The Family Clause

by Jonas Hassen Khemiri

  Once the grandfather had left, they sat down on the bed with their daughter between them. She held her head. He held her legs. They had to sit close together, since her body was no bigger than a ruler. She felt so small that you could easily lose her. That was nice, said the son. It was, she said. What incredible conversation! he said. So many questions! she said. Endlessly inspiring! Like a journey into outer space! Like an expedition into the depths of the soul! They smiled at one another. Do you realise your dad didn’t ask me a single question the whole time he was here? she said. Barely asked me anything either, he said. Wait, he did ask whether I had printed out his bank statements. Still, it’s unbelievable. I feel like there were plenty of things we could have talked about. Like, for example, I don’t know. How the birth was? A classic. Or how it feels to have become parents? Exactly. But I guess he made up for it with all the amazing presents, didn’t he? Absolutely. I love air presents. Invisible flowers are my favourite. That see-through dressing gown that he’d wrapped up in the invisible parcel was incredible. They smiled at one another. They existed. This tiny three-week-old person who twitched at regular intervals and gripped the air as though she was falling from an invisible branch existed. And even if everything else disappeared, they would always exist. The fact they existed created an airbag against the outside world, and nothing could cut as deep or hurt as much.

  Family, she said. Can’t live with them, he said. Pass the peanuts, they both said. They laughed. Their daughter woke up. She opened her bluish-grey eyes and studied them, with a face that was half Kung Fu master and half blind, newborn kitten. We’ll never damage you the way our parents damaged us, he said, nuzzling the area close to her bloody stump of umbilical cord. We’ll damage you in completely different ways, she said, patting her wrinkled little forehead.

  She checks her phone. No missed calls, no messages. How did they end up here? Before they became parents, they had barely ever argued. Now she is alone on their sofa, wondering whether he is alive or dead, whether he is on a dance floor or lying in a hospital bed, whether he is with an ex-girlfriend or unconscious in a ditch.

  They actually had their first ever argument when she got pregnant. It was about their future child’s surname. He wanted to use his. She wanted to use both. He wouldn’t give in, and nor would she. Why is it so important to you? she asked. My name is all I have, he said. You’re busy creating a life inside you, and if that person doesn’t have my surname it feels like I’m not taking my responsibility as a father. You’re contributing in other ways, she said. And it was true. While she produced arms and legs, an immune system and brain matter, he took on the task of buying a pram. He created a special document that gave him an overview of all the prams that could be used both for lying flat and sitting upright, he added quotes from various forums, he starred those that had performed best in tests, he put those that were good for tall people in bold, he compared prices, he learned all about the quality of the different manufacturers, he investigated the pros and cons of putting together the pram yourself. When she passed his computer, she saw him sitting there, hunched over with a crooked neck, absorbed in a long German article that he had translated into Swedish using Google Translate, written by a physiotherapist who deemed ergonomic seats to be incredibly bad for children’s backs. How’s it going? she asked. Mmm, he said without looking up from the screen. And so she left him to it. She thought it was good he was so thorough, and what he was doing with the pram was just compensation for not being able to produce a body with his own body. He had to feel involved somehow, and the pram became the key. After months of research, he presented her with his favourite option. It was incredibly well tested, popular in forums, good for tall people, great value. But it’s pretty ugly, said his girlfriend. Sorry? he said. The frame, it looks a bit bulky somehow. Or what do you think? He stared at her with wild eyes. Back to the document. He tracked down new options. He wrote long lists of what was more and less important, he looked into importing the buggy from Germany and ordering it super-cheap from American websites, thought about borrowing his mother’s boyfriend’s car and driving to Södertälje to buy one second-hand. He learned everything about different types of buggy brakes, he could reel off the volumes of the storage space beneath various prams, he knew all about which hooks and cup holders worked on different models and which sites were best for buying new inner tubes if the pram got a puncture. Once or twice, she got up, closed the lid of his computer and forced him to join her in bed. You can’t control this, she mumbled when he protested. It makes no difference how much Googling you do. What’s going on in my body is beyond your control.

