by Alex Dahl
‘But… But you only arrived an hour ago. Why don’t you take the eight o’clock train? That will give us a little more time to catch up—’
‘I’m sorry, Mum. Really. The food was delicious. I’m just a little tired. It must be the weather. It’s so awful; it’s like it settles in your bones. And work is stressful at the moment.’
‘What about Idun? Aren’t you going to pop next door to see her? She’ll be expecting you.’
I swallow hard. I can’t face Elisabeth’s mother, not today. I shake my head, and stand up, avoiding my mother’s disapproving gaze.
I decline the offer of a ride to the station, and walk fast through the rain, which is falling sideways now, dragging across the street in bitter columns on a brisk wind. It beats into my face, pummeling it raw. I take the shortcut through the woods, using my special mindfulness technique of focusing purely on the sensation of my physical being in its environment to feel safe. The wet thud of my Nikes on the path scattered with brown pine needles. The sound of rain hitting the crowns of trees and dribbling down their stems. My fingertips turning rigid and red with the cold. The way distant woodsmoke from the suburban neighborhoods surrounding this little patch of woods drifts across on the moist air and settles in my nostrils. The woods give way to a huge parking lot and a gray, huddled building rising from the concrete: the train station; I made it.
On the train, I check my phone. Nothing from Eirik other than he’s working late. These days he only rarely arrives home before I go to sleep, and most mornings he’s out the door before I wake. And I’m a night owl who gets up early. There’s a message from my colleague, Alice, asking if we can share a room at the integrative therapeutic practice conference we’re both attending in Tromsø next month. And there is an email from Dr Albert.
From: [email protected]
Subject: RE Leah Iverson
Dear Dr Moss,
Thank you for getting in touch with me with regard to Leah Iverson. I, too, am concerned for her well-being, and especially considering her current circumstances. I saw her last week for a routine check-up and she did not appear well. I will get in touch with the borough’s psychiatric team as I think Leah may benefit from more support, especially over the coming few months. Could you let me know of any developments after your session/s with Leah later this week? Also, just to confirm – are you aware of Leah’s pregnancy (13+3)?
Best wishes,
Dr Wilhelm Albert
7
Leah, two weeks before
It’s just gone 4 a.m. and she’s still up. It’s her favorite time, when almost everyone else is asleep. It’s a confirmation of aloneness, a validation – she really is alone then, rather than just feeling alone, like the rest of the time. The words won’t come. It is a special kind of pain, waiting for words to form and emerge, perhaps it can be compared to waiting for a baby: it won’t come until it’s ready.
She stands up and looks over at her bed. Her mind is razor sharp and buzzing. Her body, too, feels like it is throbbing with life and restless energy. She turns to the window and looks out at a dry, crystalline night, shivering slightly with cold she can see but not feel. A thin sheen of ice has formed on the cars parked along the street, making them sparkle in the moonlight. The trees have shed the last of their leaves and stand stripped and resigned to the coming winter. They’re more beautiful like this, she thinks, when you can see their underpinnings. Like a woman undressed, supple skin and soft curves glowing in low light. She steps out of her cozy home tracksuit bottoms, and unzips its matching top. She undoes her bra and removes her underwear too.
In bed she relaxes into her own touch, kneading and pushing and rubbing. Her thoughts go from soft to hard; from the gentle curves of a woman to the need to be held by someone bigger than herself, to the exhilarating feel of strong hands closing around her neck, squeezing hard then easing up and stroking her, then squeezing again. Her body responds and she feels herself inch closer, then closer still. She angles the sharp spike on her bracelet against the taut skin of her throat and lets it dig into her flesh. It makes her gasp with pain, and it gives her another surge, closer.
8
Kristina
It’s a beautiful morning, the first in a while. It’s bitterly cold with ice crystals shimmering on the hoods of cars and the trunks of trees, but the sky is a vivid blue, and a brilliant sun bathes Oslo in a golden autumnal glow.
