by Karin Fossum
“I want to come too,” Eddie said swiftly. He didn’t like the white envelope and his mother’s evasive eyes.
“No, I’ll go on my own,” she said. “You don’t need to hold my hand. I’m a big girl now.”
“I know. I just thought you might like the company.”
She shook her head and put the letter down. She couldn’t look her son in the eye.
The shelves were filled with books and there were great piles of paper everywhere. Bromann was sitting on a high-backed chair. He had a large melancholy face and some thinning tufts of fine white hair. When Mass entered his office, he got up to greet her.
“Please, sit down,” he said kindly. “We have a lot to talk about.”
She put her handbag down beside the chair and waited for the judgment.
“So, Thomasine,” he started, “you have had a series of tests done, and you are probably quite tired of it all. And no doubt a little confused.”
“Yes,” she said, “I’m exhausted.”
“But we had to make sure it was a thorough examination, and we’ve found a number of things. I’ll go through them one by one and will try not to use too much terminology, so you can understand.”
She didn’t say anything. She realized that something was about to happen, something she had always feared.
“First of all, you have jaundice,” he said. “You have pains in your stomach and you’ve lost weight. You also have pain in your back, which is worst when you are lying down. Your blood counts are all over the place. And we noticed something in your bones when we did the MRI scan. And the ultrasound.”
“Gosh, that doesn’t sound good,” Mass said in an anxious voice.
“Well, it isn’t entirely good,” Bromann said and looked her straight in the eyes. He didn’t blink.
Mass noticed the most absurd things: that his glasses were smeared, that there was a dent on the bridge of his nose. She felt as if she were standing on the shore and a wall of water was rushing toward her.
“I’m afraid I have to tell you that you have full-blown cancer of the pancreas,” he said.
Mass gasped. “You mean tumors? Malignant?”
“Yes. Several of them.”
“But they can be taken out?”
“I’m afraid not.”
“Why not?”
“Normally, we can operate,” he told her, “but not in this instance.”
“But dear God, why not?”
He sank into his high-backed chair. “Because unfortunately it has already spread to your bones. You have been ill for a long time without realizing it. This particular cancer has only a few and rather diffuse symptoms.”
The tidal wave engulfed her. In a matter of seconds, she understood she was going to die. She thought she might collapse on his desk and Bromann would gather her up in his strong arms.
“But what about Eddie?” she sobbed. “He can’t cope alone.”
“Your husband?”
“No, he’s gone. I’ve only got a son. He lives at home with me because he needs help and he’s on disability.”
Bromann nodded. The sympathy he felt for the woman sitting opposite him who was soon to die was in danger of making him lose his professionalism.
“What is his diagnosis?”
“He doesn’t have one,” Mass wailed. “But he can’t work. He’s incapable; he doesn’t fit in. But he manages fine at home with me.”
“Can you tell me what sort of things he can do and what he can’t?”
“He’s very slow and cautious, but his brain is good. He gets anxious when I leave the house. When he was small, he suffered from separation anxiety, and he’s still frightened of strangers even now. He seldom goes out. He’s twenty-one years old and he will live at home with me until I die. And now you’ve told me that I’m just about to die. Because that is what you’re telling me, isn’t it?”
She looked at him in desperation. “Can I not have a marrow transplant?”
“No,” Bromann said. “I’m afraid it’s too late.”
“But when am I going to die, then?”
“I understand why you ask. The cancer is quite far advanced, but you know, even doctors can be wrong. You will be given chemotherapy.”
“And then I’ll lose my hair?”
“Do you think that’s so bad?”
“No, I’ve never been that vain. But Eddie will be scared.” She picked up her handbag, opened it, and looked for a tissue. She didn’t have any, so she put the bag down again. “Is it a matter of months? Or maybe a year?”
“We would normally reckon on three to six months. But in your case, unfortunately, it may be sooner.”
Mass sat with her eyes closed. She was sinking, sinking, sinking. Eddie alone in the house, it would never work. He had no concept of cleaning. Would he even be able to make himself food?
She felt sick. Her mouth was dry. “Can I die at home?” she asked in a faint voice.
“Yes,” Bromann said. “If that’s what you want, but it won’t be easy. You will be supported by the palliative care unit at the hospital. They will visit you at home. And as far as your son is concerned, we’ll make sure he gets all the help he needs from the social care services. We’ll send a request to the council as soon as possible.”
“No,” Mass said wildly. “You don’t know what he’s like!”
He asked if she had someone she could talk to, other than her son. She said no. She got up, but her legs would scarcely carry her.
“What am I going to say to Eddie?”
Bromann followed her to the door. “You have to tell him the truth. Don’t leave him in the dark. Given what’s coming, you have to work together. And you might have important things to say to each other.”
When Mass finally got home, she found Eddie on the sofa under a blanket. An old American film was flickering on the TV screen. He was eating an enormous chocolate bar. She dropped her handbag on the floor and disappeared into the kitchen, where she opened a cupboard. She got out a glass and filled it with ice-cold water. Her mouth was like sandpaper and she swallowed it down in greedy gulps. She filled the glass again and sat down at the kitchen table.
