by Ian Giles
“I cry a lot,” said Kerstin unexpectedly. “My husband died.”
“That’s very sad. Did it happen recently?”
“No, but it comes in waves. I think about how old I’m getting and how empty it will always be here in the house.”
How to answer this kind of statement? Loneliness was what callers to Friends-on-call had in common. But loneliness took on many different guises. Some felt lonely in a bad relationship, others were frozen out at school or work. Then there were those who were lonely in all ways—those who had no one to share their life with, no work to go to, no children or grandchildren. Some perceived themselves as lonely because they couldn’t think straight, or were unable to open up and let other people in.
“I could say things like ‘you’re no older than you feel’ or ‘there’s plenty more fish in the sea,’” said Sandra. “But I don’t know anything about you and your situation, so they would just be empty words. But perhaps you would like to tell me something about your husband. What was he like?”
“You still wouldn’t understand,” said Kerstin.
“When did he die?” Sandra asked instead.
“Four years ago. I waited and waited, but he never came back. I knew he was in the car, knew something had happened. I had spoken to him just before the accident, and he was supposed to be home soon.”
“A car accident? How terribly tragic.”
Indeed it was. But Kerstin was talking. She had uttered several sentences in a row of her own volition, talking about something that was surely the worst thing she had experienced. Just as Sandra had guessed, painful tragedy lay behind Kerstin’s broken voice and inability to share her thoughts. However, Kerstin was not alone in having lost a loved one, her life partner, in dramatic circumstances. She was one of many, and ought to be able to find support and comfort from people with similar experiences. But she had turned to Sandra—Sandra who had no comparable experiences of her own. Absurdly, she felt honoured, and was overcome with inexplicable tenderness towards Kerstin.
“He was missing for four days,” said Kerstin. “Do you understand?—for four days.”
“Missing?” said Sandra, who didn’t quite follow this.
“There was black ice and the car crashed into a ravine. He was stuck there for four days before someone found him.”
Now Sandra didn’t know what to think. If Kerstin had spoken to him just before the accident then the police with all their resources must surely have been able to locate him. What was more, surely the smashed-up car must have been visible from the road—another motorist must have asked themselves why there was a car down in the ravine.
“It took several hours for him to die,” said Kerstin, and Sandra now heard her voice cracking.
“How awful,” was all she could bring herself to say.
“According to the police, he was stuck there with a cracked skull and difficulty breathing for more than two hours before he died. And it was four days before they found his body.”
“Despite them searching?” said Sandra, who was beginning to feel physically sick as the picture of the horrible accident emerged with increasing clarity before her.
The receiver fell silent. The only thing audible were stifled snuffles.
“Despite them searching?” Sandra repeated, who really couldn’t believe the four days being mentioned.
“The car was quickly covered in snow,” said Kerstin. “It wasn’t visible from the road until it thawed four days later.”
“But still,” Sandra couldn’t stop herself from persisting. “You must have had some idea about roughly where he was, and the police have dogs and thermal cameras. I don’t understand why it took four . . .”
But Kerstin was gone. And Sandra was sat there with the mobile in her hand, staring blankly into space.
12
Jeanette
A NEW DAY and different but still familiar emotions were governing her. Jeanette felt better, but not well—she never did. But today the booze was like a peaked cap surrounding the brain with cotton, wrapping the body in a sense of well-being that was reminiscent of a soft and warm fleece blanket in front of a roaring fire. Here and now she was safe, surrounded by people who wanted the best for her and whom she cared about in return, screened off from all those people walking past with their vague outlines, their gazes neutral or contemptuous.
On days like this she didn’t care about them, all those people who lived real lives and hurried from work to the bank to home to kindergarten to the shops—from life to death. She couldn’t care less about their welfare, and even though she occasionally recognised some of them from her former life, she never let herself be depressed. Life was here and now, amongst those people who shared her daily existence, her joys and hardships.
