Inertia, page 8
Father was in the hospital the whole time, pacing anxiously back and forth down the corridor outside my room like a nervous, expectant dad. In fact, one of the midwives actually thought he was my husband. Father laughed heartily over that later, but of course I thought it was extremely embarrassing.
I don’t remember much of the birth itself, except that the pain was inhuman. But as soon as they put that tiny, slippery little body on my chest, pain was replaced by joy, and I knew I wanted to name my son Samuel.
Maybe it was because we’d just read that passage from the first Book of Samuel in my Bible class. That story about how God called to Samuel several times without him understanding. I guess it struck a chord with me, because Samuel had been chosen to hear God’s voice, and also because I thought the message itself was so important in our time, when God’s voice is so easily drowned by the flood of information from television, radio and advertising.
It pleased my father that I wanted to name the child Samuel, but his brow also furrowed. Maybe he thought it was a concession to Isaac; to Judaism, which troubled my father so much.
The train stops and I get off and change to the green line, the one that will take me to Fridhemsplan and to my father.
Samuel was a demanding child from the start. He screamed incessantly and my father and I took turns caring for him at night so I could get a few hours of sleep.
I didn’t think much about it at the time. I just thought that was what it was like to have a baby. After all, I was only eighteen years old and knew nothing about infants. But in retrospect, I wonder if Samuel’s difficulties had started already. If he inherited them from me. Impatience, an inability to adapt, being drawn to problems like a moth to a flame.
Just like my mother.
But I loved him unconditionally, and he loved me. Even though we weren’t a normal family, a real family, still we had it good – Samuel, my father and me.
The real problems started in preschool. Samuel bit his classmates. Samuel refused to lie still during nap time. Samuel threw the food on the floor. And Samuel kicked the teacher on her leg.
Small children, small problems.
Over time, it got worse: cutting class, shoplifting, countless conversations with anxious teachers and upset parents.
Could I not teach my son some manners?
Surely it must be my fault; surely a normal parent would be able to control her difficult son? How hard could it be to raise a child?
At the same time, he was so sweet, so charming and so social. Had a big heart and lots of friends.
But the problems continued. And over the years, I became increasingly convinced that it was in fact some kind of original sin. That my mother’s worst traits had been passed on to me, and through me to Samuel.
I remember my father’s words.
The face of an angel and heart of a snake.
I close my eyes and listen to the train rattle as it makes its way through the tunnels beneath Stockholm. The air is cooler here, and I’m a bit chilly in just my thin summer blouse.
God has a plan for all of us, a purpose.
It’s just a matter of understanding what it is, listening carefully when He calls to us, just like when He called to Samuel in the temple at Shiloh.
Maybe my mission is to help Samuel?
*
My father looks miserable.
He looks, if possible, even thinner than the last time I was here, and his skin and the whites of his eyes are yellow. His hair, which was always so thick, is long gone and a large red-black bruise spreads out across the back of the hand where the IV is attached.
I embrace him gently and pull out the visitor’s chair so I can sit next to him.
My father is not afraid to die, and there is great comfort in that.
But I am afraid.
I don’t know how I’ll go on without him. He’s the only family I have, apart from the church. He is the one I go to when I need advice, or if I’m sad, or need to borrow some money.
All these trials and tribulations.
As soon as the thought passes through my mind, I’m overcome by shame. How can I – healthy and strong – sit here feeling sorry for myself?
‘Hello, my girl,’ he says.
‘Hi,’ I say and gently take his hand. ‘How are you feeling?’
‘Not as bad as I look,’ my father murmurs. ‘Do you think you can raise the back of the bed a little?’
I stand up and pump the pedal under the bed to raise it.
Father grimaces in pain. He runs his tongue over his dry, chapped lips and small drops of sweat break out at his sunken temples.
‘Thank you,’ he says afterwards. ‘How are you two?’
‘OK,’ I answer vaguely.
