by Alex Dahl
19
Kristina
He’s gone when I wake up, though it is still dark outside. Tomorrow November will be here, the darkest and dreariest month. Like several of my clients, Leah spoke of the coming winter a few times recently, and expressed anxiety about the dark months looming. Several months of near-constant darkness and cold take their toll on many people here in the north, myself included. It is hard to avoid the feeling of lethargy and melancholy that seems to seep into your very bones when it is dark when you go to work, dark when you come back home and often chucking it down with icy rain to top it off. I’ve had another one of those nights I often have, struggling to fall asleep, and then when I finally do, I have a terrible nightmare. I wake with a start, heart pounding, my face wet with tears, and no recollection of the dream, other than running away from something. After these episodes, I lie tossing and turning for hours, my mind ruminating over little details from the day, or a client’s situation, or the past. By the time I fall asleep again, not even an hour remains until my alarm goes off.
Thankfully, today is Saturday so I’ve been able to sleep in and feel quite rested. I make the bed perfectly, then remain on top of it for a long while, staring absentmindedly into the walk-in wardrobe through the open door, at the rows and rows of Eirik’s expensive shirts. Sometimes living with Eirik is like living with a ghost, one whose presence you can feel but never summon. I try to imagine him in my mind, the way he most likely is in this exact moment; intently focused on winning over a room, or an organization, or an important person sitting across from him.
He’ll be smiling and laughing, well aware of his charm, subconsciously mirroring his audience, creating a bond of trust, gesticulating in that rather excessive way of his that makes him occasionally seem more Italian than Norwegian. He chooses his words carefully and isn’t afraid of moments of silence, knowing how to use them. It makes him come across as authoritative, self-assured, measured. A leader. When Eirik and I met, fresh out of university, I was the only person who believed him when he said he’d be prime minister someday. Now everybody does. It seems to be only a matter of time.
It’s not fake, the charismatic, trustworthy persona my husband projects. He is those things. He is also the sometimes tired, reclusive, spent man who needs calm and quiet at home, who likes to fall asleep with his head held snug between my breasts while I gently tickle the hair at the nape of his neck. And he is still the eager kid I fell in love with: an idealistic, unafraid small-town young man who lights up when he speaks of change and bettering the country. I think of how intently he listened to me last night, how close he held me, and smile to myself in the gloomy room.
I look around the room at the strangely blurred outlines of the furniture – I can’t see much without my contact lenses. I switch on the radio and Soft Classics fills the room – perfect for early mornings and perfect for sex, though I certainly have more of the former than the latter these days. I close my eyes again, listening to Einaudi, running through the various options for today in my head. I don’t particularly want to go to the brunch, but I have absolutely nothing else to do. My thoughts return to last weekend, to the rainy beach walk in Drøbak with Camilla and the kids – it’s where I’d usually go on a weekend when Eirik is away or working. I could go today; it might be fun to tag along with the kids trick-or-treating, it’s Halloween. But at the thought of the drive down to Drøbak and back, something tightens in my throat and I swallow hard to dislodge it. Up until August, I would always stop in at Villa Vinternatt on my way home and sit in the rose garden with Elisabeth. I’ll never go there again, never again listen to the pleasant rise and fall of her soft voice, or see her fresh, sweet face.
I suppose I could hop on the train out to Sandvika and see my mother again, I felt bad for being abrupt with her earlier in the week. I’d have to pay my dues with Elisabeth’s mother, but deep down I know I just can’t. Not yet.
I pick up my phone to message the girls, saying I can’t make it; the idea of sitting among them at Delicatessen, day-drinking and gossiping and discussing their toddlers’ remarkable achievements fills me with instant dread. But maybe it won’t be like that, maybe it will actually be fun – something to do that has nothing to do with Elisabeth or Leah or the fact that my marriage and my entire life is on hold until after the elections. Something that might take my mind off the anxiety and persistent dejection I’ve been feeling. It’s been so long since I did something sociable, just for fun, not for Eirik’s campaign or a work-related conference. I remember last night and how good it was to speak to Eirik about what’s been going on, and I know he’s absolutely right – I have to let go now.
