The next day he comes home from Geert Jørgensen’s and looks more relaxed than he has been in a long time. You have to be admitted, he says, taking off his motorcycle jacket, for drug rehab. It will start as soon as there’s an empty spot at Oringe, and until then you can have all the Demerol you want. Isn’t that good? Sure, I say, realizing that that was the same sentence that got me to succumb to the ear operation. And you, I ask, what are you going to do? I’m going to have some trouble with the healthcare authorities, he says with affected dismissiveness, but I’ll take care of it. You have enough to deal with just thinking about yourself.
Jabbe is ecstatic when I tell her I’m going to be admitted. Then you’re going to get all better, she says. All your friends and your family are going to be so happy. They’ve been so worried. The day I’m going to be admitted, she carries me down to the bathroom and washes me thoroughly. She washes my hair too, and the water gets filthy. When she carries me back up to bed she says, You don’t weigh any more than Helle does. Carl comes in and gives me a shot. This is the last one, he says, but I’ll ask them to go slow in there. I’ll go with you.
I put my arm around the ambulance driver’s neck while he carries me down the stairs. I think he looks worried, and I smile at him. He smiles back, and I see sympathy in his eyes. Carl sits down next to the stretcher, staring out into space. Suddenly he snickers as if he’s just thought of something naughty. He picks up a couple of flecks of dust and rolls them between his hands. There’s no guarantee, he says flatly, that we’ll see each other again. Then he adds: Actually, I never was quite sure about that earache. That’s the last sentence I ever hear him say.
6
I’m lying in bed with my head lifted slightly from the pillow, staring stiffly at my wristwatch. With the other hand I’m wiping the sweat out of my eyes. I’m staring at the second hand, because the minute hand won’t move, and once in a while I hold the watch up to my good ear, because I think it’s stopped. I get a shot every three hours, and the last hour is longer than all the years I have lived on this earth. It hurts my neck to hold up my head, but if I lay it down on the pillow, all the walls start moving in, closer and closer, so there’s not enough air in my little room. If I lay my head down, all the creatures come scurrying across my blanket – small, disgusting, cockroach-like creatures by the thousands, crawling all over my body and getting inside my nose, my mouth and my ears. The same thing happens if I close my eyes for a moment. Then they’re over me, and I can’t stop them. I want to scream, but I can’t get my lips apart. Besides, I have slowly been forced to admit that there’s no use in screaming. No one is going to come before it’s time. I am tied to the bed with a leather belt which cuts into my waist and makes it hard to turn. They don’t even take it off when they change the sheets beneath me, which are always full of my excrement. ‘They’ are something blue and white, which flickers before my eyes with no identity. They’re in control now, and it’s no use calling out Carl’s name endlessly until I get hoarse and my voice becomes an inaudible whisper. The time is five minutes to three. At three o’clock they will come and give me a shot. How can five minutes seem like five years? The watch ticks against my ear in rhythm to my frantic heartbeat. Maybe my clock is wrong, even though they constantly set it for me. Maybe they’ve forgotten me, maybe they’re busy with other patients, whose screams and shouts reach me from the unknown world outside the door to my room.
Well, says a mouth, which to me seems to go from ear to ear in a face that is too large compared to its body, it’s time for your shot. I get it in my thigh, and it takes some time before it starts to work. All it does is make me feel a little bit better. I’m able to put my head down on my pillow, and my body stops shaking like a leaf. The face in between the blue and white steps more distinctly closer. It is as pure and gentle as the face of a nun, and I understand that this person does not wish me harm. Talk to me, I ask, and she sits down next to me and wipes the sweat from my face. She says, This will all be over soon. We’ll get you back on your feet, but you certainly did get here at the last moment. I ask, Where’s my husband? Dr Borberg will come in to speak with you shortly, she says, evading my question. First we have to get you cleaned up a bit. Then I’m lifted up by strong hands while the sheet below me is changed. I’m washed, and then dressed in a clean, white shirt. The worst thing, I say, is all the creatures. I’ll get rid of them, she says. Just call me when they come, and I’ll chase them away. Now look here. Be a really good girl and drink all of this I have here for you. You’re badly dehydrated. Can’t you tell? Aren’t you thirsty? She lifts my head and puts a glass to my lips. Now drink, she says earnestly. I drink as she asks and I even ask for more. That was good, says the voice. You are a real sweetheart.
