Late

Estranged from my sister for fourteen years, I couldn't decline when she called for help to clear our childhood home. I said a date, and it was settled.

Thus began the search for a moving company. They don't have that back home - everybody has a driver's license, and if they don't own a large car, they damn well know someone who does.

I chose to spend my time with my dying father instead of getting my driver's license like every other eighteen-year-old did back then. After he died, I moved. Nobody needs a car in Oslo.

I asked online for someone going east—all expenses paid, provided I got a ride and filled their trunk. Few replied. None could. I was desperate.

"What's nagging you?" Sima asked. Telling her about my conundrum, she volunteered.

Two Fridays later, after several "I understand if you reconsider," we were off.

The Toyota from the car-share was dirty and low on petrol. It was rush hour when we got going. Trusting the GPS, we passed our exit. The lines going the correct way were jampacked, so the GPS won. My nephew mentioned a bridge that'd get us back on track—we could pick up a dog cage on the way.

We lost an hour.

Bridge unfound, we continued towards Sogn. And the ferries. They don't run at night; if they do, they don't make catching the next one easy.

We waited at Mannheller for an hour.

"Let's hightail behind that moving truck!" The next ferry would leave twenty minutes before our arrival, but if we raced, we'd be at Ask's before 2:30.

"Sorry, I love you, but I'm not risking my permit," Sima explained needlessly. Her Syrian license was void in Norway. She spent two years, two teachers, half her salary - flunked twice - before she got it. I shouldn't have asked.

Sima collapsed in the backseat at the mountain where my grandma grew up, instantly asleep. I peed in a scree and drank water from the stream. Upon entering ferry number two, I'd rounded the clock. Thirty minutes later, we tiptoed to the guestroom and dived into bed.

Simas's phone rang. She slept. I couldn't.

Sunrise, coffee, and breakfast with my nephew and his girlfriend. I could move back—for Ask and Kari—but there are no jobs. The weather is awful. My husband and our two cats don't want to move anywhere.

Sima found the Toyota dead. Roadside assistance promised help in fifteen minutes. It took forty. Three hours in, she manoeuvred it onto the truck bed. They'd deliver a Volvo to my childhood home. Kari drove us. 

Five hours later than the appointed time, I tiptoed around all the accumulated things, memories, and the strangely polite company of my sister and brother.

Afterward, I visited Mom at the institution. I couldn't stay for long, too tired to refuse her the cigarettes she begged for. She promised to only smell them. She wore diapers, COPD made it impossible for her to reach the toilet in time.

An evening of laughs followed. Loud conversations in a dialect Sima had difficulty understanding.

On our return, we drove via the mountain - bathed in sunlit snow. Sima hadn't stopped for shades like I told her to.

"But there are gas stations?"

"There's a ski resort just past this tunnel; they might have shades in their lost and found." 

But it was closed. 'For Sale!' it said. We drove on.

"It's so barren."

"We're over the tree line."

"In Syria, it's the opposite. The mountains are lush - it's colder, so the moisture stays in the dirt long enough for things to grow". I hardly believed her.

"I wouldn't believe anything about Norway either." she smiled.

Back in civilization, a tunnel was closed for repairs, forcing us to the wrong side of the lake in a convoy going 20 km/hour.

Which set us back 1.5 hours.

But we found the bridge I looked for last time.

"Susa? When you say 'dei,' do you mean 'you' or 'they'?" I thought she'd learned the difference in the seven years we'd known each other. It's 'they,' but it sounds like 'you' in east-Norwegian.'

"You must have misunderstood so much!" We laughed loudly over the bridge into Moelv, where we stopped to check the tires and fill up.

Sima's ex has a girlfriend. She entertains Sima's daughter on weekends when Safdar is busy, which is... Always.

"Coming soon?" She'd called again - our ETA grew steadily dissatisfactory.

"Make sure my daughter is fed and showered when I come." I laughed.

"You're unbelievable, Sima, giving her chores when she stresses you. I'd never!" 

"Stressing me? That can't go unpunished." Her smirk changed.

"But why are you so self-effacing, Susa? You give and give, seldom stand up for yourself. Like now, you let your siblings take those things of value. You remind me of the kids at work. What happened in your childhood?" She stared for so long that I worried about her driving. I talked to survive.

My brother snapped when I was seven. Fourteen and bipolar, he let his rage out on us. Dad worked away. Mom was depressed. My sister moved out. I had no one to talk to.

"But it's nothing compared to living in a warzone."

"Don't do that. Don't belittle your experience. I lived in war: It is not lonesome. Since everyone experiences the same trauma, there's community. You were unsafe in your home. That does something to a kid." Her words felt freeing.

The traffic slowed to molasses by the airport. We lost another hour.

At my house, I'd brought the wrong key. My husband arrived wet-haired and eager to help, breaking the only thing of value.

We left to return the car. New address. No parking. The agency closed eight minutes before we knew we needed them. Google hinted at a hotel; the receptionist drew me a map.

Parked. Off to the subway, we lost our line by four seconds. Took a cab to Simas. She drove me home, then left for her daughter.

I buried my face in my husband's chest. Safe. Home. Calm.

Better late than never.