I put the phone back down and get out of bed. I have plenty of time to run through my morning routine before meeting the girls at noon – contact lenses, shower, moisturizer, a light touch of make-up. I spend a while studying the pores of my skin close-up – my skin looks coarser than just a few months ago, maybe a result of both the stress of this year and the unusually cold October weather. Perhaps it’s time to reconsider the Botox I’ve always dismissed – it was easier to turn down when my skin was still young and flawless. My thoughts are interrupted by the vibration of my phone on the bedside table. Someone is phoning from a private number.
‘Hello?’
‘Hi, is that Dr Moss?’
‘Speaking.’
‘Good morning. This is Hans-Olav Bjerre calling from Majorstuen police station. Can I confirm that you called in a tip yesterday about a potential missing person or domestic violence case to my colleague Officer Espensen?’
‘Yes, that’s right.’
‘We’ve had a look into the information you provided. There doesn’t seem to be any reason for concern with regard to your client, Miss Iverson.’
‘Have you found her?’
‘We’ve been in contact with her mother, Linda Iverson, who confirms communicating with her daughter recently.’
‘Yes, I know that.’
‘It would seem she has gone away somewhere to finish a book or something. A cabin, it says in the write-up.’
‘Yes. I asked your colleague to please send someone there. I believe Leah is in danger.’
‘Such a request would need to come from her next of kin, and may be difficult to accommodate as there doesn’t seem to be any reason to suspect she is in danger.’
‘Did you send someone to her apartment? Her ex, against whom she had a restraining order, was there yesterday. You need to find out why.’
‘We did. There was no one there.’
‘Did you go in?’
‘No. We rang the bell. No one was there.’
‘How do you know he wasn’t there and just didn’t open?’
‘Look. We would have needed a search warrant to enter the apartment.’
My mind darts to Anton at the middle window, half of his face cast in shadows, his pale-blue eyes cold and sharp on the street below. I shiver lightly. ‘So what happens next?’
‘Well, presumably what your client’s mother says is correct and Ms Iverson will return to her home when she wishes to do so. Oh, and one more thing – it says that you mentioned to Espensen that your client had a restraining order against her ex-husband, Anton von Thaule.’
‘Yes?’
‘This is incorrect. It was von Thaule who took out a restraining order against Leah Iverson in 2015, after an assault. She tried to take one out against him, but it was discredited after the discovery of CCTV footage of the alleged incident.’
‘What? Are you sure?’
‘Absolutely.’
After hanging up, I go back to the bathroom and splash cold water on my face, the recently applied mascara dislodging from my lashes and running down my face in black streaks.
All the evidence suggests she’s fine. I should relax now and return to my own life. All the space Leah Iverson has taken up in my mind in the past week needs to be freed up for the things that are actually relevant to my life – my work, my family, my remaini
ng friendships, my marriage. But I’m not going to pretend I’m not a little disappointed in Leah, who, having clearly decided to take a temporary or permanent break from therapy, couldn’t even be bothered to let me know. Intellectually I know that she is going through what is no doubt a turbulent time, but I am still human and feel affected by her actions. I make a mental note to take these feelings to my next supervision with Vera in two weeks’ time. I am also surprised and disturbed that she has clearly extensively lied to me, both about her present and past relationship with Anton von Thaule.
Lying to therapists is surprisingly common, and in Leah’s case, she was most likely ashamed of her own actions during her marriage break-up and reinvented herself as a victim. Then, her book must have exacerbated that false narrative and she got trapped in her own web of lies. This would explain why she was so disturbed and profoundly uncomfortable with her new status as author and well-known abuse victim. Or… Or she told the truth and he played her, perhaps taking out the restraining order to discredit her.
