by Ian Giles
“I’ve barely said anything,” said Kerstin, with what might be a small laugh in her voice.
“You will,” said Sandra encouragingly. “We’re getting to know each other. Creating mutual trust. That takes time. It’ll be easier next time you call.”
“You think I should call again?”
“I definitely think so. Sometimes you need to be the person in focus. Particularly in your own life. If you don’t think it’s working well with me you can request to speak to someone else.”
“It’s okay. I might call again then.”
“Do. Take care for now.”
“Thanks for taking my call,” said Kerstin.
Then it was over. It had been a bit of an ordeal, mostly because Sandra herself wasn’t especially inventive when it came to topics of conversation. That yoke didn’t normally rest on her shoulders. Strictly speaking, they hadn’t talked about anything, yet strangely enough Sandra was looking forward to a potential next time. She assumed there was a tragedy behind the sadness in Kerstin’s voice, something weighing her down that would soon enough bubble up to the surface. It awoke Sandra’s curiosity, and she hoped she would be a part of it when it happened.
10
Jeanette
IT WAS A rowdy afternoon by the East Gate in Visby. Some lads were being loud and the police had been by several times to try and make them see reason. They rarely detained anyone—the gang that hung out there by the benches was mostly harmless. But sometimes things got heated, and this was one of those occasions.
Jeanette was having one of her worse days. The anxiety was like a cancer in her stomach, and she knew that she had been irresponsible to mix sedatives with alcohol. Now she was dizzy and felt bad. She sat swaying on the bench with her hands over her ears. She simply hoped the racket would stop so that they could all have some peace and quiet in the spring sunshine.
It seemed she was the only one who thought that. The two at loggerheads with each other—about a negligible sum of money, which was what it was almost always about—had their fists clenched, ready to fight. The others—two women and around ten men—were trying to talk sense into them and keep them apart. Jeanette kept to herself, and didn’t have the energy to engage with them—she didn’t really feel that she belonged there.
Yet it was here she had ended up, here that she spent much of her long, meaningless days. She had come down a long way in the world, and it had happened so quickly. After living a well-ordered life with financial security, one day she had dropped it all to indulge in various chemical substances on a full-time basis. One thing led to another, and one day the benches frequented by the lushes by the East Gate had simply seemed like a better place to waste her life than the solitude of a one-bedroom flat in Gråbo.
They were almost coming to blows, and the profanities were coming thick and fast. Everyone was involved in some way, except for Jeanette. Curious passersby stopped to see how it would pan out, while the police were conspicuous by their absence at the very moment they were most needed. The volume was becoming unbearable and Jeanette decided to go. Not far, just towards the Money Box and Dalman Gate tower, where she would be able to slump down on the grassy slope until everything had calmed down.
The very moment she got up, she was floored by an elbow gone astray. When she came to, she was lying on her back on the asphalt path, her nose bleeding. The dispute had ceased and everyone’s attention was directed at Jeanette.
Both combatants were repentant and helped to move her into a semi-upright position on the bench. One of them, Lubbi, sat down with his arm around her neck and tilted her head back.
“Nanna is fetching ice from the Indian corner shop,” he said. “Sorry. We really didn’t mean it.”
“I know,” said Jeanette. “But there’s no bloody need to carry on like that at all.”
“Want some refreshment?” Lubbi asked in a transparent ploy to change the subject.
“Aren’t there lots of people standing around watching?”
“Who cares? Anyway, they’ve gone. The ambulance is on the way.”
“You’re joking?”
“I’m joking,” Lubbi confirmed with a hearty roar of laughter. “Here you go.”
Then he gently lifted her head and gave her a slug of vodka straight from the bottle. It might not have been exactly what she needed, but she didn’t decline it. It felt good to be fussed over; for once she was the focus of everyone’s attention. She leaned back again to stop the flow of blood.
“Here she comes, our very own Barbamama,” said Lubbi.
Nanna sat down on the bench on her other side. She had managed to procure a plastic bag of ice that she now applied to Jeanette’s nose.
“How does it feel?” she asked. “Does it hurt?”
“It’s working,” said Jeanette.
“Thank you for making peace between those two tearaways.”
“Did I?”
“You must have noticed,” said Nanna with a sneer at Lubbi. “Now they’re being nothing but doves of peace.”
Yet another guffaw from Lubbi. Jeanette laughed too and straightened herself on the bench.
“I think it’s stopped bleeding,” she said putting the ice pack down on the ground in front of her.
She looked around. Everything was back to normal. On the other benches they were sneaking swigs while bickering with each other. The spring flowers in the planters between the benches were resplendent in the hot sunshine. The birds sang and the air was finally warm. The perfect conditions for the life she was now leading.
People walked by with deliberate steps and airs of importance. Just a few years ago she had been one of them, someone who went to work every morning and came home with a bag of groceries in the evening. Someone who went to the gym and yoga, who took care of her health, her appearance, and other things like makeup and accessories. The bathroom tiles.