Then Dr Borberg comes in, the only human in this world of misery that I perceive clearly. He is a tall blond man in his mid-thirties with a round, boyish face and intelligent, friendly eyes. He asks if I’m able to speak with him for a moment. Then he says, Your husband has been admitted to the National Hospital. He’s suffering from a serious psychosis. The Department of Health has brought a case against him, but now it’s possible that they will drop it. What about the children, I say, horrified. Jabbe has no money when he’s not there. I have to go straight home. You won’t be going home for six months, the doctor says firmly, but of course your young housekeeper will need money. I have spoken to her on the telephone, and she will come to see you one day soon. I’ll make sure that you’re able to talk with her right after you’ve had your injection. He leaves, and the shot slowly wears off. Then I lie there again, my head lifted off the pillow, staring at my watch, and there is nothing else in the world but it and me.
When Jabbe came, I gave her the bank book, which Carl had placed on the stretcher in the ambulance. Then I asked her to get the manuscript of my novel from the cabinet in Carl’s room, and give it to the publisher. I also asked her to stay with the children until I came back home, and she promised she would. She sat observing me with her damp, devoted eyes, patting my hand and asking if I was getting anything to eat. Then she started telling me lots of things about the children, but I couldn’t pay attention. Please leave now, Jabbe, I said, while sweat poured out from my whole body. Tell the children I’ll be better soon and that I’m looking forward to seeing them so much. Your husband, she said with an anxious look, he’s not going to suddenly come back home again, is he? No, I told her, I don’t think he will ever be coming back home.
Gradually my miseries lessened. Now I was able to put my head down on my pillow without the walls creeping in around my bed, and I stopped staring at my watch constantly. I was let out of the belt, and I was allowed to go to the toilet supported by one of the nurses. Outside my room, there was a larger room where the beds were so close together that there was only a narrow walkway between them. Most of the patients had belts on, and some of them had large mittens on their hands. They stared at me with empty, glassy eyes, and I pulled closer to the nurse. Don’t be afraid, she said. These are just people who are very sick. They won’t hurt anyone. But they were yelling and screaming so loud that you couldn’t hear your own voice. Why am I here? I asked. I’m not mentally ill. This is a locked ward, she said. You couldn’t be anywhere else when you first arrived. When you get better, I’m sure you’ll be moved to an open ward. Come here, she said gently, leading me to a sink. Wash your hands. See if you can do it yourself. When I raise my head, I see myself in the mirror, and I put my hand over my mouth to hold back a scream. That’s not me, I cry, I don’t look like that. That’s not possible. In the mirror I see a worn-out, aged, stranger’s face with gray, scaly skin and red eyes. I look like I’m seventy, I sob, clinging to the nurse, who leans her head in on my shoulder. There, there, she says. I didn’t think of that, but don’t cry. When you start getting insulin it will be much better. You’ll get more meat on your bones and you’ll look like a young woman again. I promise. It happens all the time. When I’m in bed again, I lie there looking at my toothpick ar
ms and legs, and for a moment I’m full of rage at Carl. Then I remember that I carry my share of the blame as well, and my rage disappears.
Early the next morning I got a shot of insulin. I had slept poorly that night, and I dozed off again until I woke at nine-thirty. I felt ravenously hungry. I was shaking, and black dots flickered before my eyes. My whole organism was screaming for food like before it had screamed for Demerol, and I rushed out into the corridor and called for a nurse. Mrs Ludvigsen was her name. I feel sick, I said. Can I have some food? She took me by the arm and led me back to my room. Actually, she said, you don’t get your meal until ten o’clock, but I’ll bring it to you now. That will be okay just this once. When she came in with the tray, which had on it a plate piled with rye bread with cheese and wheat bread with jelly, I grabbed the food before she even had a chance to put down the tray, and I shoved the food in my mouth, and chewed and swallowed and grabbed for more, while a previously unknown sense of physical well-being spread through my body. Wow, I feel great, I blurted out between two slurps of milk. Can I have all the food I can eat? Mrs Ludvigsen laughed. Yes, she said, even if you eat us out of house and home. It’s wonderful to see you eating. She brought more food and I ate like crazy, laughing with bliss. I am so happy, I said. I think I’m finally going to be healthy again. You won’t take the insulin away from me again will you? Not before you have reached your normal weight, she said. Later I put on a hospital gown and I sat in a chair by the window. Outside was a large, manicured lawn, and between two low buildings I could see a strip of blue water with white foam. It was fall, and the withered leaves were collected in neat piles on the grass. Some men in striped clothing were raking them, without much enthusiasm. When can I go for a walk? I asked Mrs Ludvigsen while she was brushing my hair. Soon, she promised. One of us will go with you. You’re not allowed to go alone yet.
