Wings & Hearts

The tiny apartment Paavo and I shared was crowded with the bodies of the people I loved, people who were preparing to celebrate our graduations. Well, they were here to celebrate Paavo more than myself - after six years at Sibelius Academy, he was to graduate with his Master’s degree; oh, Paavo, Paavo, what a perfect child you are, always better than that little strangely-dressed wretch of a sister you have there. It was enough to make me gag. As far back as I could remember Paavo had been more important than I had because he was older - and my parents made the mistake of planning our births at an interval where every single one of our graduations would fall on the same year, if not the same day.

I stood in the kitchen where I had balanced the ironing board between the counter, the island, and the coffee machine with a cigarette stuck in my mouth, ironing the grand, enormous black robe I was to wear later in the evening. There was a backup of clothing for me to iron - Jyrki’s robe (he was to graduate with high honors and his Master’s degree), Paavo’s robe, their black blazers, the crisp white shirts they were to wear under them, and if I managed to finish all of that, then and only then could I press the little black shirtdress I had found for the occasion.

Life’s a bitch.

With a sigh, I set the iron down and hung my robe on a cabinet, securing the ropes I would wear around its hanger lest Paavo think my robe was his. It probably would have fit him anyway. I gulped down half of a fresh cop of coffee and watched my relatives fuss over the two Masters’ students in the room - my parents had been more impressed that I had managed to snag such a charmer as Jyrki than the fact that I had managed to snag straight A’s through out my College career. My mother had already nearly ripped my head off because of the cigarette in my mouth (and the Bailey’s Irish cream she had caught me sneaking into my coffee earlier in an attempt to deal with her piercing voice), it was apparent she hadn’t grown any fonder of her misfit daughter in my absence.

Paavo and Jyrki’s robes were done in short order and hung in strategic positions - Paavo’s on the jamb above his door and Jyrki’s beside mine in the kitchen.

A woman’s work was never done when her mother was around.

“Why have you stopped ironing?” The woman must have been Hitler in her past life, I swear. My mother was the queen of screeching angry orders at everyone, and nearly always got her way.

“I’m taking a sip of coffee, mum, calm down.” I breathed as my shaking hand poured another cup. She hadn’t let me slow down for a moment since she had roused me that morning at eight, and it was nearly noon. “If I don’t ingest something with caloric value, I may faint.”

“Always whining girl, I thought college would get that out of you. Wouldn’t be the first time I was wrong about you.” She had a face so puckered it seemed she must keep a stash of sour warheads to suck on at random intervals throughout her day, and dark brown hair pulled up so tightly into a bun that it must have cut off the circulation to her brain and caused the vicious tirade that always spewed out of her mouth.

I chose not to shoot back and set to my ironing again, the smoke clenched between my teeth as I carefully pressed the white shirts for Jyrki and Paavo, feeling like Cinderella re-incarnated.

“She’s quite rude, your mother,” A familiar baritone breathed into my ear, his hands on my waist. Jyrki had managed to make a full recovery once we figured out what had triggered his asthma attack - a rat had been living in the apartment he and Ville shared unbeknownst to all of us. It was disgusting, but good to know that I wouldn’t have to quit smoking for the man, which was nearly out of the question altogether due to how irritable I had been for the week Ville and I had pledged not to smoke for Jyrki’s sake.

“She’s delightful.” I hadn’t meant to snap at him, but the stress of the day drove me to it. Jyrki’s lips pressed against the side of my neck, and I was instantly sorry for attempting to gnaw his head off like a crazed Chihuahua. “I’m sorry. I’m in over my head here, Jyrki.”

“I’ve noticed.” I set the iron down on the ironing board, beside Jyrki’s crisp white shirt, before I turned to bury my face in his shirt - fighting the tears that I knew were to come. “It’s ok baby, really. There’s nothing you can do,” I wrapped my arms around his waist and clung to it until I could feel my mother’s stare on my back and could hear her command me to continue my ironing; it was all I could do to refrain from screaming back at her.

Jyrki offered me a freshly lit smoke - which nearly sent me into cardiac arrest, he must have really thought I needed the nicotine to deal with my mother, Jyrki would never have touched a cigarette if it wasn’t a matter of life or death. I muttered my thanks as I took it, and began to iron again with a cup of Joe in one hand. He and I hadn’t a moment alone together since the night before - my parents frowned upon any more physical contact than was proper between a man and a women who were “courting.” I felt like I had suddenly been transported back to the early 1800's.

“What time is it?” My mother was screeching again - if we didn’t hurry up and get dressed that very instant, we all would be less than an hour early for Paavo’s graduation. I sighed through the cigarette as I smoothed the last crease out of the full-skirted little black dress I had procured for the evening, thankful for the support of Jyrki’s enormous hand on the small of my back.

“Come on, I’ll help you get into that dress.” I turned to give Jyrki a look which I hoped clearly said ‘are you kidding me, they think I’ll get pregnant if I stare at you long enough, do you really think they’ll let us be in the same room together for an extended period of time?’ in so many words, and took a massive gulp of my rapidly cooling coffee. He lifted an eyebrow, as if to say ‘I see your point,’ and settled with his hands at my waist again, watching warily as I began to flatten the garishly yellow ‘Salutatorian’ sash which I had been provided only days ago (when it became clear that studying could be mixed with partying to achieve the status; translation: the faculty told me I had the second-best grades in my class. Whoopee).