  When he eventually decided on a pram, she suggested that they go to a shop to have a look at it in person. When they tested it, the pram felt heavy and unsteady. But there was another model beside it, it had won Best in Test in a consumer review and it was perfect for tall people. Cheap, good quality and Danish-made. Have you thought about this one? she asked. He shook his head. I’ve never even heard of it, he mumbled, pulling out his overview sheet. How could I have missed it? He scratched his forehead. The pram was perfect. They bought it there and then and drove it home to their flat. Well, she said. That’s good. Now we’ve got a pram. I can’t understand how I could’ve missed it, he said. Just don’t think about it, she said. From now on, this is what I think we should do: We go out and we try things. We trust our gut rather than having you spend weeks on research. Can we agree on that? He nodded. They smiled at one another. A few days later, he started looking into the range of car seats.

  In the beginning, she loved that he was so thorough. Then she began to hate that everything took so long. Once, before they went on holiday, she borrowed his computer to check the name of a hotel they had been looking at the week before. She brought up his search history. She went back, day by day, and saw the same sites over and over again: tabloids, broadsheets, email, Facebook, Twitter. And then she saw the searches that really confused her. Ahead of the trip that they still hadn’t booked, he had searched for what to pack for a holiday with kids, how to roll clothes, which vaccinations you needed for various destinations, which nasal sprays were recommended for one-year-olds, which puzzles were recommended for long-haul flights. He had been onto sites that tested suitcases, sites on which tourists left reviews and photographs of hotels, sites containing tips on how to choose a beach suitable for children. But she still wasn’t worried. She didn’t see it as a sign that he would be difficult to live with. Instead, she assumed he was just keen to make their trip the best it could possibly be.

  From time to time, she borrowed his iPad, and since the browser was linked to his email account she could go through his search history in peace and quiet, without having to open his computer. From there, she could follow their lives. Or, rather, a search history version of their lives. Early on, he had searched for how to stimulate a clitoris, how to delay orgasm, what to think about before having a second child. Then the searches were about double buggies, TENS machines and tips for a perfect birth. Over the summer, he had searched for how to choose a good estate agent, how to clean a keyring, how to check the finances of a housing cooperative, which orientation was most sought after in a balcony, how big a child’s room needed to be and whether it is possible to convert a closet into a child’s room. That autumn, he had compared moving companies, renovation firms, flooring firms, floor-sanding firms, tilers and interest rates. He compared internet providers, electricity providers, home insurance policies and child insurance policies. At one point, he had even searched for a comparison site to compare different comparison sites. And yet the searches that surprised her most were about things she had never even imagined anyone might search for. Like when he had searched for the best way to wrap a scarf around your neck. Or the best way to end an email. The best way to propose. The best way to tie your shoelaces. The best way to wash a car. The best way. Those were the key words. There were plenty of ways. But then there was a best way. And that was what he wanted
to get at. She began to realise that he went through life convinced that it consisted of millions of wrong ways and only one possible right way, and it became increasingly clear to her why the little things that others found easy were so incredibly hard for him.

  We need to talk about this strange behaviour, she thought. But she never said anything. Instead, she stopped checking his search history. Maybe it was out of fear of discovering searches for the best way to break up with someone. Or the best way to live apart from your children. The best way to disappear from your family.

  He wasn’t the only one to have been affected by having a baby. She had developed a new sense of anxiety within her, and sometimes she wondered whether he had infected her. But he had an oddly firm belief that their children were strong and healthy. She was alone in waking up several times a night to check that they were still breathing. I don’t get it, he said. Why would they stop breathing? Because they’re children, she said. Children are really good at breathing, he said. It’s one of the few things they can actually do. When it started snowing and he wanted to take the sledge to playschool, she was the one to point out that there was a real risk that drivers wouldn’t realise the father was pulling a sledge behind him, that they would think he was just out for a walk and then drive into the sledge with their daughter in it. Yes, he said. I suppose there is a certain risk. If the drivers are blind. But blind drivers are really, really, really rare. When icicles started to form on the rooftops, she was the one who tracked down a link to an article about the mother who was walking down Drottninggatan when some icicles fell into her pram and killed her baby and the mother was in shock and the housing association that owned the building was taken to court by the mother’s insurance company. Okay, he said once he had read the article. What do you want me to do with this information? Should we stop going outside when it’s below zero? Should we avoid walking anywhere near buildings? Should we only ever walk in open spaces? Should we buy a baby-sized helmet with a visor? She sighed. Seriously, he said. We’ve got to live. He couldn’t understand her. He couldn’t comprehend that the world was full of precarious irons, shark fins, Lego wheels, plastic beads, toxic waterproofing agents, piles of books, paedophiles, kidnappers, child murderers, icicles, sun, cold, oversized pieces of hotdog, undercooked chicken, scissors, door hinges, car doors, lift doors, pencils, pens, screwdrivers. And doorframes. Because a friend had told her about a father in Belgium who had broken his daughter’s neck by throwing her up in the air beneath a doorframe. And fridge magnets. Because another friend had told her about some child who had eaten magnets and then their intestines stopped working and the child had died. The same thing would happen if they ate batteries. You hang out with the wrong people, said the father. You’re weird, she replied. Because he was. The more time they spent together, the clearer it became that he didn’t seem to realise that their children were living, breathing beings. He filmed them, took pictures of them, gave them compliments and tried to teach them the alphabet and to tell the time and to say thank you, all before they could say dog and cat. But at the same time, that distance was always there. He was here but also elsewhere.

