When they told her she was to move to live with her uncle in London she had no questions. It meant nothing. She would do as they said; it made no difference whatsoever. They could send her anywhere, ask her to do anything. She had no will. She had no wishes. She wanted nothing.
For they had taken Daniel from her.
It was her punishment; she was certain of that now. And she deserved it. What she had done was too awful ever to be mentioned.
That was why nobody had asked the right questions. Not even when they had just found them. Daniel and Marianne.
Mrs Andersson first.
Marianne had been there in the cot holding Daniel tightly. She could hear Mrs Andersson screaming. Running out into the stairwell and knocking on the neighbours’ doors. Hear the doors banging and people running in and out. All the while she stayed where she was.
Even later, when Mrs Andersson crouched down and reached through the bars and stroked Marianne’s hair, she burrowed her head in Daniel’s back and refused to look up. She didn’t want to see the look on Mrs Andersson’s face. She could hear her sobbing. Mrs Andersson was weeping and it was the saddest sound Marianne had ever heard. Because Mrs Andersson should not cry, not her. It was horrible to have to listen to her weeping. When Daniel stirred, Mrs Andersson stood and bent down over the cot. She stretched out her arms and gently loosened Marianne’s. Then she lifted Daniel and left the room with him in her arms.
It made no difference that Marianne screamed and screamed. When Mrs Andersson came back Daniel was gone. Mrs Andersson lifted Marianne out of the cot and carried her to the chair by the window. She sat down with Marianne in her arms and she gently rocked her. She didn’t speak, but she hummed and hushed quietly. Marianne huddled up till she was very small. A very small child. She wept into Mrs Andersson’s chest. And Mrs Andersson wept too.
But it didn’t help of course. There was no help to be had.
Later, when they came to collect her, all those people with their sad little smiles, then she wept no longer. Then she stopped speaking too, because that didn’t help either. They had taken Daniel, and nothing could change that. She cried when they took her nightgown, because it had a little of Daniel. Then she had no more tears.
She had nothing. There was nothing left. Not even Marianne herself.
And since nobody talked about that night, it felt as if it kept growing, getting bigger every day. In the end it was all there was. It covered everything and made it impossible to see anything else properly. Made it impossible to feel anything. Whatever she saw, whatever she heard, it came through that night. Everything around her felt distant and unimportant. At first she had hoped that someone would ask the right questions. That she would be allowed to tell. She had hoped it in the same way a drowning person hopes. That someone would see her. Pick her up. Understand. And help her to understand. Help her to learn to breathe again. But nobody asked anything. They just smiled, their heads cocked. They patted her head. Promised her that everything would be all right. But how could it be? The only question they asked was how she felt inside. But that was the wrong question. That question had no answer.
They promised her that all would be fine. That is what people do when they know it is impossible.
In the end she came to think that perhaps they just didn’t want to know. That what she had done was so awful that they could not bring themselves to talk about it. That what she carried inside her was as disgusting as vomit. It was understandable that nobody wanted to go anywhere near it. No, it was hers, all hers, and she had to keep it inside her. Nobody ever said a word about that which filled her completely. Then, when she was still Marianne, it was all that was inside her. Day and night. In her dreams. All the time. But around her there was only silence. They all looked away. And when they looked at her, they smiled, though there was nothing that would make anybody smile. There was no hope, she realised that.
Later, when she was no longer Marianne, it was as if she had drowned and returned empty.
Nobody ever told her where Daniel had gone. Everything would be fine, they said, but how could it be? When she no longer had Daniel? When he no longer had Marianne? How could anything ever be fine again?
She has no questions now. For she doesn’t care. She wants to know nothing.
She looks out the car window, but all she can see are glimpses of roofs and treetops between pillars of grey concrete. She feels really sick: there is something inside that wants out. For the rest of the trip all she can do is try to hold it back. But eventually she falls asleep.
She wakes up to find Brian carrying her up the front steps of a white house.
‘Marianne,’ he says softly. And she knows that she has come home. But when Brian says her name it doesn’t sound like Marianne. It sounds different and new. It sounds like Marion. She listens to it and she likes it, embraces it. ‘Marianne’ she locks up deep inside. And now it feels better, as if she has been allowed to take off something that has been hurting and chafing for a long time. She thinks that perhaps she will be able to live here, somehow. One day at a time. In English, being Marion. And Marion cautiously puts one arm around Brian’s neck while they walk up the front steps of the large white building.
It is not until late that evening, when she is lying in a strange bed listening to unfamiliar sounds that she turns onto her stomach, buries her head in the pillow and finally cries.
For her brother. And for herself. For Marianne.
But it was chronological order I was after. I realised that even half-asleep my mind kept making its selections. Skipping the most difficult pictures. As if even now they were too hard.
The morning was bright and clear. The light flooded the room with a harshness that exposed everything.
I had to face the day.
16.
I knew he was not in the house. Had I willed him to run away? Or was it my impotence that had forced him to?