She was still getting over the blow to the nose that had floored her the other day, the black eye that had now gone a shade of poisonous green. Her fellow companions in misfortune were treating her gently, showing a tenderness that she had not experienced for a long time, with gentle physical touches and soft words. She responded to the friendliness with heartfelt words and laughter that was infectious.
A day on the bench could be like that—and that was presumably what they all hoped for every day. The noisy but friendly atmosphere prevailed while the merciless reality remained at a safe distance and didn’t make any immediate or heavy demands.
This was the atmosphere Jeanette found herself in when a person—flesh and blood—took shape amongst the passersby on the asphalt path. Out of the fog of alcohol stepped a figure with a more distinct outline and something markedly recognisable about her. A woman of her own age, but not someone she knew from school or her job. Since she was unable to work out who the familiar face belonged to straight away, she tried to shake it all off, but something stopped her.
The woman was tall and slender with her blond hair tied in a long, loose ponytail that rested on one shoulder. She was wearing a skirt and blouse—office wear—but was relaxed, wearing comfortable shoes and not excessively elegant. She looked nice, Jeanette thought, with her old and rarely utilised eye for looks.
But who was she? For some reason, that woman who was now disappearing behind a car by the School Gate in the city wall meant something to Jeanette—she could feel it. But in what way?
She reappeared momentarily, before turning right to go through the gate onto Södra Murgatan, and shortly after that she was gone for good. Jeanette let her gaze rest on the point where the woman had disappeared, while her brain worked to get to the bottom of who she was.
“You’re a long way away, Jen,” said Lubbi, who seemed to have kept her under constant watch since the accident a few days before.
It was in that moment that she realised who the woman was. Of course—how could she have forgotten? Granted, she was more out of it than she had thought, which explained her relatively good mood, and the fact that it didn’t leave her now that she was thinking about things that she had been making an effort to forget.
“Did you see someone you knew?” Nanna asked as she paced back and forth just behind the bench on which Jeanette, Lubbi, and the brawler, Micki, were sitting.
“Not exactly,” Jeanette replied, still unable to draw her gaze away.
“An old lover?” Lubbi suggested.
Jeanette returned to the constricting reality around her and saw Nanna slap him on the shoulder and give him a stern look. But for some reason Lubbi’s question didn’t bother her. The sense of unease didn’t take hold of her conscience, and the blond woman’s appearance didn’t hurt either. Jeanette refused to let go of this exhilaration she felt in her body—she wanted to continue being at the centre of her friends’ attention and being watched by devoted eyes. And hearing her own voice.
Yes, that was exactly how it was. She wanted to talk and be taken seriously, in the same way as she had been when she had collapsed on the path after being hit in the face by a pointy elbow. When she had lost herself in bittersweet memories and felt the combined
support of her friends in her new life. This was why she replied honestly to Lubbi’s coarse question:
“My old lover’s wife.”
Maybe it wasn’t such a good idea to talk about these things while so inebriated, but there were greater forces within her encouraging her to go the other way.
“The one you gave everything . . . up for?” Lubbi guessed with a degree of sensitivity in his voice that hadn’t been there a moment before.
“You remember?” Jeanette smiled at him.
“Of course.” Lubbi smiled back. “You loved him and I love love. So was that his wife? You don’t really know her?”
“I don’t know her at all, but I recognise her,” Jeanette replied, pulling out a bottle of cheap, sweet wine from the backpack on the ground in front of her.
“Why did it end between you?” asked Micki, who had missed the whole introduction a few days earlier.
“Because it went to hell, Micki,” Lubbi said helpfully. “Like relationships often do.”
And that was as true as could be, but Jeanette was ready to give them some more.
“He disappeared,” she said, twisting the cap and taking a swig from the bottle. “One day he was suddenly gone.”
The others didn’t appear to know whether to interpret the information literally or whether she was paraphrasing the sad end to a relationship, but Kat—one of the more boisterous people in the group—squeezed herself onto the bench between Micki and Lubbi and began asking questions.