I leave the house in a daze, the sleepless night lingering like a membrane between me and the cold morning air. For hours and hours, I lay tossing and turning, my mind spinning and my heart aching. I pretended to be sleeping when Eirik came home around ten thirty, but he must have known I was awake because he held me tight in spoons, nuzzling my neck and stroking my arms and stomach lightly. I wanted to cry, but managed to stop myself by focusing on even, deep breathing.
I wish calling my clients and canceling today’s sessions was an option – the thought of sitting across from someone, listening intensely, fills me with restlessness. But first, supervision – it will be good to talk to Vera about what’s going on.
On the corner of Parkveien, I stop and buy a coffee at Kaffebrenneriet and, stirring the brown sugar granules through my Americano, it occurs to me how absurd it is that I know the most intimate details of my clients’ lives, but I have no idea how they take their coffee. I consciously construct an image of Leah in my mind, ordering a coffee at this very same café, which she may well do in real life – she doesn’t live far away. I imagine her quick smile for the barista, a moment of deliberation over a pain au chocolat, and her distinctive, quick way of moving as she leaves the café, clutching a paper cup. Almond-milk macchiato, I decide. Leah is someone who makes conscious choices about everything she eats and drinks, and it has more to do with a desire for control than healthy life choices, though she proclaims that is the primary reason. She is most likely even more conscious of her dietary choices at present, considering her circumstances.
It’s Tuesday and I still haven’t heard from Leah. I am going to have to explain to her in our session on Friday that as our relationship is entirely based on mutual trust, and because our work simply cannot bring change unless that trust is there, we do need to be committed to answering emails, and especially after an episode such as at our last session.
I look around the busy café and make for the door with my coffee, but still an image of Leah lingers on my mind; only now, she is visibly pregnant. She’s sitting at one of the tables in the corner, looking out onto the busy street, smiling serenely, drawing the gentle floral scent of a jasmine green tea into her nostrils, resting a hand on a tiny but unmistakable bump. How could I have missed it?
Each time my mind goes to the pregnancy it recoils. I just don’t understand why Leah would hide such a thing from me. Or how it is even possible that I have missed the changes that must have been happening in her for a while now – has her skin been particularly radiant and glowing, has a soft swell started to appear on her belly? I run these questions over and over in my mind, but she has been the same all along, I’m sure of it. Did I simply not want to see it? Did I sense it on some level, but subconsciously refuse to acknowledge it since she never mentioned it?
I take a moment to determine whether it still affects me so deeply to learn of another’s pregnancy. And – yes. Yes, it does. It hurts like hell; it hits me with the sudden, shocking force of a finger smashed in a doorway – every time. I fill my empty stomach with the hot, bitter coffee and start walking again, chasing away the image of Leah pregnant. The wind is picking up again, tearing at my hair and making my eyes sting.
Kristina, are you aware of Leah’s pregnancy?
*
I open my mouth to speak, but nothing emerges, just a sad little squawk. Vera leans forward, empathy and warmth in her eyes, her mouth set in a commiserating little line.
‘You look sad this morning, Kristina.’
‘Mmmm.’ We sit in silence for a long while – I watch several minutes drain from
the digital clock above the door. Vera never prompts me, just sits there like a soothing presence. I often channel her calm, comfortable approach to silence when it comes to my own clients, something which didn’t come easy to me early on in my career. I had to fight the urge to fill any prolonged silence with a question or just a sound to indicate I was still listening and soaking up whatever the client brought to the session. Now, I think I have become more like Vera, interested in the silences and able to let them unfold and speak for themselves.
‘It’s one of my clients,’ I say, at last. ‘Leah Iverson. You know, the Swedish novelist.’
‘I remember.’
‘She was very agitated in our session on Friday. She literally ran off before the end of the session, and begged me to meet her outside the therapy room. I explained why that isn’t possible, of course. Then she called me late on Sunday evening, but she said nothing. I figured she needed to know I was there so I stayed on the line until it went dead. On Monday I tried to return her call, but it went straight to voicemail. I then emailed her offering extra sessions this week, but she hasn’t responded. I felt worried over the weekend. It was as if I couldn’t stop thinking about her; it was so out of character for her to behave like that. She’s usually quite composed, though in the last year she has increasingly been showing emotions in our sessions, like she is able to connect with them more. I emailed her GP yesterday, saying I felt concerned and that we may need to consider getting Leah some extra support. She’s been a self-harmer for years, though nothing very serious. As you know, she’s spoken of suicide quite a bit, though more in terms of compulsive thoughts than actual intent.’