It was just after six. As I stood in the kitchen waiting for the kettle to boil I looked out the window.The wind was blustery, and light clouds stretched across the sky like cotton gauze. The sea looked grey and impenetrable in the early morning light.
I sipped the scalding tea and kept my eyes on the view.
I had no idea what to do.
I opened the door and went out to sit on the deck. Seagulls were squawking high above. They glided casually across the sky but the sound was piercing and shrill, as if calling attention to imminent disaster.
I went back inside. And then I called George.
He answered almost immediately, and I stopped short before I had even started. I stammered a few incoherent sentences before he quickly stopped me.
‘Come over here, it is easier to talk face to face,’ he said.
When I drove up to his house a few minutes later he was waiting on the front steps. On the way I had realised how early it was and as I stepped out of the car and walked up to him I watched for signs that he was annoyed at having been woken. But all I noticed was that his hair was wet, and that he had missed a button on his shirt. He smiled briefly and stepped aside, gesturing for me to come inside.
His house was nothing like what I had expected. I supposed I must have had some kind of idea of it, since it surprised me a little. It somehow felt as if it didn’t belong in its surroundings. The house took me aback, yet at the same time it felt familiar. Cosy and somehow comforting. As if I had stepped into another, safer world.
I followed George into the kitchen and sat down on the chair he pulled out for me. I accepted a cup of coffee and watched his back as he prepared it. He moved without hurry, confidently and precisely. The coffee was strong and very good.
I searched for the words to tell him why I was there, but I realised I didn’t quite know myself. I didn’t know why I was there, nor what I expected him to be able to do.
In the end he spoke first.
‘Let’s take it one step at a time,’ he said. ‘You told me he has run away.’
I nodded.
&nbs
p; ‘Yes, he overheard his grandmother ring last night. And I know it upset him terribly. He cried. I have never seen him cry before. I promised him I would find a way to prevent her taking him back. I said I would think of something.’
I looked at him, and for the first I time I noticed what he looked like. Until then he had been just a concept. My neighbour George, inseparable from the car he drove, the house he lived in, the land he owned. But here in the bleak morning light the individual features of his face suddenly became clearly visible. Brown eyes with a narrow yellow rim around the pupil. A long, arched nose. A wide brow with distinct horizontal wrinkles. Short grey hair, thinning on top. The hands on the table in front of him were large, but they didn’t look like a farmer’s hands. The fingers were long and the nails well kept, shining white against the darker skin.
‘But when you don’t believe your own words they don’t sound very convincing, do they? I simply have no idea what to do. And Lola is expecting to pick him up today.’
George clasped his hands and looked down at them for a moment.
‘I don’t think you need to worry about the boy for now,’ he said slowly.
When he looked up at me he didn’t quite smile, but it felt as if he did.
‘You understand what I mean, don’t you?’
I nodded. Ika was safe. George knew where he was.
‘I thought it would be best that you just know that he is safe,’ he said, and I nodded again. ‘If she appears today, it might be good that you don’t know where he is.’
I understood what he was thinking, and I was moved by his consideration.
‘It is the long-term solution we need to look at,’ he continued. ‘You really need to contact Child, Youth and Family.’
I nodded again, because he was only saying what I already knew. What I had known all along.
‘Let me make a phone call and see if I can help you set up a meeting.’
It was not yet seven o’clock and I was surprised when he walked over to the kitchen counter where his mobile was charging. He grabbed it and left the kitchen as he punched in a number. I could hear him talking in the adjoining room but I could not discern the words. It took a while and I looked around the generous kitchen. It was well equipped and cosy. Not a bachelor’s kitchen. It wasn’t new, but everything was in good condition and it gave the impression of being solid and well kept. It looked lived in. Abruptly, I realised how bare and neglected my own kitchen was.
Then George returned.
He sat down and put the phone on the table.
‘You have a meeting tomorrow morning. In Hamilton, at the CYF regional office. I’ll write it down for you,’ he says. ‘You will meet the regional director.’
‘Amazing that it could be arranged so quickly,’ I said. ‘And this early in the morning – it’s not even seven o’clock.’
To my utter surprise he blushed.
‘Well,’ he said, hesitating a little. Then he cleared his throat. ‘The regional director is a … an acquaintance. From way back.’
‘Still, amazing,’ I said. ‘I am so grateful.’
‘I assume you know this won’t be an easy process,’ he said. ‘It will be hard to prevent the grandmother from taking him back if that is what she wants. Even if she loses custody it will be a long process, and an uncertain end result.’
‘I realise that,’ I said. ‘And I realise I should have done this differently from the start. Made a report right then. But I just couldn’t let him stay there another day.’
‘We’ll take it one step at a time,’ George said and stood up. He collected a pad and a pen and scribbled down the details for the next day’s meeting.
‘Like I said, there is no need to worry about Ika for now,’ he said as he gave me the note.
For a moment we stood facing each other.
‘What time is she coming?’ he asked.