‘I was wondering if you could go by the house this week and pick up my mail,’ my father says, and ends the sentence by clearing his throat of phlegm.
‘Of course.’
I hesitate for a moment, fiddling a little with the blanket over my father’s legs, then decide to be honest and tell him about Samuel.
‘I threw him out,’ I say. ‘Again. Yes, well. This wasn’t the first time. That I’ve thrown him out. As you know.’
Father nods.
‘He has to learn, Pernilla,’ he whispers.
‘That was three days ago. I haven’t heard from him. I don’t know, it just feels so hard. I don’t know how to cope with . . .’
I leave the sentence unfinished and swallow a sob.
‘You have to let him go in order for him to come back.’
Silence falls again, and I become aware of my father’s laboured breathing.
‘Can you let go of your child?’ I ask. ‘May you let go your child? Who am I if I do that? What am I?’
‘You have to. Promise me you’ll not try to contact him.’
‘But . . . then I’m no better than Mother.’
Father wheezes and the wheezing turns into a deep, rattling coughing fit. It sounds like his chest is full of pebbles.
The coughing fit subsides. Father sighs and closes his eyes.
‘Pray for him instead,’ he mumbles. ‘That’s the only thing you can do now.’
Manfred
B
ianca Diaz lives in a neat apartment not so different from Tuula Ahonen’s, except smaller, more sparsely furnished and located on the ground floor of a five-storey apartment building in central Jordbro.
She asks me and Letit to sit down at the kitchen table which only has two chairs, and then goes into the living room.
Through the doorway to the hall, I see a stroller wrapped in plastic parked next to the wall.
Letit follows my gaze, but the eyes behind his wire rims reveal no emotion.
‘Need help?’ I shout to Bianca.
Bianca enters, carrying a small stool.
‘No,’ she smiles, ‘I’m pregnant. Not handicapped.’
Letit stands up.
‘Sit here, love,’ he says and takes the stool.
Bianca smiles, shrugs and obediently takes the chair.
I also sit down and try to ignore the pain in my knee.
Bianca Diaz is twenty years old, same as Johannes, but she looks much younger. Her hair is long and dyed a honey-brown shade that’s lightest at the ends. Her body is thin, but her stomach is huge, as if she might give birth at any second, though I know she has a month left.
Something about her reminds me of Afsaneh when she was expecting Nadja, which causes a stab of pain in the region of my heart.
‘I’m so sorry about Johannes,’ I begin.
Bianca nods.
‘Yeah. It sucks.’
Her voice sounds strangely matter of fact. She shows no emotion at all. It almost sounds as if she’s remarking on a broken washing machine, or saying she’s run out of milk.
‘How are you doing?’ I ask.
Bianca’s dark eyes meet mine.
‘I’m getting by,’ she says. ‘I’ve always had to do that. Of course. It’s terrible he’s dead. Really terrible. But he wasn’t someone you could depend on. He was all over the place from the start. I’ve been working double shifts and studying to be a biomedical analyst the whole time we’ve been together. And what did Johannes do? Did he help? Did he contribute any money? No. I already knew when I got pregnant that I’d have to raise this child by myself. Besides, all he wanted to do was head for Brazil, because he had some friend who lived there.’
She looks down and puts her hand on her large belly. Runs her hand over the taut, knotty fabric of her sweater.
‘Weren’t you planning to raise the child together?’ Letit asks.
Bianca shakes her head.
‘Johannes absolutely did not want a kid,’ she says and her eyes wander out of the window, where a large bush with pink flowers is visible. She purses her lips into a thin line and for the first time I sense something resembling pain in her face.
‘So how did he react when you told him you were pregnant?’ Letit asks.
‘He got angry,’ Bianca says calmly, still staring at the window. ‘Very angry.’
A short pause.
Letit’s light eyes meet mine.
