Why does he have to take my car? Have you seen the way he drives?”
Freya snorted. “Have you seen the way you drive? You’re just as bad as Viggo.”
“Worse,” Astrid asserted.
“Nej,” Svea disagreed. “No one drives crazier than Viggo.”
Laughter rumbled around the room.
Rikard dug into his pocket, pulled out his key fob and grudgingly tossed it to Viggo. “Take good care of my baby,” he warned. “She’s a limited edition.”
Their mother sighed. “I long for the day when ‘my baby’ will refer to an actual child, not a car.”
This set off another round of laughter.
Viggo said his goodbyes to everyone and headed out of the room. His mother followed, touching his arm just as he stepped out into the hall.
He turned back to look at her.
She handed him his coat, her blue eyes twinkling. “I like your Scarlett.”
This made him smile. “Do you?”
“I do. Very much.”
“I’m glad.” He grinned. “I like her, too.”
“Yes.” His mom wore a knowing grin. “That’s very obvious.”
He laughed warmly as he shrugged into his coat.
His mother’s expression softened. “Thank you for bringing her home. I look forward to getting to know her better.”
He smiled. “You’re gonna love her.”
“Something tells me I will.”
He briefly cupped his mother’s cheek and winked at her, then turned and headed back to the near-empty waiting room.
Scarlett met him at the doorway looking anxious. “Is everything okay? We all heard you laugh—”
Viggo cut her off with a long, soft kiss.
When he pulled away, she stared up at him, looking a little dazed.
“How’d it go with your grandfather?” she whispered.
His mouth curved wryly. “We’re both still alive, so I guess that’s progress.”
Scarlett gave him a tiny smile.
He took her hand, linking their fingers. “C’mon. Let me take you home.”