  She lies on the sofa. He’s at an illegal club in an industrial area. She checks her phone. He’s fucking a book-loving stand-up comedian in a strange bed. She thinks about cooked spaghetti. He’s in a coma in A&E. She shakes her head. No. He’s on his way home. He must be on his way home. Come home. Come home. I can’t live with you. I can’t live without you. So come home now. Come home.

  * * *

  A grandfather is lying awake, blinking, on the sofa in the kitchen. He looks up at the wall above the kitchen door. They had a clock there in the old flat, but there isn’t a clock here. To find out the time, he has to get up and check the digital clock on the oven. He tiptoes out into the living room. The son’s girlfriend is asleep on the sofa, on her side, clutching her phone as though it were a teddy bear. Her curls are spread out across the cushion. She is so young and beautiful that it hurts to look at her. He hears strange sounds from what is actually the parents’ room, and when he pushes the door ajar he sees the one-year-old trying to settle himself. He is caught beneath the pillow and is now pushing his head against the wooden bars of the cot. He whimpers and the grandfather reaches down and tries to soothe him. He hushes him and runs his fingers over his tiny eyelids. He hums the song he always used to sing to his own children. Oddly enough, it works, the one-year-old’s breathing becomes calmer, he has managed to doze off again. The grandfather stays by the bed. He is suddenly unsure where he is, which year it is, who is in the bed, who he is. He pads back out of the room. As he opens the door and the light spills in, he hears a hoarse whisper from the bed. Grandpa? Don’t I get a song? The four-year-old is sitting up in her parents’ bed, her hair on end. The grandfather tiptoes back in the darkness. He says that of course the four-year-old can have a song. Which song would you like to hear? The one about Zogoo and Zlatan competing in bobsleigh. Okay, says the grandfather. Which song is that? Daddy always sings it, the four-year-old whispers, in a voice that is starting to sound worryingly alert. You can choose the sport Zogoo and Zlatan are doing. Sometimes it’s diving, sometimes fishing, sometimes balloon baseball, sometimes skating. Okay okay, the grandfather whispers in his softest voice, hoping that the four-year-old will copy him. How does it go? Sometimes they go into space and sometimes they have a competition to see who can jump the highest. Okay, I’ll sing it, the grandfather whispers, glancing over at the one-year-old, who is stirring in his cot. If you keep quiet, I promise I’ll sing it. Grandpa? Yes. I’m hungry. Hungry? Now? It’s the middle of the night. Everyone is sleeping. But I’ve got a hole in my tummy and if you have a hole in your tummy then it means you can’t sleep. Says who? Says my tummy. Okay, says the grandfather. Come on then.