The anxiety that had temporarily left her in conjunction with the blow to her face returned. It couldn’t be cured, but there were two ways to deal with it in the short-term: tablets and alcohol. Both options were devastating in the long run. Her stomach was turning, her head spinning. She couldn’t take more right now; she would have to withstand the pain some other way.
“How are you, babe?” said Lubbi, putting a hand on her knee. “You’re ghastly pale.”
“I’m fine,” Jeanette lied.
“Perhaps we should have called an ambulance? You might have a concussion.”
“It’s not that, I promise. I’m just having a really shit day. In here,” she added, gesturing at her head.
And then the tears came. She felt stupid crying in front of all these people who really didn’t have it good either. But the tears welling up inside her couldn’t be stopped. It wasn’t a dramatic show, no sobbing, just a small and silent trickle of tears running down her cheeks.
But Lubbi saw. He put his arm around Jeanette again and pulled her close.
“What’s weighing heavy on your heart?” he asked pompously in an attempt to play down the situation.
“I miss home,” said Jeanette. “Miss everything I used to have before I became like this.”
“Like this?” said Lubbi. “You’re a good-looking girl, Jen. There’s nothing that needs changing about you.”
“I miss my daughter and my husband and our home and all our stuff. Not so much my job and . . .”
“Daughter?” Nanna interrupted. “You have a daughter?”
“You’ve never mentioned it before,” Lubbi agreed.
“Had,” said Jeanette in despair. “She died.”
“That’s shit,” said Nanna, putting her hand on Jeanette’s.
“I’m sorry,” said Lubbi.
He was quiet for a while before returning to the subject.
“I don’t want to dig around and open old wounds and all that, but if you want to talk then you’re welcome to. You might feel better?”
Jeanette wanted to talk, but hadn’t touched on the subject for a long time. She d
idn’t quite know where to start.
“She was called Charlotte,” she said simply.
“Beautiful,” said Nanna. “Beautiful name.”
“How old . . . was she?” Lubbi asked.
“She was four when it was diagnosed,” said Jeanette, wiping her nose with her sleeve. “Acute myelogenous leukaemia.”
“Leukaemia,” Lubbi repeated. “Fuck.”
“She was in pain, had bruises everywhere, infections that never went away, and she was always tired. She had treatment for almost two years. Chemotherapy. And then she had a bone marrow transplant. Nothing helped. Her kidneys stopped working and eventually she couldn’t cope any longer. She was six when she gave up. Almost nine years ago. She would have turned fifteen this year.”
No one said anything for a while. Lubbi held her tight and Nanna squeezed her hand. It felt a little better now that someone actually cared. It didn’t change what had happened, but in that moment she felt warmth from these people, of a kind she rarely experienced any longer.
“She suffered so much during those years,” said Jeanette when she had collected herself. “We suffered too—my husband and I. It was horrible standing by and being unable to do anything except be there for Charlotte. And eventually having to part from our child, to bury her . . . It’s indescribable.”
“How did he take it?” Nanna asked. “Your husband?”
“While Charlotte was still alive, we were strong together. Incomprehensibly strong, on reflection. One or both of us were always with her. We were united against the rest of the world, against disinterested healthcare workers and unsympathetic authorities. But when we lost Charlotte, everything that had kept us together vanished.”
“You got divorced?” said Lubbi.
“Not at once. We wore each other down for another five years. He struggled on, pretending everything was normal. I became increasingly blasé, got tired of our empty lives and our boring conversations. I long for those now. But at least we shared our grief after Charlotte died. We could have talked about it. I wanted to, but he kept all that difficult stuff at arm’s length and wanted to move on with his life, as he said. He was probably right—I’m a much weaker person.”
The tears began to flow more heavily. Jeanette snuffled and wiped the tears on the arm of her jacket. Lubbi and Nanna sat quietly, waiting for more.
“I met a guy at work,” Jeanette continued. “He was married with kids, but we started having an affair. We used to sneak off in his car in the afternoons. For a rendezvous. It felt grubby and deceitful, but you have to start somewhere. You can’t leave your old relationship headlong before you’ve at least tasted the new one.”
Lubbi opened a can of beer and passed it to Jeanette. She knew she shouldn’t, but she still drank from it. She offered it to Nanna too, but she declined, so Jeanette handed the can back to Lubbi and carried on with her tale.
“We talked about a future together. I was head over heels in love with him, ready to give up everything I still had. It didn’t seem like much then, but looking back . . . And it went to hell with the new guy. A complete disaster. I got depressed and had panic attacks. I was on sick leave and started taking tranquilisers. Drinking box wine. I stopped working out, stopped socialising with people, stopped talking to my husband. He didn’t know about the affair, but after six months or so he’d had enough of me and the awful state I was in. Completely understandable, but I didn’t care. To begin with. Until reality caught up and I saw this worn-out, skinny pisshead looking back at me in the bathroom mirror. It didn’t exactly relieve the fear of going back to work and normal everyday life.”
Both Nanna and Lubbi cast their gazes down, probably because they associated that more with their own dreadful existences than with hers. Neither of them disagreed, so they were backing her up in a way.
