Inertia, page 9
‘Isn’t it great?’ Rachel says, and I nod and look out over the sea.
Yeah, sure, it’s great, but it would be a hell of a lot greater if I had something to eat. I’m completely broke. I’ve shoplifted sandwiches from the supermarket twice. But there are limits to how many times I can get away with that.
Besides, they only have weird sandwiches with avocado, hummus and tofu.
‘It’s one of the biggest advantages of living out here,’ Rachel continues. ‘Being close to nature. The sea.’
She closes her eyes and turns her face towards the sun.
‘So, why are you interested in the job?’ she asks. ‘I mean, there’s not much going on out here. It might get pretty boring for a young guy like you.’
The question surprises me a little.
‘I like it calm,’ I answer hesitantly.
‘Good,’ Rachel says. ‘That’s good.’
Then she falls silent, and I’m struck by a thought: she might expect me to ask her something too; to act like I’m actually kind of interested in the so-called job.
‘So what’s wrong with your son?’ I ask, picking up a small, flat stone and flicking it away.
It skips a few times across the water surface before disappearing into the blue depths.
‘Jonas was in an accident almost two years ago and suffered a brain injury. He was in hospital for several months, but in the end Olle, my partner, and I decided to take him home. And that’s when the circus began.’
Rachel falls silent and her mouth narrows.
‘The circus?’
She nods.
‘I think Jonas had ten different home aides in three months. It just wasn’t working. And the council was not exactly cooperative. In the end, we decided to care for him ourselves.’
‘You and Jonas’s father?’
‘Olle isn’t Jonas’s father, but he still helps as much as he can. We sold the apartment and bought the house out here. I quit my job as a pharmacist and started working remotely, as a project manager for a pharmaceutical company. Olle is a writer, so he has a fairly flexible job. But we need some help. We can’t leave Jonas alone for too long. He’s bedridden and suffers from epilepsy. We don’t really know how conscious he is, though he does have moments of clarity. But we can’t risk, for example, that he might fall out of bed or have a seizure when we’re not there.’
Rachel must have seen my expression, because she puts a gentle hand on my arm.
‘There’s no need to worry. The job requires no medical training. It’s mostly about keeping him company. Reading aloud. Playing music. And helping out around the house. The hours are ten to four, five days a week. But right now Olle is away, so it could be a little more. The salary is 15,000 a month, but that includes food and lodging.’
Food. Lodging.
Just the thought of a soft bed and a real, home-cooked meal makes the proposal sound attractive, even if the salary is fucking shit.
Fifteen thousand. That’s what I used to earn in a week.
Six hours of work, five days a week, that’s thirty hours a week. If an average month has four and a half working weeks, that’s a total of 135 hours. This means an hourly wage of 111 kronor.
One hundred and eleven kronor, seriously?
But at the same time, I realise that it’s probably not that bad. If they’re paying off the books – which I suspect, but don’t dare ask – then it’s better than working at McDonald’s.
‘If you were to end up working for us, we can revisit the salary discussion after the first month,’ Rachel adds as if sensing what I’m thinking. ‘If everything works out, that is.’
I meet her gaze.
If everything works out.
Is she serious? Is she really offering me the job?
But in the next second she says:
‘You’ll send me your references too, right?’
I don’t manage to get out an answer.
‘Your boss at Media Markt, maybe?’ she suggests.
*
I’m still sitting on the rocks long after Rachel has left. Looking out over the sea and watching the sun set among the clouds hovering above the horizon. The air gets cooler and I take the hoodie out of my bag, remove some blades of grass and a dead beetle and pull it over my head.
How am I going to get references? And do I even want the job?
I think of Rachel, her pale skin and long, dark hair. And then I think of food and the feeling of sleeping in a freshly made bed with smooth sheets and a real pillow instead of a damp, fucking lawn.
It’s tempting.
But then a second image appears, me sitting on a stool feeding a drooling retard wearing an adult nappy with arms as crooked as the driftwood that lies wedged into the rocks below me.
No.
That would never work.
Besides: 111 kronor an hour? It’s a freaking joke.
A fucking goddamn insult.
I take out my phone.
Part of me wants to turn it on and call my mum, but what if Malte finds me again? Even though I went through my phone and turned off every location service, I still don’t feel safe.
I think about it, rubbing the metal between my thumb and forefinger.
If I just used it for a minute – could they really track me?
I turn on my mobile and check my messages.
No one has texted me since I left – not my mother, Alexandra or Liam.
It makes me immediately depressed.
That’s how important I was to them. That’s all I meant to them.
Suddenly the voice is there again, the evil voice.
You are nothing, Samuel. Don’t you get how happy they are to be rid of you?
I check Instagram.
Jeanette has posted a picture of herself in a bikini. She holds her hand in front of her mouth. Her index finger and middle finger form a V which her tongue protrudes from.
Three hundred and eighty likes.
The phone dings, and I look at the display.
It’s from Rachel:
Thank you for the lovely meeting today. If you’re still interested, the job is yours! Let me know as soon as you’ve decided!
