Bitter Bitch

by Maria Sveland

  There was a photo of Stevie as an eight year old, an incredibly cute boy with shy eyes, smiling and looking straight into the camera. The photo was like a reminder of who he might have been if he had grown up with love and not sexual abuse. And it was as if Stevie’s little sister was constantly holding on to that image of him. In the midst of all the misery, all the horror, she never forgot about Stevie the boy.

  And when I thought about her great achievement, I knew that reconciliation was possible for me, someone who had not been exposed to the assaults she had been through. Could I love and feel loved without ignoring or repressing all the damned injustices? Do I want to continue fighting and believing in change? Believe that it is possible to have an equal relationship? Maybe.

  The bus ride back to our ugly hotel followed the same winding, meandering roads. The ocean lay below us, its infinity filled with promises. I turned and smiled at the Åbo woman sitting behind me. She gave me a serious look and took a deep breath. Then she leaned forward and stroked my cheek. Her hand was dry and rough and filled with tenderness.

  I looked into her eyes. There was sadness there but also something else, something that had to do with survival and dignity. And there on the bus it came to me, suddenly and powerfully: a seriousness and a feeling of vital importance.

  This is what life was about, the ugly and the magnificent. My life. The revolution will not be televised. Thank goodness. But it was time for a change. Otherwise I did not want to be a part of it any more.

  MIDDLE OF THE NIGHT

  Isadora is standing in her hotel room in Paris, alone and afraid, studying her naked body and trying to remember who she is. She pinches her nipple, studies her round stomach and the flesh on her bottom and thinks that despite everything, that she likes her body. Then she catches sight of her notes which are lying in a happy pile on the floor and starts to read what she has written.

  And then a curious revelation started to dawn. I stopped blaming myself; it was that simple. Perhaps my finally running away was not due to malice on my part, nor to any disloyalty I need to apologize for. Perhaps it was a kind of loyalty I told myself. A drastic but necessary way of changing my life.

  You did not have to apologize for wanting to own your own soul.

  No. You should not have to apologize for wanting to own your own soul. But why is it so hard to be loyal to yourself?

  Sometimes Johan asks me if I am living the life I want to live. I rarely answer that question. My idea of a happy life contains so many contradictory desires that it is impossible to combine them. I want to dance more, love more, be with Sigge and Johan more, work more, see my friends more often, maybe take a painting class? Spend time at the summer house we do not own, read more books, change the world, write, have time to listen to music, have more time for exercise, have time to relax, have time to feel good …

  It is not that I am unhappy. My life is filled with moments when I feel pure joy, small torrents of happiness about the small and simple and fantastic, seeing Sigge running on the grass in the park, or seeing his concentration as he fills the bucket with sand. Feeling his warm body against mine and kissing his neck. Pure joy! And yet, if I look at the whole picture there is so much more I want, so much I want to change.

  Isadora continues to read and realizes that she does not want to go back to the marriage she describes in her notes. If she and Bennett are going to stay together, it will be under new conditions. And if not, then at least she has learned how to survive.

  She falls asleep happy and exhausted and wakes up when she feels blood gushing between her legs. She tries squeezing her thighs together but her period runs implacably in blackish-red lines along the inside of her legs, down on to the wall-to-wall carpet. When Isadora has finally found one of Bennett’s old T-shirts which she uses as a makeshift pad, the room looks like a crime scene. It is time to leave Paris and get to London and Bennett.

  I am reading this on my balcony at La Quinta Park. The sun has just disappeared behind the snow-covered top of the Mount Teide and an older man is swimming around and around in the pool below. He looks lonely and is swimming too hard, in a jerky, breathless way. It does not look as though he is enjoying his little dip; he is performing. I would like to give him a hug, teach him how to peel an orange. He could lie here and rest a while.

  I suddenly realize that I should have had my period several days ago. I even packed some tampons so I would avoid waking up like Isadora with blood running down my legs. My period almost always comes early in the morning, sometimes in the middle of the night, but never in the evening or during the day. But now, nothing. One more thing, my period is never late. I go and pee and look down at the paper for a long time. But there is not the slightest drop of blood to be seen, just a little yellow pee.

  I pour a glass of red wine and sit on the balcony and stare out into the darkness. I do not know how I should feel or what I should think. In any case, this was not the change I was thinking about on the bus this afternoon.

  The old man has finished his swimming session and is sitting in his robe, looking out into the darkness too. An older woman comes over and sits next to him. He puts his arm around her and she leans her head against his shoulder. It is amazingly beautiful and I feel my emotions well up and run over. I want to experience that obvious comfort as well. Be filled with peace and calm. Be assured that I am making the right choice. The idea of another child makes me cry even more. It is much harder to start a revolution with a second child.

  I cannot help but think about that grouchy old man God sitting up there in heaven, mocking me for having fallen for the most classic pitfall of womanhood, the one that gets women to give up and convince themselves that they are just downright grateful. This must be the punishment for my sunny daydreams about change here on Tenerife.