A period followed when I looked at my watch to see if it was time to eat soon. I looked forward to meals, and I ate like a bricklayer. I gained weight, and they weighed me every other day. When I was admitted, I weighed thirty kilos, but now I was up to forty. I could walk without help, and every day I went outside and talked non-stop with the nurse about everything under the sun, because I was in a terrific mood. I realized I felt like I did back in that happy time before I had met Carl. I was allowed to call home every day, and I even spoke on the phone with Helle. She was now six years old and going to school. She said, Mommy, why don’t you get married to Daddy again? I don’t like daddy Carl. I laughed and said that I might, but that I didn’t know if he would want me back. He’s not drinking anymore, she said hopefully. He’s going to school instead. He was here yesterday with Victor. Victor gave us candy and caramel creams. He was so nice. He asked if I was going to be a writer like my mother.
One afternoon, right after I had eaten, Dr Borberg came to see me. We need to have a serious conversation, he said as he sat down. I sat on the edge of the bed, looking at him expectantly. I’m healthy again, I said. I’m so happy. Then he explained to me that I was regaining my physical health, but that there was much more to it. There would be a stabilizing process, and that was what would take the longest time. I was going to have to learn how to live a bare, unaffected life, and every memory of Demerol would slowly disappear from my mind. It’s easy, he said, to feel healthy and happy in this protected hospital room. But when you get home and experience adversity – like we all do – the temptation will return. I don’t know, he said, when your husband will be completely well, or even if he ever was, but you must never see him again, no matter what happens, and we will make sure that he never visits you. The doctor asked me if I had ever gone to other doctors, and I told him no. He also asked if Carl had ever given me anything other than Demerol, and I told him methadone. That is just as dangerous, he said. You must never have that again either. Then I told him that I would keep away from it for the rest of my life, because I would never forget all the horrible suffering I’d been through. Yes, you will, he said soberly. You will forget it all soon enough. If you are ever tempted by something like that, you’ll think, what harm could it do? You’ll think that you can control it, and before you know it, you’ll be caught again. I laughed carelessly, You don’t think very much of me, do you? We have had very sad experiences with addicts, he said. Only one out of a hundred ever fully recover. Then he smiled and patted me kindly on the shoulder. But sometimes, he said, I think that you are that one, because your case is so unusual, and because, in contrast to so many others we see, you have something to live for. Before he left, he gave me grounds permission, which meant that I could walk outside on the property for one hour every day.
Time passed, and I felt at home in the ward and on the beautiful grounds, where now and again I had a nice chat with one of the other patients who was out walking. I felt so attached to the personnel, that I declined the offer to move to a better ward. Jabbe brought me my typewriter and my clothes, which were in sad shape, since I hadn’t bought anything new for years. She also made sure that I had some money, and one day I got permission to travel alone to Vordingborg to buy myself a winter coat. All I had was my old trench coat back from my time with Ebbe, and it wasn’t warm. I left for the town late in the afternoon. Twilight was approaching, and a few pale stars emerged in the sky, bleached by the city lights. My mind was relaxed and carefree, and my thoughts kept returning to my time with Ebbe. I thought about what Helle said: Mommy, why don’t you get married to Daddy again? I had begun letters to him numerous times, but they always ended up in the trash. I had caused him so much unnecessary misery, and he would never be able to understand why.