“What did I do then?” said Jeanette. “Did I pull myself together and stop using? No, I sank even lower. I’m useless and my life is one huge fiasco.”
The conversation was over. The others came over and the mood was broken, perhaps partly because Jeanette’s final words could be taken to apply to any one of them. Lubbi and Nanna were free to ignore their own failures, so what was it that drove Jeanette to brandish the truth in their faces? Did she feel deep down that she was superior to them?
She decided to express herself differently in future. Not to say disparaging things about herself that essentially encompassed the whole wretched gang on the benches by the East Gate.
11
Sandra
“MUM, WHY DON’T you want me to fight?”
Sandra was sitting in the armchair in her son’s room trying to read while Erik fell asleep. Not because he was afraid of being alone or the dark or needed company, but for her own sake. Sometimes it took a while for him to relax, in which case they would talk. About the book they had just read, or about something that had happened during the day. Sometimes about bigger things like outer space, the sea, and poverty, and often about everyday but equally fascinating things like buses, scarecrows, and electricity. Now it was apparently crime and punishment.
“Because hurting other people isn’t allowed,” Sandra replied. “It’s a crime that you go to prison for.”
“Igor isn’t in prison,” Erik retorted.
“We don’t put children in prison in Sweden.”
There was silence for a while before Erik continued.
“I don’t think it would be that bad to be in prison.”
Sandra had to stifle the laughter about to erupt within her. Goodness—where on earth had he gotten that idea from?
“It’s probably best if you avoid ending up in prison,” she said with a smile, pinching his cheek fondly. “Sleep tight, darling.”
Erik had a lot of thoughts and was good at expressing himself. He was early in many ways: he had already been walking by nine months and started talking at thirteen months. And he liked to talk a lot, bubbling with enthusiasm to say everything he thought and felt.
What a joy to have a son like this, Sandra often thought to herself. Reflective and empathetic, free-spirited and expressive. Rather a long way from her own personality, fortunately. She was uptight and scared. Didn’t look like much to the outside world: fat and clumsy, dull mousy hair and protruding teeth. The boys weren’t exactly queuing up, and it was something her parents refused to see and understand, whilst at the same time it disappointed them.
She didn’t get much reading done. Her thoughts wanted to stay in the real world with its many drawbacks as well as its bright sides. Erik was one of the best of these, and without him life would be barely worth living. She closed the book and studied him by the light of the reading lamp. What had she really given him? Apart from love and care? His colouring wasn’t hers, nor the body shape or the extrovert nature. But he’s good-natured, she thought, taking each day as it comes. And he wants the best for people.
Erik had fallen asleep now, so Sandra turned off the light and left the room. She tidied a little in the hall and the living room, having cleaned up in the kitchen after dinner. Then she sat down at the kitchen table with a cup of tea and a magazine, expecting her mobile to ring.
She was completely different on the phone. There she pretended she was someone other than who she was. First and foremost, she dared to think aloud and talk. She might not be that talented at keeping a conversation going, but periods of silence were also permitted. For most people, it was her ear that was most important, her patience and the brief comments. No one knew who she was or what she looked like; she hid behind a voice that sounded empathetic and experienced all at the same time. Or perhaps it was the opposite, that she didn’t need to hide behind that voice because it was her own.
This was something she often thought about. Whether, with a little mental effort, she could disregard her appearance and take the sting out of her anxiety when around people, instead playing the role of a woman standing on a cliff in the wind. She cared and supported, with mild admonishment recalibrating people wh
o had ended up in spiritual imbalance.
But no—no one could consciously suppress their fears and the knowledge of their own weaknesses.
Her mobile vibrated. Ellen was first up. Wonderful, cheerful Ellen, who most often saw the bright side of life. It was the same today, and her mood was infectious. There was a long account of a visit to the swimming baths followed by a request that Sandra talk about her day. She did—albeit taking care to maintain her privacy and being careful to avoid disclosing any identifying details about where she worked or lived. In Ellen she had nothing to fear, but sooner or later she was bound to be saddled with a psycho.
Then there were two calls from the same person about an hour apart. He introduced himself using different names and talked about completely different issues, however. Sandra pretended not to notice, approaching the problems with enthusiasm. The first was to do with a cancer diagnosis and the crisis that had followed it, the second about anxiety relating to something he feared might be considered domestic violence in the eyes of the law, but which was really just physical contact of the rougher kind.
Sandra thought she dealt with all of it well, particularly the second call when she strove not to judge but simply to get the man’s feelings about the whole thing straight. Strengthened by faith in her own objective therapeutic abilities, she took her second call from Kerstin just before midnight.
“I’m glad you’ve called again,” said Sandra.
She really did mean it; she had been looking forward to this call since their last one had ended. Kerstin said nothing.
“How are you?” said Sandra.
“So so,” said Kerstin with some hesitation.
“Do you know why?”
“What do you mean ‘why’?”
“Why don’t you feel all that good?”
“I have a sore throat,” said Kerstin.
“That sounds annoying. But it will pass,” said Sandra, who didn’t believe that Kerstin was calling Friends-on-call to discuss streptococcal infections.