  Fuck.

  While I am crying I go ahead and let the old sadness overwhelm me too. I cry for what has been. For everything that became difficult and heavy when Sigge was born. It is still tender. It still hurts. We were so helpless, we could not help each other when we needed it the most. I need to move around so I put on my trainers and my hooded sweatshirt and go for a walk. There is a boardwalk with lighting along the seafront. It is filled with people and I hope the darkness will hide my swollen face.

  Down at the beach I see a man in a Bamse Bear outfit standing smoking a cigarette with a large Bamse Bear’s head under his arm. He is probably working for the Swedish travel agency, which has a family hotel with a Bamse Bear Club for the children. I stop for a moment and admire his seriousness, he is standing completely still, staring out over the dark ocean in thoughtful meditation. He is entirely unfazed by the fact that he is dressed as a cartoon character, unaffected by all of the people passing by on the paved boardwalk behind him. I want to be that cool and self-confident, unaffected even by a ridiculous costume!

  The cool evening breeze does me good and my thoughts slowly clear. I walk for a long, long time, until my legs start to ache. It is a pleasant ache that carries me away from all the sorrow and towards reality. There is a pier at the end that stretches out into the sea. I walk out on it and sit down and let the waves splash drops of salt water on my face.

  I wish Johan was sitting here now, holding me. I miss the closeness, his body. I miss our conversations. All of the late nights and evenings we have had during our eternity together, when we have talked, about everything. Beloved soulmate! No man has ever defended me so persistently, been so proud of me, so unafraid, loved me so much. Nor has any man hurt me as much, and disappointed me so infinitely.

  The idea of a new baby terrifies me. I am afraid of ending up in the same chaos as last time. A few hours ago I felt convinced of the change that needed to happen, but I do not know if I have the energy to scream my head off a second time. I am afraid of being disappointed, afraid of discovering that we have not learned anything from our mistakes.

  I do not know how long I have been sitting here on the pier but suddenly I hear voices coming clos
er. A middle-aged couple is walking towards me with determined steps.

  ‘Oh dearest! You shouldn’t sit here all by yourself!’ says the woman, crouching down next to me.

  ‘It can be really dangerous out here with the wind and the darkness! The stones get really slippery!’ The man says, continuing to stand.

  ‘It’s all right!’ I say. ‘I mean, I’m all right!’ My tear-filled voice probably reveals why my face is red and swollen. I know how red my face gets when I cry, even if it is just a few tears. Now I have been crying for several hours.

  ‘Really!’ I continue, when they do not reply.

  ‘Yes, well, let us walk you back to the street, darling!’ the woman says, and gives me her hand.

  I take it and try and give her a reassuring smile, and she gives me a small smile back. They give each other a meaningful look and I realize they thought I was thinking about taking my life. I suddenly remember a scene from the movie The French Lieutenant’s Woman, in which Meryl Streep stands on a pier just like this and is about to jump when she is rescued by Jeremy Irons.

  It makes me laugh out loud and the couple look at me and at each other, worried. I need to try and explain; they are so nice and seem to want to do the right thing. I do not want them to worry.

  ‘I was just thinking about love and life,’ I say, trying to sound as calm and collected as I possibly can, but aware that it confirms their suspicion rather than relieving it. I cannot help but laugh again when I see their wide-eyed stares.

  ‘I’m happy I promise you! It is just that I think I’m expecting another child and it brings back a lot of sad memories but also a lot of happiness!’

  The woman is still holding my hand and now she takes mine in both of hers and holds on tightly.

  ‘Oh dear girl!’ she says, and looks me in the eye.

  I realize that they are not going to give in, they really seem worried. So when they insist on buying me a cup of tea at the closest café I say yes. It was only a few hours ago that the Åbo woman stroked my cheek and now this. I wonder what signal I am giving off that makes older people want to take care of me? Maybe they see my longing?

  So here I am sitting at a café in the middle of the night with a middle-aged English couple telling them about my life, and listening to their love story. It confirms every romantic cliché, their story is middle class and forty-six years old. She has been a stay at home mother to their three children and he is a doctor. The children are grown up and they have four grandchildren and they come to Tenerife for two weeks each year. Their names are John and Mary.

  ‘Are you happy?’ I ask.

  John and Mary look at each other and laugh.

  ‘Dear girl!’ Mary says, and explains that happiness is relative and something you have to find within yourself.

  John agrees and says that he is happier now than he was thirty years ago. Back then he was stressed out about everything that needed to be done, his career and the children. Now he is taking it easy and enjoying life. Maybe it is easier to feel happy when you’re older, he says. Yes, maybe.

  I ask Mary if she was bored as a housewife. She gives me a serious look and says that was life back then. Sometimes she was bored but usually she just enjoyed watching the children grow and develop. But if she were young now she probably would have done things differently.

  ‘If I hadn’t been a housewife I would have wanted to be a lawyer. Law has always interested me,’ she says and explains that she studied law at the university when the children were older.