‘It’s probably just as well that it turned out like this,’ Bianca murmurs. ‘I mean, not that he died, but that I have to take care of the child on my own. He would have just made a mess of it. He always did.’
‘Do you know if Johannes was under any kind of threat?’ Letit asks and makes a note on his pad.
Bianca frowns.
‘Threat? No, I don’t think he had any enemies. But he did borrow a huge amount of money from somebody. And he was stressed about it, because he couldn’t pay it back.’
‘Do you know who he borrowed money from?’ I ask. ‘Or the amount?’
‘Not a clue. I was very careful not to get involved in his so-called business.’
I lean towards Bianca and meet her gaze. She doesn’t waver an inch. Her eyes are shiny and her face serious, but also completely unsentimental.
‘His mother says he’s been on the straight and narrow lately,’ I say softly. ‘That he wasn’t involved in drugs or anything criminal. That—’
Bianca interrupts me.
‘Sorry,’ she says and raises her hand. ‘But Tuula is so fucking naive. She thinks he’s practically a saint. But sure, I haven’t seen him doing any drugs or anything like that. I definitely haven’t. Then I would have dumped him right away. But on the straight and narrow?’
She rolls her eyes and makes air quotes when she says the last phrase.
‘No. Johannes was many things, but on the straight and narrow was not fucking one of them.’
*
When we reach the street, Letit takes a deep breath, runs his hand over his beard and his expression turns melancholy.
‘I feel for humanity,’ he says. ‘Love brings nothing but misery. Still, it can’t be avoided.’
He adjusts his too short pants a little and ambles away towards the car with his back hunched.
*
Afsaneh hugs me tightly when I get to the hospital.
Since I’m actually working full-time now, I had decided to go there over lunch. It’s mostly for Afsaneh’s sake. I doubt Nadja would have much to say on the matter. After questioning Ahonen’s girlfriend, Letit and I returned to the city. I dropped him off at the police station and then headed on to the hospital. On my way, I took the opportunity to call my older kids. Alba didn’t answer, but I talked for a bit with Alexander and then with Stella. Told them how their little sister was doing and asked the usual questions.
They’re worried, of course. Worried and sad, even though they’re so much older than their half-sister, they’ve loved her from the first minute.
‘Good,’ Afsaneh murmurs in my ear. ‘Really good that you’re here.’
She takes a step back and smiles. Her back is straight, her eyes sparkle and her skin has a new glow.
‘Did something happen?’ I ask.
Afsaneh nods eagerly and takes my hands.
‘They’re going to Nadja wake up. The doctor said so. They will begin weaning her off the sedatives tomorrow.’
‘They are?’
My voice is a whisper.
Afsaneh pulls me closer and hugs me again.
‘We’re going to get her back, Manfred. We’ll get our Nadja back.’
Afsaneh’s thin body trembles in my arms, and I don’t dare say what I think. What the doctors have been trying to explain to us all along.
What happens when you open the box holding Schrödinger’s cat?
Well, pretty soon it’ll be clear to everyone if the cat is very dead or very alive. Clear that that strange territory – when the fucking cat is somehow both dead and alive – is just an academic construct.
And the same is true of our child.
Only after the powerful medication has been discontinued, only once the tubes and machines have been disconnected, will we know if we’ll get our Nadja back or if she’s gone forever.
Of course, it would be best if she woke up.
But even this is better than losing her completely, because I would rather have a child connected to tubes in the intensive care unit than no child at all. The equation is very simple and at the same time unbelievably cruel.
But it can be counted on, even death can be counted on.
We sit for a while beside Nadja’s bed.
This time we sit on the same side of the bed, with our chairs so close together that I can feel the warmth of Afsaneh’s body.
Nadja looks like she’s asleep, despite all the tubes and machines. Her face is peaceful and her mouth half-open. On the cast on her arm, someone’s drawn a tiny bird and a heart in red felt-tip pen.
I take a deep breath.
I have always had a hard time with hospitals.