‘Did she speak of suicide or self-harm on Friday?’
‘No. She did say she needed to tell me something, several times. But then she didn’t. She asked me to come to her cabin and even gave me a key to it. She seemed very out of it, not at all like herself. Also, her face was bruised but she refused to say what had happened.’
‘Yes, it sounds like she was experiencing something very distressing. What did the GP say?’
Again I open my mouth but no sound will come. Tears gather in my eyes, then roll down my face.
‘He said he agrees about providing extra support for Leah. And he asked if I was aware of the fact that she’s pregnant.’
‘I see. And were you?’
‘No. She hasn’t told me.’
‘That must be difficult to understand.’
‘Well, I know that she isn’t obliged to tell me anything at all and that it’s not right of me to expect that of her. It’s just, this came out of left field and I suppose it triggers my own experiences.’
‘Yes.’
‘I’ve worked with other pregnant women and have a couple of new mothers at the moment, and I’d be lying if I said that it isn’t challenging at times, considering the fact that Eirik and I so far haven’t managed to get pregnant.’ And not for a lack of trying – seven cycles of IVF with nothing to show for it. ‘But I think when it comes to Leah, it feels especially unfair and difficult because I know she wouldn’t want to be pregnant and is pretty likely to have an abortion. She doesn’t have a partner, or a lifestyle suitable for a child. What would she be able to offer it? She’s working through some very complex issues which present in ways that would be directly harmful to a child…’ I trail off, and wipe at tears, looking out the window at the brilliant blue sky. I can’t bear Vera’s immense empathy in this moment.
‘But Kristina, she hasn’t yet spoken to you about her pregnancy. People do change, and perhaps Leah is making changes to her life that would benefit a potential child. It occurs to me that in this case, you don’t know what is going on, and perhaps it feels like a rejection that she hasn’t chosen to share this with you.’
‘Yes.’
‘And on a personal level, her presumably unplanned pregnancy feels unfair to you due to your own painful struggle to conceive.’
I nod, not even trying to stop the fresh rush of tears.
‘Do you think you will be able to support her through her pregnancy, no matter how it ends?’
‘Well, yes. I mean, of course. I’m just shocked, I guess. And grieving.’
‘Which are both very natural human emotions.’
‘It’s just been a bit much recently. I saw my mother last night and she wanted to speak about Elisabeth, and I just need some space from what happened. But it’s like she wants to instruct me in how to behave, and how to grieve, acting all disapproving when I won’t do what she expects.’
‘What do you think she expects?’
‘I think she wants me to make big displays of how I’m feeling. To support Elisabeth’s mother more, when I can barely handle my own feelings. My mother wants me to share my grief with her – you know, sobbing together and looking through childhood photographs.’
‘But that’s not what you need?’
‘No, it isn’t. I need to make my peace with it all. To forgive myself for not saving her.’
‘It wasn’t your job to save Elisabeth, Kristina.’
I nod, but my throat is constricted by a painful lump. I allow myself a few long moments to breathe through these feelings and feel grateful for Vera’s soothing presence.
‘I just keep wondering if it could have been different.’
‘It sounds as though a lot is on your mind at the moment, both in your personal life and with your clients.’
‘Yes.’
‘Do you feel confident that you have the tools to process it?’
‘I think so. I’m conscious of maintaining my boundaries with my mother. I’m allowing all the stages of grief over Elisabeth and trying to not become stuck in thought patterns. But I see her everywhere, you know? The other night… I was looking at this woman at a party, and it was as though her face briefly became Elisabeth’s and it just hit me so hard. And Leah… I think Leah reminds me of her. Last week, there was something so raw and desperate about her, and something about the intensity of her need. I lived with Elisabeth’s need for so long. And then, discovering Leah’s pregnancy, it just really threw me and triggered my feelings about motherhood. I am going to work on not allowing my feelings to impact my support of Leah; it’s crucial that no part of me would judge her for her choices.’