As I read the message, the phone dings again. The hairs on the back of my neck stand up when I see it’s from Igor.
It says:
You are so fucking dead.
That’s all.
I drop the phone as if it were on fire. It falls off the rock with a bang and slowly slides over the smooth stones towards the water.
I jump down and manage to grab it the moment before it sinks into the sea.
Damn.
I thought Igor was in jail. Did the cops let him go?
I look around me, as if expecting him to be hiding in the shadows behind the trees, but everything seems fine.
The gravel road is empty and deserted in the dusk. Milky strands of mist caress the trunks of the pine trees, winding around the ferns and sliding over the stones. The wind has died down, and the waves lick the rocks slowly and rhythmically. The air is damp and raw, like a puff from Grandpa’s earth cellar.
Maybe I should contact Igor. Explain that I hid the money and took the bike to protect him, but I don’t dare.
And what if he’s not even the one who sent the message?
What if the cops are trying to draw me out?
Thoughts whirl around in my head. It feels like I’m stuck on a merry-go-round and can’t get off.
I need time.
I have to find out what happened to Igor. And I have to figure out how to get myself out of this bullshit.
All the time in the world won’t save you, loser.
I sink down on the rock and take out my phone. Hesitate for a second, shivering in the cold. Then I go to the message from Rachel and reply that I’ll take the job.
Pernilla
W
e are sitting in a ring on the floor in the meeting room. Candles burn on the counter by the window and the walls are covered with crayon drawings from Genesis – colourful, imaginative interpretations of the move to Egypt, Pharaoh’s dreams and of Joseph testing his eleven brothers.
Karl-Johan, the pastor, sits across from me, and around us children are gathered, all between nine and thirteen years old.
I love our congregation’s child and youth activities.
The children are so much more open to God’s message, so unabashedly curious and quick to learn. And Karl-Johan is good with them. I am too, for that matter – they would never dream of challenging my authority in the way Samuel always has.
I look at Karl-Johan. With his grey beard and stocky body, he looks like a storytelling uncle, much older than his forty-seven years.
As soon as the thought occurs to me, I feel a little ashamed – after all, we’re not dealing with fairy tales here, this is the word of God, recorded directly in the Holy Scriptures.
Besides. I shouldn’t be sitting here looking at the pastor’s body.
‘So,’ says Karl-Johan and his eyes glide over the children, ‘why did Job’s wife tell him to curse God and die?’
Peter raises his hand in a flash, followed by Lily and Julia.
Karl-Johan nods at Julia, a pale and quiet girl with teeth that protrude so far she almost can’t close her mouth. She’s shy, and I know he wants to encourage her to take up more space in the group.
‘Because . . . because . . . God had made him sick and stolen his donkeys and camels and killed his sheep. And his ten children,’ she adds after a short pause.
Giggles erupt among the children.
‘Well,’ says Karl-Johan slowly. ‘That’s right, Julia, though it wasn’t God, it was Satan who did that.’
‘That’s what I meant,’ Julia says quickly with her cheeks burning.
Karl-Johan nods encouragingly.
‘And what did Job do then?’ he asks. ‘Did he curse God?’
Julia shakes her head vehemently.
‘No. He didn’t want to. Though three false friends told him he’d lived a very bad life. And then God was happy and made him well and gave him new donkeys and camels. And ten new kids.’
Karl-Johan looks satisfied.
The giggling has stopped and the kids seem bored again. We have been working on the story of Job for almost an hour, and they aren’t able to focus for much longer than that.
‘Exactly,’ Karl-Johan says. ‘So what can we learn from this?’
‘That if you are faithful to God you get . . . get . . . get . . .’ Julia stutters.
‘Camels?’ James interjects, the group’s clown. An overweight boy with loud red hair who always seems to be laughing.
More giggles.
Karl-Johan also smiles, in a way that I know he wouldn’t have done if an adult had made a joke.
‘If you are faithful to God, He will bless you too, and you will have eternal life,’ he says with feeling.
The children fall silent and stare at him wide-eyed.
‘I think we’ll end there,’ he says and smiles again. ‘Before you go, Pernilla will hand out some information about the hike next week.’
He nods to me and I get up, straighten my skirt and reach for the stack of papers lying on the bench next to me.
‘We’ll meet outside the congregation hall at six in the morning,’ I say. ‘Here’s a list of things you’ll need to pack. Read it carefully so that you don’t forget anything. There won’t be any shops. In the forest, I mean. Where we’re going.’
More giggles.
I start handing papers to the children and continue:
‘According to the weather forecast, it’ll be sunny and warm, but you never know, so don’t forget rain gear. And arrive on time. The bus leaves at half past six.’
A low murmur spreads through the room as the children pick up their books and papers and get up off the floor.
‘Wear durable clothes,’ I continue. ‘And good shoes. We’ll be hiking a long distance, and I don’t want any blisters this time.’
No one answers. The children are already walking towards the door.
‘And no phones,’ I call after them.
Karl-Johan smiles at me.
‘Come and sit down for a bit,’ he says and pats his big hand on the carpet.