I lie back on the bed for a moment, my head spinning with disjointed, jostling thoughts. In spite of all my training, and all my own therapy work, I am unable to decipher my own feelings in this moment. Restlessness, I think. Underlying anxiety. A sense of unease – it’s the feeling of staring at a puzzle and realizing that a piece is missing. But then again, I have had to get used to pieces missing. Since the age of nineteen, when I suffered severe trauma-induced dissociative amnesia, I have known what it feels like to have patches of your life simply erased. And though my own experience with memory loss is limited to one specific incident, I sometimes have the strange feeling in other contexts, of only seeing part of the picture.
Again, my thoughts return to Leah. I instantly grow tense and annoyed with myself for not being able to let it go now. Am I going to plague myself with ruminations about a troubled client for another week until she decides to turn up for our next session, or not?
Please come to my cabin, she said. Why would she beg me to come like that unless it really was important? Why did she lie to me about Anton? It’s the lying I feel unsettled by – did Leah not feel enough trust and support in our therapeutic bond that she would be able to divulge the truth about her past to me? And why hasn’t she answered any of my calls or emails if she really wanted to speak to me? I do recall her mentioning the exceptional remoteness of the cabin many times, and how she had no phone reception for miles. Still, she has clearly managed to get in touch with her mother.
20
Leah, two weeks before
A magnificent full moon bathes the October night in light. The curtains are open wide, letting a silvery shaft of light into the apartment. She’s cross-legged on the floor in the living room, sitting in the moonbeam, like a forest animal resting for a while on a remote stretch of road. In front of her is a box of photographs, some scattered around on the floor. She picks one up, holds it up to the light. It’s a photograph of herself as a young child, aged around four. By that age, Leah had already lost her father and was living with her mother, Linda, in a modest apartment in a non-descript suburb of Årjäng. She’d been a beautiful child, her light-brown eyes and dark hair giving her more definition than the classic Scandinavian look of white-blonde hair and ruddy cheeks of her little friends at nursery and in the neighborhood. But even back then, she’d felt different. Worth less. Unlovable.
She picks up a second photograph, this one of a slightly older child. It’s Kristina, aged seven. The photo was taken in Denmark and Kristina is standing on the rails of a wooden fence by the roadside, beaming at the camera. Leah knows this because on the back of the picture, someone has written ‘Langeland, August 1993’. Next to Kristina stood her mother and her older sister, but Leah has cut them carefully out of the photograph. Behind Kristina is a rolling field, its late-summer sun-scorched grass having bled out with the passing of time into a faded ochre. A few goats stand in it, randomly captured for all time in the photograph. Leah places the two photos side by side on the floor. To a random observer, the two girls might have passed as the same person a couple of years apart. Kristina has darker-brown eyes than her, a slightly upturned snub nose, a gap between her front teeth and sun-streaked dark-brown hair tied up in a messy ponytail. The main difference between the two girls is the uncomplicated, mischievous joy in Kristina’s smile, and the wan, careful expression on Leah’s own face. Even back then, Kristina had been like a perfect version of herself.
Was that how it started? An initial sense of similarity between them, followed by a need to get close to it? The beginning is a long time ago now, a lot has happened.
She places both photographs back in the box among the many, many others. She considers trying to write, but decides against it; she can feel that it won’t come to her tonight, either, and can’t face all those long hours staring at the screen, waiting. She shivers lightly; it’s turned suddenly and freakishly cold this past week, though it is still only mid-October. She rubs her upper arms, feeling goosebumps pricking beneath her fingertips. She rests both hands against the tight vault of her belly. In there, she imagines soft pink sludge is hardening and shaping into tiny bones, into a perfect little skull, into a beating heart. The baby will grow and grow until it fills all that empty, dark space inside her and then it will come out, and just by being, it will make her whole.
21
Kristina
I’m in the hallway stepping into my boots when the doorbell rings unexpectedly. I’m struck by a rush of fear, and immediately Anton and his cool blue eyes come to mind. No, it can’t be. How would he even find me here? Like most therapists’, my address is unlisted. I pick up the receiver and the video monitor flickers to life, revealing the person downstairs. It’s a middle-aged woman wearing an oversized black raincoat, its hood obscuring her face. Still, I recognize her instantly – I’ve known this woman all my life.