‘That sounds very reasonable.’ We sit in silence for a while, the softly lit, warm room like a cocoon, and I want it to be Vera who speaks first. ‘Kristina, I’ve been meaning to ask,’ she says eventually. ‘How are you sleeping at the moment? Any more disturbing flashbacks?’
‘No. Well. I’ve been sleeping quite well.’ This is a white lie, but I don’t want to get into the sleepless nights today, and besides, they’re nothing new. ‘I’ve been really busy. I have quite a few new clients and in the run-up to the elections, my husband needs a lot of support…’
‘It doesn’t sound like there is a lot of time for you.’
‘Well. That might be a good thing. Considering the circumstances.’
‘Perhaps you are avoiding thinking about or processing certain things by keeping very busy, and keeping your mind on the surface.’
‘Vera. I allow myself to feel and to process.’
‘Good.’
‘Just. I suppose I have been confused recently. It does feel like I am having a hard time deciphering what exactly my feelings are about stuff. Sometimes I feel so angry I could smash something at the smallest provocation, like if my husband doesn’t answer a text message fast enough. Other times I feel like crying, but for no reason.’
‘No reason?’
‘Well, you know – it seems triggered by the strangest little things. A beautiful, wilting flower. Or a disturbing dream. A song on the radio I’d forgotten, that takes me back to… to the past.’
‘What kind of disturbing dreams, Kristina? I thought you said you’d been sleeping well?’
I feel irritated with myself for slipping up and bringing the conversation to my dreams because it will inevitably lead us down a path I don’t wan
t to take – not today. ‘Mostly well. Occasionally not, I guess.’
‘And do you think that coming to terms with what happened to Elisabeth might be bringing some of those old memories and wounds to the surface?’
‘Yes. Of course,’ I say softly, closing my eyes. I don’t want to go there now, I want a moment’s reprieve from the thoughts that chase through my mind like a gathering storm.
‘They are, of course, closely linked. I’m just wondering whether new things might appear as a result. Things that have felt intangible or lost.’ I nod and look out the window. I’m buying time, trying again to dislodge the lump in my throat.
‘I think I need to spend the last ten minutes discussing Natalia Martinussen. She’s, uh, very overwhelmed by her family commitments and I want to develop more of a strategy in supporting her.’ My voice noticeably trembles as I speak, but Vera doesn’t bat an eyelid at my obvious diversion from my own personal circumstances back to my client. I muster all the control I can to discuss Natalia’s course of therapy, blocking any other thoughts from entering my mind. After a few moments it becomes easier, and it feels good that I am able to control my thoughts and emotions.
But then, as I leave Vera’s snug office at Holbergs Plass and walk the short distance to my own office, slowly, past the park, my control falters and I feel a wild surge of anxiety. Or grief. Or maybe it’s a bad premonition, a sense of all the losses still to come, how can I know? I should feel better after supervision, but I don’t. I feel unhinged, and unfit to see my first client in less than half an hour. I shut the door to my office and set the timer on my phone to five minutes. Five minutes to cry my eyes out.
9
Kristina
At home, I lean back against the front door as soon as I’ve shut it behind me. I still feel strangely liquid, like I might dissolve into more tears, or erupt in a rage. Up until this summer, my life was good; predictable, comfortable, stable. It hasn’t been without its challenges; like everyone else I have my demons and things to deal with from my past, but in the last few years I have felt as though I am capable of navigating my life, even when it gets really tough. But now, it’s as though one thing after another is coming loose from the structures I’ve built, tearing at the very foundations of my life. I was supposed to be a mother by now. Or pregnant at the very least. We can’t find any reason for it, say the doctors of my inexplicable infertility. No reason. And yet, there is a reason, there always is; they just can’t find it.