After a moment, I realized that I had completely run out of things to iron and therefore had nothing to keep my hands busy. I also found (much to my greatest relief) that my mother was walking out the door with Paavo and my father on each arm, shooting snide comments which implied my virginity would be questioned if I was late to watch my brother walk.

“Want to help me get ready now?” Jyrki was all to happy to comply - but appeared crestfallen when I informed him that getting ready was the only act he would participate in before Paavo’s ceremony.

Paavo’s ceremony was to be held at thirteen hundred hours on his campus, in one of the auditoriums (there were a few, it was a fucking music school). After his commencement, Jyrki and I were to rush across town in order to reach ours an hour prior to the ceremony in order to prepare. Undergrad students like myself walked first, at sixteen hundred hours, and Graduate students like Jyrki immediately afterwards. It was basically the same ceremony, with a single speech separating the two.

Thick fingers painstakingly fastened the row of buttons which ran up the side of the black dress as I arranged the collar just so about my neck - popped, but not in an obnoxious “I’m a pastel polo shirt” manner - as to compliment the strand of bright pearls which hugged my throat.

“Darling, you look fantastic,” Jyrki nearly gaped as he spoke, watching as I very delicately tied the small sash belt around the tight waist of the little black dress and gently turned up the cuffs of the elbow-length sleeves to fasten them with a pair of pearl cufflinks. I thought it added a very sophisticated touch to an otherwise bland garment, the pearls. The black-haired man helped by smoothing the dress over my hips as I made an attempt to swirl my hair back into a sleek chignon.

“Oh, stop fussing you, if we don’t get there on time my mother is going to curse me for eternity.” The hands on my hips turned me none-too-gently and my lips met those of my lover’s with hurried intensity. After a few moments of heavy petting, Jyrki’s hands moved as if to grip a handful of my hair and forced me to pull away.

“Jyrki! We’re going to be late! And you‘re going to mess up my hair!” Regardless of what I had just said, I grasped the sides of his face between my palms and planted butterfly kisses on his cheeks and nose before I released him.

I carefully folded our robes as Jyrki turned off the boom box he had turned on after my mother’s departure - I groaned at the loss of Bruce Springsteen as I placed Jyrki’s long black robe and his medals in the bottom of the white paper bag. I folded my robes along with the ropes, sashes, medals and the hood I had been given (Jyrki’s was attached to his robe for some reason - it was the same one he had worn for his Undergraduate commencement, he had said). My black-haired lover seized the handles of the bag in one hand and my free hand in the other as we left the apartment.

“Wait.” I paused at his command, wondering what the fuck he was reaching for in his collar; did a flea bite him or something? Was I going to have to have the apartment fumigated for bugs? Where the fuck would I live if I had to do that over the damned summer?

Before I snapped out of my little revelry, Jyrki’s hands guided a long black cord around my neck - I felt the cold silver of the Fleur De Lis nestle between my breasts under the dress I wore.

“What’s all this?” I asked, pulling the hefty charm from beneath the dress, holding it in my palm like it might break if I tightened my fingers over it.

“I haven’t taken that off since I was twelve. I want you to wear it for me for a while.” I knew what that meant. Jyrki wasn’t one to toss the L word around , he claimed it would loose its meaning if he did and expected me to settle for synonyms such as ‘adore,’ ‘cherish,’ and ‘idolize,’ but the Fleur De Lis in my hand symbolized something deeper than that.

He didn’t give me much time to think about it as he dragged me down the stairs by the hand, and into the Rail train before I could even light a cigarette to soothe my shaking hands.

“I’m going on tour, Sini.” I didn’t manage to suppress the gasp of horror and nearly dropped my cigarette down the front of my dress.

“W-What? You’re kidding, right?” He couldn’t just up and leave. Not for the summer. Not now. “This is just a funny joke. You’re so clever, Jyrki.”

“Sinikka. Listen to me. I’m not kidding.” He had somehow secured both of my hands in his, leaving me speechless as I attempted to recover the precariously dangling cigarette from near disaster. “We’re leaving in mid-June.”

“When did you decide this?” I managed through my teeth, trying to manage what I hoped was a cold stare without tears.

“Yesterday after the show.”

“Where the vittun was I?” I snarled, finally managing to pull one hand free to pluck the smoke form between my lips.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t know I needed to consult you about my life.”

“A head’s up would have been lovely, Jyrki.” I hissed, glaring at the other passengers in our rail car to avoid glaring at him.

“I want you to come with me.”

“With four other men in a confined tour bus?” He nodded brightly, Jyrki’s face seemed almost excited at the prospect. “That’s going to be so much fun, exactly what I want to do with my summer.”

“Hanna will go, because Ville and his new band are going.”

“Let me think about it, Jyrki. Now was not an optimum time to ask.”

We arrived at the Academy just in time to hear the first speech - and then had to sit for the ordeal that was a Sibelius Academy Graduation. I wished I had brought a pair of headphones, it was very tiring to hear a little blurb about how much better each person was than me; and there were better things for me to think about than the announcer’s bland drabble. Much more important issues weighed on my mind, more important than my mother’s comments on how dull that girl looked, or how that boy still had creases in his robes.

On May Nineteenth, Nineteen Ninety-One, at sixteen hundred hours, I walked onto the grounds of my college as a the Salutatorian of my class, summa cum laude. At nineteen hundred hours, I walked off the campus as a Graduate student pursing a master’s degree. A woman in love with a man who was about to leave to go on a “tour” of Europe she didn’t quite understand.

A woman who was prepared to ride on the tour bus through the entire fucking European Union.