The right Teddy bear

*Kiera*

Frida sleeps peacefully for another hour, her small frame nestled under the hospital sheets, but Mr. Lund still hasn’t returned. I find myself trying to get comfortable in the uncomfortable chair beside her bed, scrolling aimlessly through my phone. I shoot a quick text to Marissa, letting her know I won’t be able to join her for lunch on Saturday. The ocean between us is a slight inconvenience for doing that.

Just as I’m contemplating sneaking out for a coffee or perhaps a donut, I notice Frida stirring on the bed. Panic washes over me. Oh no, I didn’t even check with Mr Lund if she speaks English. This could get awkward fast. I glance desperately toward the open door, hoping for him to return. He’s my lifeline right now.

Frida opens her eyes, a soft whimper escaping her lips as she shifts on the bed. “Oh hey, try not to move, okay?” I say gently, trying to offer her some comfort.

Her eyes widen, and she stares at me, confusion flickering across her face. “Do you understand English?” I ask, my voice softening.

Slowly, she nods. Poor thing looks absolutely miserable. A dark bruise circles her left eye, and there are little cuts peppered across the left side of her face. But her eyes… those deep blue pools that mirror Mr. Lund's… are flecked with hints of grey, reminiscent of faded denim, and they hold a spark of resilience.

“You are Frida, right?” I ask, hoping my expression radiates warmth and reassurance.

She nods again, though it seems difficult for her with the neck brace restricting her movements.

“My name’s Kiera. I’m a friend of your uncle’s,” I say, glancing apprehensively toward the door. “Uhh, uncle William. He should be here any minute.”

At the mention of her uncle, her expression brightens. “Onkel Will er her?” she asks, her voice barely above a whisper.

“Umm...” Before I can respond, the door swings open, and Mr. Lund rushes into the room, his phone against his ear, speaking rapidly in Danish. I can sense the urgency in his voice, even if I can’t grasp the words.

As he ends the call, he drops the phone away from his ear, his eyes shimmering with unshed tears. “Fritte,” he breathes.

The moment Frida sees him, she bursts into tears, reaching out with her unbandaged hand. “Onkel!”

In an instant, he crosses the room, enveloping her in his embrace, both of them crying as he holds her tight. His voice is low and soothing. “Så, så lille mus, jeg er her nu,” he murmurs, and I can feel the weight of his sorrow, the depth of his love.

Frida sobs, clinging to him as if he’s her lifeline. “Det gør mig så ondt,” he cries softly, brushing back her hair tenderly. “Lille mus, det gør mig så ondt.”

Though I don’t understand his words, I can feel the grief and the fierce resolve in his tone. He’s here for her, and nothing will come between them now. I wipe away my own tears, letting them have this raw, precious moment together. They converse in Danish, and I watch as he inspects her, his hands moving gently to adjust her pillows and help her sit up.

“She is thirsty,” He tells me.

Wanting to be of use. I fill a cup with water from the small plastic pitcher on her bedside table and offer it to her. “Here you go, honey.”

But she leans away, regarding me with suspicion.

Okay, that stings a little. Why is this hurting my feelings?

Mr. Lund speaks a few quick words in Danish, gesturing towards me, and I can see her tension easing slightly.

“Does she speak English?” I ask, trying to clarify our communication.

“She understands it better than she speaks,” he replies, his voice calm and steady. “American shows and movies are quite popular here. But she’s generally shy around strangers.”

“Well, she comes by that honestly,” I say with a smile, trying to lighten the mood. “I have a present for her. Do you think that might help break the ice?”

He raises a brow in surprise. “You have a present for her?”

“Duh.” I hand him the little cup of water and bend down to dig through my backpack. “You don’t visit a kid in the hospital without bringing them a present.”

“When did you have time to shop for a present?” he asks, surprise lacing his words.

“On my way to the airport,” I reply, a bit sheepishly. “It’s not exactly god’s gift to presents,” I quickly add, “But I think it’ll do as a first offering of peace and friendship.” I wheel the chair closer and set my backpack on the edge of her bed with a flourish, unzipping it with a dramatic flourish. “Can you tell me, Frida, what’s your favorite color?”

She chews her bottom lip, glancing between me and Mr. Lund, who says something softly in Danish.

“Lila,” she finally answers in her sweet, baby-doll voice.

I take a leap of faith. “Is that like lilac? Purple?”

Mr. Lund nods, and I breathe a sigh of relief… Thank god... “Well, am I a genius or what? I guessed you’d say purple. And look at this…” I slowly reach into my backpack, pulling out a plush purple teddy bear.

Her curious expression transforms into one of excitement as she locks eyes with the silly purple bear.

“See? It’s a teddy bear.” I glance at Mr. Lund. “How do you say ‘teddy bear’ in Danish?”

“Bamse,” they say in unison.

I can’t help but grin. “Well, this is Bamse.” I hand the purple bear to her. “And I’m Kiera.”

She takes the bear, inspecting it with her eager eyes, and I silently thank capitalism for allowing me to have three more bears in different colors hidden in my backpack. Why settle for one when you can have a rainbow of options?

Mr. Lund speaks to her again in Danish, and she looks back at me, clutching the little bear. “Thank you,” she murmurs in English, her voice barely above a whisper.

“Oh hey, no thank you,” I say, scooting a little closer. “I was hoping I’d find a good home for him. You’re gonna take good care of him for me, right?”

She nods, her attention returning to the plush bear, and I zip up my backpack, hiding the other bears from view. I’ll make sure we leave them with the charge nurse for the other kids.

Meanwhile, Mr. Lund continues speaking softly to her in Danish. To my surprise, he reaches across the bed and takes my hand, sending a jolt of confusion through me. What the hell is he doing?

Oh god, he’s holding my hand. William Lund is holding my hand. I can hardly breathe, thoughts swirling around in my head.

Never taking his gaze off Frida, he gives my hand a gentle squeeze, and I feel all the tension leave my shoulders. In this moment, I think I could sit here forever, letting Mr. Lund hold my hand while he comforts his niece.

He speaks to Frida in Danish for a while, and I simply watch, letting the rhythm of the words wash over me. Though I don’t understand them, the emotions are unmistakable: love, grief, safety.

“Fritte has come up with a name for her bear,” he announces in English, breaking the spell that had me entranced.

I blink, shaking myself from my stupor, and lean forward. “Oh, yeah?”

“She doesn’t want to call it Bamse.”

“Well, what do you want to call it?” I ask, intrigued.

Gazing across the bed at me, Mr. Lund smiles that rare smile that lights up his eyes. “She wants to call her Kiera.”