  ‘Aren’t you bitter then, about having to stay home instead of studying law?’ I ask her.

  She sits quietly for a while, thinking. ‘I regret some decisions I’ve made,’ she says, ‘but I don’t feel bitter. If I sat and sulked about everything I might have done I wouldn’t have the energy to go on living. I try to reconcile myself with how things have turned out and make up for it by doing the things I didn’t have time to do before.’

  ‘But what you’re saying now is exactly what I fear,’ I say. ‘I don’t mean to be rude, but I really don’t want to be sitting on Tenerife in thirty-five years, regretting my decisions! I want to make the right choices now!’

  Mary gives me a serious look. ‘Yes, but can you make the right choices now? If you can’t, and there are many of us who don’t always make the right choice, there’s still no point in sitting here in thirty years feeling bitter! You have to learn to live with the fact that sometimes you’re going to make mistakes.’

  John is leaning back in his chair smoking a cigarette and looking out over the ocean. Maybe he is satisfied that he did not have to give up having a job and a career? Or does he feel guilty about everything Mary has given up for him? I am afraid to ask because I have already pushed the boundaries of honesty with my questions.

  We sit there for a while, drinking our tea and talking about the trip to the parrot park John and Mary went on the other day. It was not worth the money, they say and smile at each other. John takes Mary’s hand in his and she lets it rest there. And maybe the bitter bitch inside me is hiding in some crevice, because right now when I see them like that it makes me feel warm all over. I do so want to believe in their love. In a few rare cases maybe love can be true and still be this conventional and splendid?

  John and Mary walk me back to my hotel and when we get there we give each other big, long hugs. They say that I must come and visit them in their seventeenth-century stone house in Windsor. I promise I will.

  In the middle of the night I am sitting on my balcony, listening to the ocean. It is crashing and shouting and I cover my legs with the blanket I’m wrapped in. I am a bit cold but I want to sit here a little while longer and think about love, the myth of love, about equality and life.

  And the children.

  A HETERONORMATIVE

  TWENTIETH-CENTURY ENDING

  Isadora arrives in London and makes her way to Bennett’s hotel and is allowed to go up and wait in his room. There she sees his jackets and ties hanging neatly in the closet, his slippers on the floor and his toothbrush properly placed by the sink.

  She recognizes the sorrow in there being no trace of her having left him. A pile of theatre tickets shows that he has seen every play on in London. He has not had a nervous breakdown or done anything crazy. He is the same old dependable, determined, disappointed Bennett. And then she does the same thing I have done every night this week. She runs a hot bath. The best quick therapy there is.

  I hugged myself. It was my fear that was missing. The cold stone I had worn inside my chest for twenty-nine years was gone. Not suddenly. And maybe not for good. But it was gone.

  Perhaps I had only come to take a bath. Perhaps I would leave before Bennett returned. Or perhaps we’d go home together and work things out. Or perhaps we’d go home together and separate. It was not clear how it would end. In nineteenth-century novels, they get married. In twentieth-century novels they get divorced. Can you have an ending in which they do neither?

  It is my last day on Tenerife. I spend the whole day in a deck chair by the pool, listening to country music and reading, sleeping, reading, dozing, reading and thinking about Isadora and her possible divorce. Yes, there are all sorts of possibilities, for me too. I do not need to keep this child if I do not want to. I can divorce Johan if I want to. I have complete freedom and complete choice over my own grand, small-minded life.

  The sun burns and I am sweating and I become happy when I realize what I both want and do not want.

  I want to have this child. I don’t want to divorce Johan. I really love him! Right now anyway, I am forced to add. I have the freedom to make other choices next week, next month, next year. But right now I realize that I am prepared to keep fighting. I want to keep fighting. I think I have the energy to argue and scream my head off one more time if need be. A stubborn and defiant feeling fills me: I want to have my cake and eat it too. It has to be possible.

  I watch the young families around the pool. Today none of the fathers happen
to be drinking Heineken and none of the mothers are screaming hysterically at their children, running around the pool. Every family has their own group of deck chairs which they have placed next to each other in a kind of pattern of belonging. It is moving to see how they are lying stretched out next to each other. Mum, Dad, children. Family.

  The woman in the cock-coloured outfit comes wobbling past my chair. She can also sit here with me and rest a while. I feel for her, but today when I see her I am also angry. She sits at a table by herself a little way off and orders a bottle of white wine. Her husband comes a minute or so later with a tennis racket in hand. He stops at her table and says something to her before he walks off to the tennis courts. She looks down at the table, embarrassed. They are always apart and whenever they run into each other they do so with public contempt. I remember Isadora’s words: you do not have to apologize for owning your own soul. You’re right Isadora. It’s your damned obligation. To own your own life.

  Dear, beloved woman with the mouth of an alcoholic and the cock-coloured outfit, you have to get a divorce before you drink yourself to death! Your husband is not going to help you! He is playing tennis while you sit here alone and unhappy. You have to fix this yourself!