‘No idea. She didn’t give a time and I have no way of reaching her. The mobile number she gave me when we met no longer works.’
‘Just let me know if you need me. I will be here all day. Just a few minutes away.’
‘Thank you. For everything.’ And as I said this I was overcome by an overwhelming tiredness. As if I had finally allowed myself to acknowledge how exhausted I was. And I realised he had said ‘we’. We will have to take it one step at a time.
I held out my hand and repeated my thank you. George took my hand in his and put the other one on my arm.
With this we parted.
Back home, my own house felt even emptier, as if completely abandoned. As if nobody really lived there. And I saw it more clearly than ever before. I could see how shabby it was. How worn and tattered. Filled with objects that sat or stood where they had happened to end up. Suddenly I was able to distance myself from it, as if it had nothing to do with me. I could see it objectively. I realised I had never made any effort to create a beautiful or welcoming home there. It was just a place to sleep, and it had a distinct desolate feel. It lacked any sense of homeliness.
The insight made me strangely sad. How could I not have seen this before? I had lived here for more than fifteen years. How could it be that it was not until now that I actually saw what it looked like?
It is strange how even the most extraordinary conditions can become everyday. You learn to live with pain, for example. That which initially seems intolerable becomes the only reality you have. And you adjust. You forget how it used to feel.
This was not a home, it was a refuge. This simple, desolate house had become the place where I had slowly learnt to live with my pain. The only place where the pain had been manageable, and where the memories didn’t intrude. I was able to manage them here. This house had no connection with any other part of my life. And I had brought nothing with me.
The location was a different story. I had chosen it precisely because it was heavily pregnant with memories. But they were special memories. The most precious ones. The house itself was neutral. It demanded nothing, and it allowed me to nurture my memories in peace. For a long time this had been necessary for my survival. The house was my snail’s shell. A part of myself.
I could no longer remember whether I had ever had any plans or ideas for the house. I had simply crawled into my shell in order to survive. I don’t think I had any idea of the timeframe initially. I was driven by an acute, desperate need.
And the years went by. Perhaps at the back of my mind I thought it was a temporary arrangement. Until I could face the world again. Or perhaps I had thought of it as permanent in the beginning, and life without it impossible. Regardless, what had been created in a state of desperation had become permanent. The isolation itself had been a guarantee that nothing would ever rock my existence again. That I would be left in peace in the fragile stability it had taken me so long to establish. As it is with matters that you leave for later, I had simply become used to it as it was. Unfinished and neglected. I left it as I had first found it, and stopped caring.
I had not thought I would ever have reason to see it through somebody else’s eyes.
But here I was, at the kitchen table, anxiously awaiting the arrival of an unwelcome visitor.
Later I went into the living room, turned some music on low and lay down on the sofa.
Marianne lives in a new reality. She is still in the same place, but everything has changed. She has started school. But it is not with happy anticipation that she sets out every morning, but with anxiety and a tight cramp around her heart. The school is not far away and she walks by herself. But it feels as if something is pulling her back, doesn’t want her to leave. She has to struggle to make the short walk every day. But returning home in the afternoon she runs as fast as she can, and she exits the elevator breathless. She listens at the door while she is groping for the key chain underneath her jacket.
She has her own key, because Mother is so often tired. She has a woman who comes to help every day. Mrs Andersson. Marianne hardly ever meets her, because she is there in the morning, ne
ver in the afternoon. In the afternoon Marianne is there.
When she gets inside she drops her school bag on the floor, kicks off her shoes and runs into the nursery. And each time she sits down on the floor and spies between the wooden bars, she is filled with the familiar warmth. She feels all soft inside and finally the cramp in her heart lets go. All is as it should be. If Daniel is asleep she gently reaches inside and places her hand on his stomach. Then she pulls it back and puts it against her nose and inhales his smell. Often she lies down on the mat beside the cot and closes her eyes till she hears him stir.
Sometimes Daniel is already awake when she arrives, standing up in his cot holding on to the railing. When she steps through the door he smiles and bends his knees as if trying to jump, and rocks his body with a wide grin on his face. This means he wants to get out. And Marianne is allowed to lift him now. It’s not easy but she manages because Daniel clings to her so tightly.
Then they play on the floor forever. Daniel can’t walk but he can crawl, and he can stand up if he holds on to something. When he gets hungry she makes him a bottle and holds him on her lap while he drinks. If he is wet she changes his nappy. They manage very well on their own. They need nobody.
In the end Mother always turns up though. She moves slowly, and it looks as if she is not quite sure where she is heading. She never wears her nice dresses any more. Often she wears her old dressing gown well into the evening. When she spots Marianne she stops in the doorway and looks at her. She is holding her arms tightly around her chest as if she is cold. She looks at Marianne and smiles her sad smile. Then she nods slowly, before turning away and leaving. Marianne hugs Daniel even harder, sticking her nose in the space between his chin and his shoulder and inhaling the smell of him. In these moments everything feels all right.
Memory of Love (9781101603024) Page 11