“Were the tests OK?” Eddie asked from the doorway. He stood there looking at his mother with big eyes.
“Yes, yes,” Mass reassured him, without looking at him. “I’m anemic and my ESR is high. I need to take some medicine,” she mumbled. “Let’s make supper.”
She stood up and opened the fridge and took out a package of three pork chops. Two for Eddie, one for her. As they ate, she suggested that they drive up to Geirastadir Church to tend to Eddie’s grandparents’ grave. He was eager to go. It was April now and they could finally plant some flowers because the snow had melted and there was some warmth in the sun. They stopped at the garden center on the way. Eddie carried the box with four small plants out to the car and then they drove up to the churchyard. Mass walked between the graves, breathing through her mouth—she couldn’t get enough air. She would be lying here herself in a few weeks. She couldn’t believe it. Eddie followed her with the plants, and she carried the trowel. They were going to plant the flowers. She kept her eyes on the slab path. She looked down at her feet, as if they somehow were not hers anymore.
“Look at that!” he exclaimed when they got to the grave. Mass looked in horror at the heavy tilting stone with her parents’ names on it. She put down the trowel and went over to it. She placed her hands on the stone to see if it would move. It didn’t.
“What are we going to do if it falls?” Eddie asked, appalled. “Do you think someone has pushed it?”
“I can’t imagine why they would; it just happens sometimes. We can talk to the sexton.”
Mass plumped down on her knees and pressed the trowel into the ground with considerable force. Earth, she thought, darkness. In a few years, only bones left. Eddie lifted the blue flowers out of the box and held them up to his nose; they smelled sweet. When the plants were in place, Mass stood up with her hands on t
he small of her aching back. Even though she wasn’t in front of a mirror, she knew she was pale.
“There’s no way that’s just from cleaning,” Eddie said.
Mass gave a brave smile. Then they went back to the car. They fastened their seat belts and drove home. Mass’s head was teeming. She knew she didn’t have much time and there was so much to be done while she still had the energy.
32
August 2005
SEJER AND SKARRE told Henny Hayden about the red car that had been observed near the crime scene. She had already read about it in the papers, which she pored over every day now.
“Do you know if anyone in Bonnie’s circle of friends and acquaintances drove a red car?”
“I’m afraid not,” she replied. “And in any case, I really don’t think it’s anyone who was close to Bonnie. Goodness, who would it be?”
“Well, we’ll see,” Sejer said. “We’ll keep you updated.”
“So you think the red car is a clue?”
“Yes, I suppose so.”
“But no one saw who was sitting inside?”
“Yes, there was one sighting, when the driver got out of the car. And there’s something about the man that interests us.”
“What’s that then?”
“The way he was dressed made him stand out. And he was seen walking down toward Skarven.”
“You mean on the day they died?”
“Yes, and around the same time.”
“But tell us how you are,” Skarre said in a concerned tone. “Do you have good friends who can support you?”
“Yes, I have some very good friends. But I can’t face talking to them at the moment, so I haven’t been in touch. And they don’t know what to say to me; they can hardly look at me. When I bump into them in the store they look the other way and try to avoid me.”
“You mustn’t underestimate them.”
“I don’t, I just can’t face it!”
“And what about Henrik, how is he?” Sejer inquired.
“We’re losing him more and more,” she said. “I don’t know what to do.”
There wasn’t much the two men could do to comfort her. So instead they asked some more questions about Bonnie because they realized that it was her daughter she wanted to talk about.
Did she have any particular interests in the period before she died? Did she mention anything unusual, anything that made you think? Or was she worried about anything?
“No, nothing. And if there was, she didn’t say anything to me. She was often worried about Simon because he was such a nervous child. She was concerned for the old people that she looked after every day. And for her father.”
“And what about the people we’ve already spoken to,” Skarre asked, “for example, her ex-partner, Olav? You haven’t remembered anything that might be of interest? She took the breakup very badly and could hardly bear to see him.”
“That’s just the way Bonnie was. When she got attached to someone, it was till death do us part.”
Sejer noted her use of the words “till death do us part.”
“She had been betrayed once before,” Henny told them. “But she was only a teenager then. It was her first boyfriend and she was over the moon. She stood in front of the mirror all the time and we weren’t used to that. But then, he finished it. And she was devastated, inconsolable.”
“Did you know him?”
“No, she never brought him home. I thought that perhaps it was because Henrik was so strict. He thought she was far too young to have a boyfriend. Sometimes I got the feeling that he was just waiting for it to be over, and then he could relax again. You know what fathers are like.”
“Do you remember his name?”
“Jørgen.”
“Did he ever contact her again?”
“Not that I know of. He simply disappeared into the big blue. Just like Olav.”
Sejer suddenly thought of something. “She was a teenager when she developed anorexia,” he said. “Did you ever connect that with the breakup? With Jørgen?”