  They tiptoe out of the bedroom, past the living room, into the kitchen. The grandfather closes the doors so as not to wake the one-year-old and the mother. What do you feel like? The grandchild thinks. The grandfather opens and closes cupboards containing stacks of glasses, piles of matching crockery, four identical packs of coffee. There is enough food here to outlast a war. In what looks like a cleaning cupboard, there are mountains of pasta, chopped tomatoes, round tins of tuna and three packs of sweetcorn. There are pans behind another cupboard door, so many pans, four, five, six of them, all made from the same stainless material, their lids in a special compartment to one side. There are pots of herbs in one of the drawers. Another is full of pens and tape and those multicoloured plastic clips you use on bags to stop the air from getting in. But there aren’t any elastic bands, the grandfather thinks. People probably don’t need elastic bands any more, not now that everyone uses those plastic things. What’s wrong with elastic bands? They didn’t take up any room. They didn’t cost much. You could take them anywhere. They never broke, or very rarely anyway. They worked just as well as those big, and probably expensive, plastic things, something someone only came up with to dupe people out of money. What are you looking for? the four-year-old asks. I don’t know, says the grandfather. Do you know what my tummy would really like? the four-year-old asks. Some warm milk? the grandfather suggests. Yes, but most of all my tummy wants popcorn, the four-year-old says. Popcorn? Mmm. My tummy says that it would really like some sweet popcorn that tastes like coconut. The four-year-old shows him where the packet is, at the top of a cupboard next to the freezer. Do you usually have sugary popcorn at night? Mmm, says the grandchild. But this is the first time I’ve eaten sugary popcorn at night. The grandfather and the grandchild curl up together on the sofa in the kitchen. They eat sugary popcorn and gaze out at the view. Look, it’s snowing, says the grandfather. I’ve got a snowracer, says the four-year-old. I got it for my birthday. When I turned four. I’m going to be five next time. That’s right, says the grandfather. Are you coming to my party? We’ll see, says the grandfather.

  He really wouldn’t want to live this high up. Burglars could climb down from the roof. It
gives you vertigo. The wind is too strong on the balcony. Grandpa? Mmm. You’re not very skinny at all. That’s true. Your whole tummy is really round. I agree. But your legs aren’t very round. No. It’s mostly your tummy. That’s true. Malcolm at playschool, his big brother, he’s really fat. Fatter than me? asks the grandfather. No, the four-year-old says with a laugh. No? says the grandfather. Really not, says the four-year-old, shoving a handful of sugary popcorn into her mouth.

  * * *

  A girlfriend who is a mother who is a daughter wakes with a jolt. Has she even slept? No, she can’t have slept. She must have just closed her eyes for a moment. She thought she could hear voices, but it must have been her imagination. She checks her phone. She accepts that she is never going to get any sleep. It’s too late now. She may as well stop trying and get up. The realisation makes her body relax, and she dozes off.

  * * *

  A grandfather carries his four-year-old grandchild back to bed. Are you full now? Mmm, my tummy feels much better now, says the four-year-old. But I think it’s better if I sleep in my bed and not in Mummy’s. Which is your bed? the grandfather asks. The four-year-old shows him the way to the children’s room. She is tired and feels ready to sleep. She just needs to pee first. And have some water. And a story. Which story? The four-year-old returns to bed with a thick foldout book about space. We can’t read the whole thing, says the grandfather. Half, though, says the four-year-old. They start reading. The grandfather says that the earth is a big round lump of rock that is floating through space, and the moon is a rocky ball that circles the earth and the sun is a star, it gives the planets their light and warmth, it’s a massive sphere of powerful exploding gases and is enormously big, a million times bigger than earth. More than a thousand? asks the four-year-old. Yes, a million is more than a thousand, says the grandfather. Nothing is more than a thousand, says the four-year-old. Yes, two thousand is more than a thousand, says the grandfather, reading on. He says that solar flares are swirls of gas that spin very fast. He explains that spicules are dynamic jets that are thrown up and then fall back down again. He says that you could fit over one thousand earths inside Jupiter. More than a thousand? asks the four-year-old. Mmm, says the grandfather. Is that really, definitely true? the four-year-old asks. Yes, says the grandfather. Wow, says the four-year-old. The grandfather tells her about Saturn’s rings, Mars’s sandstorms, Venus’s gas clouds and Neptune’s winds. He talks about the Crab Nebula and the Cat’s Eye Nebula and the Cartwheel Galaxy that formed millions and millions of years ago when two galaxies collided. The four-year-old is quiet. The grandfather looks down at her. Her eyes are wide open. Are you tired? the grandfather asks. She shakes her head. The grandfather reads on in a soft voice. He reads about Sputnik and Apollo, Cassini and Hubble, Alma and Soyuz. He turns the page and shows her all the experiments being carried out on Mars: the Viking I space probe that landed in 1976; the Opportunity rover that has been there since 2004; Curiosity, which landed in 2012. Who gave you this book? the grandfather asks. Daddy, the grandchild says. She lifts her head. Where is Daddy? Daddy will be here soon, says the grandfather. But where is he? she says. He’ll be here soon, the grandfather says, returning to the space book.