Page 11 of Winter Nights at the Bay Bookshop

LARS

When I’d returned from my walk on Wednesday, I picked up a voicemail asking if I could do another shift at the library so I’d spent yesterday there and actually managed to focus on books rather than IT for most of the day, but today stretched out empty before me and I was going to have to tackle Mum’s bedroom.

I placed one of the boxes on her bed and emptied the shelves first, giving each trophy and medal a cursory glance to check the sports represented – swimming, hockey and archery.

As far as I knew, Mum was still a keen swimmer.

I knew she’d played hockey at school, but I couldn’t recall her ever mentioning archery.

On the wall beside the shelves were her framed degree certificate and graduation photo.

I lifted them from their hooks and added them to the trophies box along with various miscellaneous items.

Two boxes were soon filled and I moved onto a tallboy.

The top two drawers contained T-shirts and the third contained shorts but, at the bottom of that drawer, I found an old photo album.

Assuming it would contain photos from Mum’s childhood, I opened up the first page and gasped at the inscription written in swirly black cursive.

Pia Bryony Jóhannsson

Taken too soon, aged only 7

Rest in peace our little pixie

I sat down on the edge of Mum’s bed, slowly turning the pages.

Each photograph was carefully mounted with photo corners and my little sister was in every single one, sometimes accompanied by Mum, Pabbi, Nanna or me.

Beside each photo was a handwritten note including the date, location and Pia’s age as well as comments and observations such as Pia loved twirling in this dress , I love how the light reflects on Pia’s hair and Such a happy day out .

The lump in my throat grew with each turn of the page but one photo near the end, taken on Christmas Eve, broke me.

Our family had always embraced the Icelandic Christmas Eve tradition of Jólabókaflóe – translated as Christmas book flood – where Icelanders give and receive books and spend the evening reading them.

In the photo, Pia was sitting on the floor, cross-legged, her eyes shining as she cradled her new books.

Mum had written Looking at that gorgeous smile, it’s hard to believe she was so ill and would be gone in less than two months .

As a tear splashed onto the page, I swore under my breath and quickly blotted it with the bottom of my T-shirt, relieved it had missed Mum’s note and the photograph.

I wiped my palms across my cheeks before lying the album on the bed beside me, safe from any further tears as I continued to turn the pages.

A family photo taken on Christmas Day – what had turned out to be my sister’s final Christmas – was followed by one of her lying on the sofa on New Year’s Day with her favourite picture book, Anna and the Snow Dragon , open on her lap.

The final photo had been produced in black and white.

Pia’s favourite stuffed animals, including the knitted dragon she never let out of her sight, were lined up on her bed with a single white rose across their tummies.

Mum’s accompanying note gave the date of my sister’s death and three words which set me off again – I am broken .

I’d been three weeks away from my fourth birthday when Pia was born and all my early childhood memories revolved around her.

Born prematurely at twenty-eight weeks, Pia’s lungs didn’t get the chance to fully develop, leaving her with various respiratory problems. Severe asthma attacks meant she was a regular patient on the children’s ward at Whitsborough Bay Hospital.

She missed so much school that making friends was difficult but she said she didn’t mind because she had her soft toys, her books and me.

I’d adored my little sister and was constantly amazed by her ability to find a positive spin for everything.

She could easily have complained about being ill and the limitations her asthma placed on her but, instead, she focused on the gift of how many books she could devour when spending so much time resting, and all the fantastic places she could visit through the pages.

I’d always liked books but it was through Pia that I became passionate about them.

I spent as much time as I could with her, listening to her read or reading to her when she was too tired.

One day she’d be absorbed by a book aimed at teenagers, the next she’d find joy in a toddler’s picture book and she was always eager to talk about the story, often sharing her thoughts on what happened to the characters beyond the final page.

I was too young to realise it at the time but looking back on her final months, I’m convinced that the ending-beyond-the-ending was her way of exploring her own mortality and the idea that she could live on even when the final chapter closed on her own story.

I flicked back several pages to a photo taken during Pia’s only trip to Iceland.

She’d been four when we spent Christmas with Pabbi’s family in Húsavík.

It was my first time seeing the aurora borealis, known as the northern lights or, in Icelandic, Noreurljós .

Even though I’d just turned eight, I could remember it as though it was yesterday.

Mum and Pabbi had shown us photos but seeing the aurora in real life was something else.

The bands of green and aqua were so vibrant as they shimmered and rolled in the sky alongside thinner ribbons of pink and purple.

And the stars! I’d never seen so many stars.

Pia had been as captivated as me, her mouth open as her eyes darted left and right, as though scarcely able to believe what she was seeing.

I’d lifted her up – not easy when she was so bundled up in all her layers and a thick snowsuit – and the image Mum had captured and placed in the album was of the pair of us silhouetted against the lights, both pointing at the sky.

With a heavy sigh, I closed the photo album and gently placed it on top of the tallboy, feeling an overwhelming sense of loss.

It would have been our little pixie’s thirty-first birthday in November.

If she’d been born to term with fully developed lungs, what would our relationship have been like?

My guess was exceptionally close but with merciless teasing.

What career would she have chosen? Would she have found love by now?

Had children? I thought of her often, acknowledging birthdays and the moments when she’d have reached a milestone like leaving school, college and graduating from university, and it hurt like hell that she’d never been able to do those things.

It didn’t feel right to confine the photo album to storage. I’d keep it at my new place and ask Mum about it when she came back. I couldn’t imagine she’d want to get rid of it, but I barely knew her anymore. She wasn’t around enough to let me. And that hurt like hell too.

* * *

‘I’m impressed!’ I exclaimed, looking round Nanna’s apartment at Bay View on Sunday morning. Pictures had been hung on the walls and everything appeared to have been unpacked. ‘I thought it’d take you longer than a week to get straight.’

‘Me too,’ Nanna said, ‘but the maintenance team have been so helpful hammering in nails and putting up shelves. I feel settled already.’

I adjusted a couple of cushions and sat down on the sofa. ‘Glad you made the move?’

‘Very, although I miss you, of course.’

‘And I miss you. It’s so quiet on my own and very echoey.’

‘What have you been doing with yourself this week?’ she asked, passing me a mug of tea.

‘I did an extra day at the library and completed our old circular walk, which was nice. I’ve been to the house a few times, made a couple of tip runs and packed up Mum’s things.’

‘Did you find somewhere to store them?’

‘I’m going to keep them in my garage. No point paying for a storage unit when I’ve got the room.’ I reached into the bag I’d bought with me. ‘I found this photo album in Mum’s drawers. It’s devoted to Pia, but I don’t remember her making it. Have you seen it before?’

Nanna flicked through the first few pages, shaking her head. ‘No, and she’s never mentioned it either. She could have done it before you both moved in with me.’ She continued working through the pages. ‘My goodness, that little girl had the most beautiful smile.’

She closed the album and handed it back to me. ‘The photos are no surprise – Jayne does, after all, live and breathe photography – but the comments are unexpected. I’ve never known her to express anything in writing.’

‘Yeah, the comments surprised me too. She’s not normally sentimental. I’m going to keep the album in the house and ask her about it when she visits. If she visits.’

‘Oh, she will. I just wouldn’t hold your breath for it being over Christmas or New Year. You know she finds the thirteen days too difficult.’