After I had bought my coat and put it on, I walked back down the main street without stopping to look in the shop windows. I was hungry and looking forward to dinner. Then my attention was suddenly caught by a well-lit pharmacy window. It radiated a muted light from containers of mercury and beakers filled with crystals. I kept standing there, while the yearning for small white pills, which were so easy to get, rose inside me like a dark liquid. Horrified, I realized while I stood there that the longing was inside me like rot in a tree, or like an embryo growing all on its own, even though you want nothing to do with it. I pulled myself away reluctantly, and kept walking. The wind blew my long hair over my face, and I pushed it aside angrily. I thought about Dr Borberg’s words: If you are ever tempted …
When I got back I took out a piece of typing paper and looked at it. It would be so easy to cut it with scissors, write a prescription for methadone and walk into the pharmacy and have it filled. Then I thought about how much they had done for me here, and how genuinely people shared my joy over being healthy again, and I felt I couldn’t just let them down like that. Not as long as I was here. I walked out to the bathroom, gathered up my courage, and looked in the mirror. I hadn’t done that since the day when I had been so horrified by my appearance. I smiled happily to myself and touched my round, smooth cheeks. My eyes were clear and my hair was shiny. I didn’t look one day older than I was. But when I went to bed and had been given my chloral, I lay awake for a long time, thinking about that pharmacy window. I thought how well I had worked on methadone; all I had to do was not increase the dosage. Then I remembered the endless suffering during my rehab and thought: no, never again. The next day I wrote to Ebbe and asked if he would come and visit me. A few days later I got his answer. He wrote that if I had called for him a few months prior, he would have come right away. But now he had met another woman, and everything was starting to go better for him. You can’t expect, he wrote, to abandon a person for five years and then find him in the same place when you return.
I cried when I read his letter. No man had ever turned me down before. Then I thought about the house on Ewaldsbakken, the neglected yard and my three children, who didn’t know their mother anymore, just as I didn’t think I knew them. I was going home to be alone with them and Jabbe, and it felt like I wasn’t suited for it. For the rest of the time I was at Oringe I never went into town again, s
o I wouldn’t see that pharmacy window.
7
It’s springtime when I return to the house on Ewaldsbakken. The gardens are scenting the air with forsythia and golden rain, which drape over our hedge by the narrow gravel road. Jabbe has put out chocolates and a homemade pastry, and the children are all sitting clean and finely dressed around the festive table. At the center of the table, a cardboard sign is leaning against a vase with flowers. Welcome Home Mommy it reads, in crooked capital letters. Helle says she made it herself. She looks at me with her crooked Ebbe-eyes, awaiting my praise. The two little ones are shy and quiet, and when I try to stroke the head of Trine, our little outsider, she pushes away my hand and reproachfully leans in toward Jabbe. I think how it was Jabbe who guided their first steps, Jabbe who talked gibberish with them, blew on their scrapes, and sang them to sleep in the evening. Only Helle shows me any closeness, talking to me as if I’d never been away. She tells me that her daddy has gotten married to a woman who writes poems just like I do. But you are much prettier, she says loyally, and Jabbe laughs as she pours me something to drink. Your mother, says Jabbe, is just as pretty as the day I first saw her. When the children are in bed later, I sit up chatting with Jabbe. She has bought a bottle of blackcurrant brandy, which we share, while an indefinable longing inside me diminishes slightly. It’s better to drink a little once in a while, says Jabbe, whose cheeks are pink and whose eyes are shinier than usual, than all that crap your husband put in you. So, I say, now you want to make me an alcoholic? I’m going straight from the frying pan into the fire! We both laugh, and we agree that she’ll have every Wednesday afternoon and every other weekend off. The poor girl hasn’t had a vacation in years. She asks me what she’s going to do with herself, and I suggest that she put a personal ad in the newspaper. I want to do the same thing. People aren’t meant to be alone, I say. I get a piece of paper and a pencil, and we have a lot of fun creating two ads, where we describe ourselves as having every attribute that a man could want. We get rather silly, and it’s late before I go up to bed. Jabbe has decorated my room with fresh flowers, but the memories of everything that happened to me here overwhelm me suddenly, and I lie down on the bed fully dressed. I think I can see the shadow of a figure walking around, picking up bits of dust while mumbling to himself. I wonder, where is he now? I walk over to the window, open it, and lean out. There is a clear, starry sky. The handle of the Big Dipper is pointing right at me, and out on the poorly lit road a couple are embracing. They kiss one another under a streetlamp. Quickly I shut the window, realizing I feel like I used to when I was married to Viggo F., when the entire world was filled with loving couples. With a heavy heart I undress and go to bed. Then I realize I forgot to get milk for my chloral. I got a bottle of it from the hospital, and Dr Borberg says that he will send me a prescription for more when this one is used up. He doesn’t want me to go to any other doctors. When he said goodbye, he told me to call him if I had any problems, or just so he could know how I was doing. I get milk from the kitchen and go back to bed. I pour myself three doses instead of the two I usually get, and while the deadening effect spreads inside me, I think how it’s springtime, and I’m still young, and there’s no man in love with me. I embrace myself involuntarily, curl up my pillow, and pull it close as if it were alive.
The Copenhagen Trilogy: Childhood; Youth; Dependency Page 30