“Poof!” she said, snapping her fingers. “Magic!”
“You’re joking, Kat,” said Jeanette, who wasn’t in the mood to bandy words about. “But he really disappeared. It was in the papers with big headlines. His family appealed for help.”
“But you didn’t, because you knew where he was,” Kat laughed.
Kat didn’t know how right she was, but Jeanette wasn’t willing to go that far with her story.
“You finished the bloke off and dumped him in the sea,” Kat said. “And I’m sure he deserved it!”
“Stop it, girl,” Lubbi warned. “Let Jen tell those of us who are interested what happened next.”
Jeanette passed her the bottle. Kat wasn’t hard to please.
“There is no what happened next,” Jeanette observed. “There’s still no trace of him.”
She lit a cigarette and took a long first drag on it.
“So the chick who passed by here a while ago,” said Lubbi, “is she still married to the guy even though no one has heard from him in—what did you say? Five years?”
“Four years. And four months.”
“And the kids must be getting big because you did say there were kids in the mix, didn’t you?”
“Yes, two.”
“That he won’t see grow up. Or is choosing not to. What do the police think? Is he alive or is he dead?”
“They obviously think he’s dead,” said Jeanette, blowing smoke from the corner of her mouth. “He hasn’t left a trace. He went to work as usual one day and disappeared at lunchtime. No one has seen him since then.”
“And what do you think?” Micki asked.
“I don’t think anything,” Jeanette lied. “Life goes on. For me and for her, who just passed by.”
“But you seem to have taken it harder,” croaked Kat, handing back the bottle. “What with you sitting here on the bench with a bottle of fucking Rosita!”
Then she laughed hoarsely, making her stomach bob and shaking the whole bench. But Jeanette wasn’t prepared to let this moment of togetherness slip through her fingers. That loudmouth wasn’t going to ruin a day that had begun so well.
“She has the children to live for,” she said seriously. “I have nothing.”
“Then you’ll just have to have kids,” Kat clucked cluelessly. “It’s not too late.”
At this, Lubbi heaved himself up from the bench to drag away an unsympathetic Kat, snarling under his breath.
“Is that how you feel?” Micki asked, taking a step closer to Jeanette. “That your life was over when that slouch headed for the hills? Or snuffed it—whatever it was he did.”
“Jen lost her daughter before that,” Nanna clarified in a soft voice behind Jeanette’s head.
“Oh bloody hell,” said Micki. “Now I understand what just happened. Sorry, Jen. Really.”
“Thanks,” said Jeanette, taking a final drag and stubbing the cigarette out under her shoe. “Sometimes I feel like that, but not today. It partly depends how it settles in your brain—the booze, I mean.”
She took another swig from the wine bottle and put it back in her bag. Lubbi returned, pushing Kat in front of him.
“Sorry Jen,” she said dismally, gently touching Jeanette’s shoulder. “I didn’t know . . . You know I didn’t mean anything by it?”
Jeanette nodded.
“It’s fine,” she reassured her, whereupon Kat dejectedly slunk away and Lubbi sat back down on the bench.
“Your old man,” he said, leaning forward with his hands clasped between his knees so that he could look her in the eyes. “Your ex-husband, I mean. Are you still in touch?”
“No, we’re not. We text each other on Charlotte’s birthday, that’s all. And on her death day too,” she added more quietly, although she didn’t really want to think about it.
“You were married,” Lubbi argued. “You went through a tough time together. I don’t understand how he could let you go so completely. Why didn’t he try to help you get back on the right track, if you see what I mean. Does it upset you—me saying that? Should I shut up?”
Jeanette smiled at him. No, she wasn’t upset, and she didn’t want Lubbi to shut up. But his questions weren’t the easiest to answer.
