Sonata for Siggi - 4. Maestoso

The social worker came early in the morning. She marched into my room like she owned the place, or at least like she did not care she was entering a hospital room full of sick and injured children. “Good news, Sigga, we found a foster family for you.”

“The name is Siggi.” Though if she had not learned the first three times, there was no reason to believe she would on the fourth.

“Anyway, Sigga…” Exactly. Ignore me. Make me so tired of your obtrusiveness that I will go with the first family you show me just so that I do not have to deal with you anymore. “We found a family for you that we think will be a good match.” She did not even bother to look at me. My face could not have been that bad. The stitches and the patch of shaved hair were on the back of my skull, not anywhere visible to her. I suppose I looked repulsive anyway. “Now, since you’re fifteen years old, we have to consider your wishes when assigning you to a family.” She handed me a big heavy file, failing to realise that a dislocated shoulder and immobilised arm made it difficult for me to hold it properly. “See what you think of them.”

It should not have been this complicated to open the file between my legs. Dear Daddy could at least have had the decency to dislocate the shoulder of my non-dominant arm. My right arm was nowhere near coordinated enough to do this on its own. The social worker watched me struggle, but did not lift a finger to help. I did not like her either, but I would have made more of an effort to look like a decent human being, particularly if my job involved dealing with vulnerable children.

My potential foster family consisted of a straight couple in their early forties. The woman had taken some sort of early retirement, so she stayed home the whole day and would be the one expected to watch over the foster children that came to them. How cliché. Almost not worth looking at the man’s profile…

Scratch that. Looking at the guy’s file was the first good thing I did since entering the hospital. What were the chances I would be looking at the picture and intimate information of the leader of the Icelandic Symphony Orchestra, an accomplished violinist even my cello teacher admired? (Though what were the chances a professional musician would want bratty problematic children intruding on his daily life?)

“I’m fine with staying with them. Any chance you made that match because I play cello?”

“The decision was that you would be a good match to them. We guessed that, since the only possession you took from your old home was your cello, it must have been very important to you.” She kept her face expressionless and her voice cold. How was it that she worked with children again?

“Yes, my cello is really important. Speaking of which, when will I see it again?”

“Your belongings will be returned to you when you are discharged.”

“And how long will that take?”

“Another couple of hours. You will be discharged in the afternoon and sent to your new foster parents.” No amount of good news could make that woman smile. Maybe she worked with children to make their life even more miserable. It was working with me so far.

“Ok, good.”

“My job here is done. I will be back later, Sigga.”

“It’s Siggi.” The door banged shut behind her. She did not hear a word of what I said.

(...)

“Arnar and Ágústa, it’s good to see you again.” The social worker’s stony face was the same for children and adults alike. The couple stood in front of their weird-looking three-story house like they were exceptionally proud of it. The violinist had already taken my cello away from the social worker’s careless hands and clung to it protectively, as expected from a professional musician like him. “This is your new foster child, Sigríður Jónsdóttir. I believe you have already been briefed on her background and medical issues?”

“Yes, everything was explained to us this morning.” The woman’s voice was mildly irritating when she was not talking to me. It got a hundred times worse when she turned to me and added pity and childish reassurances to it. “Don’t worry, Sigga, we’re here to help you get better.”

“Sigga, this is Arnar and Ágústa. They will be your foster parents from now on. You are allowed to request to move to a different foster family, but be aware that they can also request that you be moved. So please behave, for your own good.”

“Sure, I’ll be good.” It was not hard to imagine what the uptight social worker meant. The slight emphasis on that outdated and cringe-worthy name she used to call me was enough of a hint. Unfortunately for her, I had no intention of hiding from these people. If they did not like me, better to find out sooner rather than later.

“I will be taking my leave now. I wish you all the luck.” The social worker turned on her heels and left without waiting for an answer. Good riddance.

“Ok. Sigga, let’s go inside. We’ll show you your room and help you get settled.” The woman took the initiative again. “Welcome to our home, I hope you can be happy here.”

“Yeah, about that…” I allowed myself to smirk at the thought of bursting their little bubble of expectations even before I crossed their front door. “First off, don’t call me that name ever again. If you do, I’ll ask to move away. My name is Sigurður. I’m not a girl.”

“Oh, ok…” The woman was confused. The violinist narrowed his eyes. His wife carried on. “But your file said…”

“My file is full of lies. I tried to correct that social worker dozens of times, but she never learned.”

“Ok, then, Siggi, let’s go to your room.” They made me go in. “Arnar and I planned this house ourselves. It’s unique in many ways. We’ll show you everything after you get some rest.” The kitchen, dining area, and entertainment area were all located in one huge open space on the ground floor. Unique indeed. Who would have thought of being so lazy in their own house as to not even bother with walls? The bedrooms better not be like that too.

“This will be your room.” First door to the left on the next floor. It was the first time the violinist spoke to me. “I’ll put your cello in the corner for you.” The room was not too bad. Blue flowery wallpaper. Double bed with blue covers. Desk with computer. Dresser. Glass double doors that led to a balcony. A huge window with curtains. “We’ll give you time to get settled. Are you hungry? Would you like to eat something soon?”

“Do you know that you can kill me by cooking the wrong kind of food?”

“Yes. Your food allergies are listed in your file.” The woman spoke again. I would rather have a conversation with the violinist. “Unless they were lying about it too?”

“I hope not. I’m allergic to just about everything people can be allergic to. If you don’t want to kill me tonight, you better tell me what you plan to cook before you do it.”

“We were thinking of asking you what you want. What is it that you like to eat?” The woman was so naïve it was almost funny.

“There are no things I like to eat. There are only things I have to eat because my body needs nutrients, but I can’t stand any of those foods anymore.”

“It does explain why you’re so thin…”

“Do whatever is easy enough for you. I don’t particularly care. I’m enough trouble for you as it is. I shouldn’t inconvenience people with my body’s failures.”

“Please don’t say such a thing, Siggi! You’re not inconveniencing anybody!” The wife added a pity face to her pity voice. “I don’t mind making something for you.”

“In fact, why don’t the three of us cook together?” The suggestion came from the violinist. “It would be a good opportunity to get to know each other better.”

“I don’t think you want to know me, or that you’ll like what you find out.”

“I don’t know about that. We wouldn’t have accepted you if we didn’t want you here.”

“You accepted me because you have no idea of the shit you got yourselves into.”

The couple looked at each other. They had no clue what to say to that. It took the violinist a while to think of something. “Ok, then. We’ll leave you alone for now. I hope you can get comfortable enough to rest. If you get hungry, we have some meat and salad that should be ok for you to eat, and we were given some lactose pills, so you can eat dairy too.” No argument. No anger. He and his wife left me alone, just like they said they would.

They would try to play nice at first. It was in their interest to make me like them. How long until they snapped? How long would they insist in giving me false hope I could like this place?

The sooner I found out, the better.