“Yes, I did, as a matter of fact. But at the time we were just relieved that she’d managed to get over it without any lasting damage and started to eat again. We fretted that she might not be able to have children because the doctors had spoken to us about that. You know, because of the illness. Malnourishment. But then after some years, she had Simon. Sometimes having a child can give us new life.”
33
April 2005
ONE DAY, BONNIE HAYDEN received a letter. She stood by the mailbox and studied it because she didn’t often get letters and this was fortunately not a bill—at least, she didn’t think it was. She felt immediate relief. It was a rather fancy yellow envelope, and on the bottom left-hand corner it said in blue script “Falck Law Firm.”
Lawyers? She did a double take. She had no idea what lawyers might want with her. For some reason, it made her feel uneasy. She went back to the steps where Simon was waiting, unlocked the door, and went in. She put the letter down on the kitchen table. At first she wanted to rip it open, but then she got nervous. There was something ominous about a letter from a law firm. Why did they want to get in touch with her? She sat down in a chair and looked at the envelope in her hands. Simon was standing in the doorway watching her.
“Do we have to pay more money?” he asked anxiously.
“I don’t know,” was her curt reply.
“Open it.”
“Later. Let’s have something to eat first.”
She put the letter on top of the fridge and started to make supper. After they had eaten, they cleared the table and settled down on the sofa. Bonnie held the letter up to the light, as close as she could to the bulb, in an attempt to read the message. But the writing inside the envelope remained unintelligible black scribbles. Eventually she tore open the envelope and read the letter.
With reference to the death of Erna Margrethe Vibe on March 17 this year, and her signed and attested will, you are requested to attend our offices at your earliest possible convenience. Please call to make an appointment.
Yours sincerely,
Christian Falck
The full address and business hours were given at the bottom.
Bonnie lowered the letter into her lap. It was certainly unexpected. But Erna’s will, what could that mean? She had only worked for her—they weren’t related. She was struck by an amusing thought: perhaps she had inherited something, some coffee cups or silverware. If it’s silverware, I’ll sell it right away, she thought with a smile. Simon saw his mother smiling. It was time for her to read him a bedtime story.
That night, Bonnie lay awake thinking about Erna. She had sometimes wondered if the old woman actually belonged in a mental hospital of some kind, what with the socks on the furniture legs. Whatever the case, she had children and they would be her legal heirs. When she eventually fell asleep, she dreamed about Alex, whom she had grown so fond of in such a short time. And she was getting pretty good at chess. She hadn’t managed to beat him yet, but she had promised herself that one fine day she would.
The Falck offices were in Engene. Bonnie stood outside and looked in through the arched windows. She was wearing her good clothes and smelled of Chanel No. 5. The doors were made from oak and had heavy brass doorknobs. When she entered the waiting room, she walked across the thick carpet and sat down in a nice leather chair. There were paintings and diplomas on the walls and several healthy-looking plants in the windows. She had been thinking of Erna all day. She wasn’t the first client she had lost, but she had been one of the most difficult—the one she always dreaded going to most. As she sat there and waited, she started to feel ashamed. What did she know about getting old? She might become an old battle-ax herself when the time came. If it ever does, she thought, because not everyone lives to be that old. She took a box of IFA lozenges out of her bag and popped one in her mouth. When Christian Falck opened his door, she was amused to see that he looked a bit like the man on the IFA box, the opera si
nger Ivar F. Andersen. He might break into an aria at any moment. He seemed like a nice man, tall and dark and well dressed. He was a good deal older than she was. She crossed the thick carpet again, her sandals sinking into the deep pile. It felt like she was swaying. She shook his hand and followed him into a very grand office. She had never seen such a desk or such beautiful leather chairs; they were black with dark wood. On the desk, a green lamp gave off a soft glow.
“Now, I’m sure you’re wondering why I wrote to you,” he said.
“Yes. To be honest, it made me a little nervous,” Bonnie admitted. “I thought that maybe someone was after me.”
“You have no reason to be nervous,” he said. “You knew Erna far better than I did. But I understand from her family that she could be rather difficult. I believe it was you who found her?”
“Yes,” Bonnie said. “She was in the bathroom. I don’t know what the cause of death was, but she had hit her head. I went to the funeral because I felt I should.”
“Did you talk to her family?”
“No, I’d never met them. They wouldn’t have known who I was and there were so many people there. I didn’t go to the reception afterward either because I had to get to a client.”
“And when you lose one client, you are immediately given a new one?” Falck asked.
“Yes, you can say that again. We’ve got long waiting lists.”
She looked around the office. There were shelves and shelves of books, and lots of plants that were far nicer than her own. She spotted a fern, a Swiss cheese plant, and a succulent.
“Now, let me tell you why I’ve asked you here,” Falck said with a smile. “Not everyone writes a will, but Erna Vibe certainly had. It was done long before she died and is very detailed. And signed by several legal witnesses, so no one can contest it. Because, as I’m sure you know and have heard, that does sometimes happen. Inheritance is not to be taken lightly. And the fact is that you are a beneficiary of Erna’s will.”
“I see,” Bonnie said, shaking her head. She had never felt loved by Erna in the way that she did by Gjertrud.