The last child leaves the room, and the door closes again with a dull bang. The candles flicker in the draught of wind.
I walk over to Karl-Johan and sit down a few yards away from him.
‘Aren’t they great?’ I say.
He nods and smiles. Then he raises an eyebrow and tilts his head.
‘How’s Bernt doing?’ he asks.
I think of my father lying in the hospice, waiting for God to call him home. Of his unnaturally thin body and how his skin and the whites of his eyes have turned as yellow as daffodils.
‘Not good,’ I tell him truthfully.
Karl-Johan nods, his expression sad.
‘We will pray for him,’ he says, emphasising every word.
And then:
‘Is there anything else weighing on you, Pernilla? You seem a little, I don’t know, out of sorts.’
I shake my head quickly.
‘No. There’s nothing else. I mean, I have a new job and all, which I like a lot. So. Everything’s good. With me. At the new job. And in general. That is.’
He stares at me. And as if he’s reading my mind, he continues:
‘Something going on with Samuel again?’
I nod, close my eyes and feel tears burn on the back of my eyelids. Thinking of the blackbird sitting in its cage at home, staring at me with accusing eyes. And even though I have no intention of doing so, I tell him everything, about the strange little plastic bags, about kicking Samuel out and about the police visiting me.
As usual, the story becomes much longer and more elaborate than I intend it to be, but Karl-Johan listens patiently.
He’s a good listener.
A much better listener than I’ll ever be, since I mostly just go on and on, as if I wanted to talk people to death.
‘Oh, Pernilla,’ he says with a sigh when I’m done. ‘Unfortunately, I can’t say I’m surprised, but you should know that I’m convinced it will all work out for Samuel as soon as he opens his heart to God.’
I nod and wipe away a tear. Thinking of all the times I’ve sat here with Samuel and felt ashamed.
All I can say is that the congregation has been very patient with him.
When he was little he hit the other children and stole biscuits. Then it got worse. Much worse. At one point, he even started a fire in the garden with the hymn books.
But he didn’t mean any harm by it.
He just had a hard time focusing, and he was full of mischief.
He had been using the hymn books to build a tower, a tower which quickly became a house. And of course a house needs lighting, which took the form of a candle.
In other words, he didn’t mean to burn the books. But no one understood that. Instead his actions were taken to be a heathen act.
It was the same for him at school. The teacher sent him to the school nurse, who referred him to a psychologist.
She said Samuel obviously had problems with impulse control and attention. She thought he might grow out of it.
As for me, I went straight to our pastor.
Together we prayed for Samuel. We prayed and prayed and prayed, but God must have decided our trials weren’t over, because Samuel did not improve.
On the contrary.
I close my eyes and fight back tears.
‘The important thing now is not to let him come back,’ the pastor says. ‘He’s an adult, Pernilla. He must be allowed to make his own mistakes. If you clean up after him every time he does something stupid, he’ll never learn. Wait. Be confident. He’ll come back when he’s ready. And then we will be ready for him. Then God will be ready for him,’ he adds emphatically.
I nod, but I can’t get any words out, because the painful lump in my throat makes it impossible to speak. But I suppose the pastor is right. He’s probably seen this a hundred times before. And he has helped Samuel and me so much. When Samuel stole from the collection, he agreed not to report it to the police and when we’ve been going through tough times, he’s loaned us money. And I never would have been entrusted with running our child and youth activities, if it weren’t for his warm recommendation.
‘Do you promise me not to contact Samuel this time?’ he says. ‘Can you swear to that, Pernilla?’
‘Yes,’ I whisper and smile a little because he sounds just like my father.
Karl-Johan nods, looking satisfied. Then his eyes slide over me, from head to toe. As if I were a used car he’s considering buying.
‘Are you seeing anyone?’ he asks, and tilts his head again.
I don’t understand.
‘What do you mean, seeing someone?’
Karl-Johan laughs softly.
‘A man, I mean. You’ve been alone for a long time, even though you’re so young.’
He pauses. His eyes caught somewhere at the level of my breasts.
‘And beautiful,’ he adds. ‘You shouldn’t be alone. That’s not God’s will.’
I am both surprised and embarrassed, because if I didn’t know better I’d say he was hitting on me.
But that can’t be the case.
Karl-Johan’s been married to Maria for as long as I can remember. They’re the perfect couple in every way, and they have the respect of the whole congregation.
No, I think. I’m imagining things.
‘Do you think so?’ I whisper.
Karl-Johan nods and smiles. Stretches out his hand and strokes me lightly across the cheek.
I shiver, but can’t get one word past my lips. Me, who can never keep my mouth shut. I have apparently been struck dumb.
‘We will have plenty of time to talk on the hike,’ he says, popping one of those throat lozenges he always eats into his mouth and leaning forward.
‘Well,’ I say, leaning back a little to escape his touch, the discomfort expanding in my chest.
‘Let us pray for Samuel,’ he says and stands up. He smooths the wrinkles from his crumpled chinos and beckons me to follow him.
I stand up and follow him to the large wooden cross on the wall. Stare at Jesus’ lean body, carefully carved in dark wood.