“It was a mutual decision to go our separate ways,” she said in defence of her husband. “He couldn’t put up with me—seeing me in the state I was in—nor could I. It was me who was lying and deceitful and betraying and couldn’t look myself in the mirror. Or him in the eyes. He didn’t do anything wrong.”
“You can’t be sure of that,” said Lubbi without a hint of irony. “Perhaps it was your old man who got rid of him. Your lover, I mean.”
At first, Jeanette thought he was joking, but she saw from his serious expression that this wasn’t the case. Laughter bubbled up inside her, but she didn’t want to hurt Lubbi. Instead she looked down at her tightly clenched hands and took a couple of deep breaths.
“He’s a good person—my ex-husband,” she clarified. “I want nothing except for him to be happy. I set him free because he deserved that, because he deserved a new chance.”
Lubbi reached across Micki and put his hand on her knee. The warmth spread through the denim and into her tepid body.
“You do too, sweetheart,” he said. “Give yourself a second chance. Leave this life. Stop boozing. See a counsellor. Do something.”
And of course she could have done all that, but the rot within her had reached the point of no return. The putrid and tainted thing that was her soul could not be saved either by self-help or therapy.
13
Sandra
ERIK WAS ALREADY ASLEEP and Sandra was also tempted to go to bed. It had been a long day, and after the health and development review at preschool all she had wanted to do was cry. “Erik is certainly advanced verbally, but that doesn’t mean he can dominate the other children however he likes. Little Igor, who is not as advanced in his development, felt crushed and that he needed to be seen and heard too. Biting is naturally not a good way to resolve conflicts, but nor is Erik’s bullying, and as for a bite mark here or there—what does it matter, when a mental sucker punch so easily leaves its marks on the spirit and brain? The bruise will fade and disappear, but little Igor’s self-confidence isn’t as resilient—Erik’s verbal terrorising might leave its mark for life. More physical emotional behaviour can be dealt with—it leaves visible traces and is more honest. The psychological violence that Erik uses is far more refined, and harder both to discover and to deal with.�
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Bullying and psychological violence? Erik was a friendly soul who liked to talk. He would never resort to physical violence, but if someone jumped on him, if someone hit or bit him, then of course he would respond. With words. Sandra knew that “little Igor” was in Erik’s face all the time, and that Erik was trying to defend himself. She also knew that the principal, who had a grandchild rather like Igor and of a similar age to the boys, struggled to tolerate Erik’s “advanced” nature, as she described it when she was at her friendliest. Mostly, she referred to him as being “little but old,” which sounded disparaging without being an actual insult that anyone could criticise her for using.
Igor was used to getting his way and used his fists if he didn’t, and his parents were idiots. (Who even called their child Igor? Someone cheerfully looking forward to the impending Russian invasion of the island?) The head of school was a manipulative cow. Nevertheless—or perhaps precisely because of that—Sandra had, as usual, simply sat there and listened without making any objections. Of course she would speak to Erik and of course she would try to tone down his “cockiness” and remove those so-called bullying tendencies. That was what she had said, but not what she was planning to do. Erik was no bully; he was empathetic and considerate, and she would never dream of imprinting on him those characteristics that she most hated about herself.
She was ashamed. Sandra didn’t want to be a weak parent who couldn’t stand up for her child. It would have been wonderful to share parenthood with someone, but things were the way they were, and she couldn’t very well bring her father to parents’ meetings at preschool. Or her mother, which would make no difference anyway since her mother was almost as compliant as she was.
She took off her trousers, which despite being elastic had sat so tightly on her waist that they had left a deep mark. Then she took off her tunic, which wasn’t too tight but concealed a bodysuit that at best redistributed the rolls of fat. It fit so tightly that she could barely take a deep breath, so it came off too. Then she put on her tracksuit bottoms and a gigantic t-shirt which she felt free in. She did all of this in front of the full-length mirror in the bedroom without casting so much as a glance at her reflection. She rarely did.