‘Hi, Idun,’ I whisper into the receiver and she looks up, into the camera, and I’m taken aback by how thin she has grown – sharp cheekbones protrude over sunken cheeks, making Elisabeth’s mother look bird-like and much older. Her eyes sit deep in her face, surrounded by dark circles. I press the buzzer, because what else can I do? I open the door to her wearing my jackets and boots and she realizes I was on my way out, her mouth tightening into an ‘o’.
‘I’m sorry. I should have called,’ she says, shaking her head. ‘You’re going out somewhere. You look lovely, Kristina.’ I feel guilty for the nice clothes and sophisticated make-up, and wish she’d caught me on any other weekend morning when I’d be in my usual old sweatpants and scruffy T-shirt. Now, I look like I’m going about my best life, just weeks after her only child died here in this apartment.
‘Come in, Idun,’ I say and decide to not offer an explanation for where I am headed. It’s usually best to not over-explain. We hug briefly, and she feels bony and tense in my arms.
‘I won’t be long. I was just wondering if we could talk a few things through.’
‘Of course.’ I lead her through the apartment into the living room and only as she sits down on the sofa do I realize that she’s facing directly toward the room where her daughter’s big canvas used to hang on the wall behind the dining table. Eirik has replaced it temporarily with a Syeed Newham print on canvas and I watch Idun’s eyes travel around the room and through the open double doors to the dining room. She’s been here many times before for the Christmas drinks Eirik and I host every year, and I’m sure she’s noticing the absence of Elisabeth’s paintings.
‘I was wondering,’ she says, ‘if you suspected anything in the weeks leading up to the eleventh of August.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘As a therapist. You must get clients in very dark places. Did you notice those kinds of tendencies with Elisabeth?’
‘I see. As I wasn’t the therapist treating Elisabeth, that is very difficult to answer. But yes, on a few occasions when we spoke in the summer, I did feel worried for her mental health. I wondere
d whether it was the start of a regression.’
‘Were you aware of any episodes when she broke her sobriety?’
‘No.’
‘That’s what I don’t understand. She was so motivated. She spoke about the future. She’d made plans for a trip to Thailand with me in January. And then…’
‘It happens quite often, unfortunately. If you want my professional opinion, I believe that many suicides, especially the ones that come as surprises, are impulsive acts in very critical low moments in a person’s life, and not the result of longer-term planning.’
‘I just can’t believe she intended to…’ Idun trails off, and her eyes shimmer with tears. She doesn’t appear to notice, just blinks hard, sending them scattering onto her jeans.
‘I don’t think there was much doubt about her intentions. Sometimes, I’ve seen that it helps the family to know that the person actually did intend to die. Elisabeth wasn’t trying to get high, she would have known a dose like that would be fatal. It might be even worse to think of a suicide as an accidental death after a desperate cry for help. In Elisabeth’s case, there was little doubt that she, in those moments, truly intended to end her life. It does help me a little bit to think that she is at peace now.’
Idun nods and lets her eyes travel around the room again.
‘I’ve taken some of Elisabeth’s artwork down because I thought you might like to have it. It felt like the right thing to do.’
Idun nods, then reaches across and squeezes my hand. ‘I’m so grateful for you, Kristina. Won’t you come and see me soon? I know I’m not much fun these days, but it would mean a lot to me. Elisabeth was so lucky to have you. And it makes me happy to see you here in this beautiful home, living a meaningful life, still young and beautiful. Your whole life lies ahead of you. You have to live it for both of you now. For all three of you.’ I have to look away. I feel a lump in my throat at the mention of Elisabeth, and Trine. It feels surreal that out of the three young girls who once did everything together and embarked on what was supposed to be the adventure of a lifetime, I’m the only one still alive. You have to live for all three of you.