Of course, it started when Aron got sick. He spent almost two months at the paediatric oncology ward before he died.
I was there every day.
For the first few weeks, Aron responded well to the treatment. He got stronger, and we slipped away to explore the ward, sometimes even going outside. Once we even went down into the culverts. We ran around down there – me first and Aron behind me, with his IV stand in hand.
But then he got too weak. He mostly lay in bed and slept. I couldn’t even talk to him.
In the end, he just fell asleep.
That’s how it happened, not very dramatic or remarkable. He’d been unconscious for several days and eventually his heart just gave up.
One second alive, the next dead.
Since then I’ve had a tough time with hospitals.
Maybe it’s the smell, but it’s odd, I have no problem at all with visiting the medical examiner or attending autopsies, and quite frankly, that stinks. But the smell of the hospital, that strange combination of detergent, urine and overcooked potatoes, that I can’t stand.
It’s like something inside me jams up, and I’m twelve again.
My phone vibrates in my jacket, and I take it out.
It’s Malin.
‘Sweetheart, I have to take this.’
‘Sure,’ Afsaneh responds quickly, much to my surprise.
She doesn’t even sound annoyed.
I head out into the hallway and answer while groping for my cigarettes in my pocket.
‘Hey,’ Malin says. ‘Is everything OK?’
‘Absolutely. I’m just at the hospital for a bit.’
‘Well, something’s happened. Another body’s been found. Wrapped in a sheet and wound with a chain. Can you meet me at two?’
Samuel
T
he woman who meets me at the harbour reminds me of my mother. Only a little slimmer, and her hair is darker and hangs far down her back. Her skin is paler as well, and looks oddly translucent in the bright sunlight. There’s a network of fine wrinkles around her eyes and she’s wearing a T-shirt and jeans. Her smile is warm when she takes me by the hand.
‘I’m Rachel,’ she says, tilting her head a little to the side so that her long hair falls across one of her shoulders.
‘I’m Samuel,’ I say and think that she’d be good-looking if she weren’t so old.
I had prepared what I was going to say, but as soon as I take her hand I forget everything, and my mouth dries up, like it’s filled with sand.
‘It’s great that you could meet today,’ she says. ‘Shall we walk while we talk?’
We walk down the gravel road next to the harbour. There is a man on the dock, sitting smoking on a flatbed moped. I suppose he’s waiting for the Waxholm company boat to Stuvskär. A little girl is sitting on the flatbed, eating a half-melted ice cream. It drips down onto her shirt and then onto the ground.
The sun is warm, and the sky is high and blue, but as soon as we walk into the shade beneath the big trees next to the supermarket, the air turns cool and humid, like a cold breath.
‘How old are you, Samuel?’ Rachel asks, without sounding suspicious. In fact, she sounds curious, but in a good way. Not like my mother, who always assumes I’m hiding something terrible. As if I were building a bomb in secret, or watching some kind of paedo porn, as soon as her back was turned.
I tell her that I’m eighteen, recently ‘took a break’ from high school and that I’m looking for a job. Then we talk for a little while about what kind of work I’ve done in the past. And, OK, I’m exaggerating a bit at this point, saying I worked part-time at Media Markt, which is almost true, and that I’ve coached a boys’ soccer team, which definitely has no connection to the truth.
After a while we arrive at a small headland.
Rachel points to one of the smooth rocks that extend out like a giant tongue into the sea.
‘Come on!’ she says, stepping over the ditch and heading through the tall grass without waiting for my answer.
I follow her and we sit down a few yards from the water.
The rock is warm from the sun and rough beneath my jeans. Every now and then the wind catches small, salty drops of water and throws them up at our feet. At one point a larger wave breaks, and we have to back up a couple of yards to avoid getting wet.
Empty beer cans are wedged into a crevice and an old cigarette butt rolls by, pushed by the light summer breeze. Seaweed floats in the foam next to the rock.
