My head pounds, tears shoot into my eyes, but I don’t need to look around to see who it was that attacked me.
I know it was me, that I bashed my own head against the doorframe. With full force, because by the time I realized what I was doing, it was too late to stop myself.
I prop myself up on my elbows, lift my upper body a little, and immediately slump back down to the floor. The living room becomes blurry in front of my eyes; everything is spinning. I reach up to touch my right temple, and feel a lump starting to swell.
More tears. Not of pain, but despair. What am I doing? Why am I doing it? Why can’t I control it?
I try to push myself up once more. I have to get into the living room, I’m safer there. I don’t know why, but I know it’s true.
But my arms are trembling, the room spins around me again, I lose my balance.
The fact that I fall is unintentional. The fact that I turn my head so that it’s my right temple that hits the floor, on the other hand, is steered by a small, manically gleeful part of myself.
The pain explodes in a white flash of light. It adds to and multiplies itself with the pain that was already there. The scream which reaches my ears, sounding like it’s muffled in cotton padding, must be my own.
Lie there calmly. Don’t move.
That’s the only thought I allow myself once the pain gives me room to think. Stay calm. Stay lying down.
I focus on that. I have to stop it from happening again. Next time I could give myself brain damage, if I haven’t already. Or a fractured skull.
Once again, there’s a small part of me that likes the idea.
I cradle my head in both hands, because of the throbbing pain, but also to protect it.
Wait. I can’t stop crying. Erik is right. He said it, plain and simple. Called it my insane behavior.
Admittedly he doesn’t even know how crazy I really am. A danger to myself, no question. Maybe even to others. Or to him.
Suddenly, the idea that I might have tampered with the boiler myself doesn’t seem so implausible. They were my scarves, the ones which had been stuffed into the exhaust vent. Even if I don’t know anything about the technology or how to tamper with it—maybe it’s a different matter when it comes to my subconscious.
I bite my teeth together. It won’t happen again, it won’t. Slowly, exerting all of my powers of concentration, I crawl out of the kitchen on all fours. And yet I can barely manage to drag my gaze away from the doorframe, which simultaneously entices me and frightens me to death. I actually do almost stumble, practically as soon as I turn my eyes away from it, but this time I at least manage to turn my head to the side, and it’s only my shoulder which bangs against the edge. It hurts, but it’s a partial victory nonetheless; I’ve managed to resist the urge to harm myself more. Limited the damage.
Once I’m in the living room it gets better. Nonetheless, I don’t dare to stand up yet. I don’t trust myself, not even a little.
I straighten up just once, to pull one of the cushions off the couch. I keep the edges and corners of the coffee table completely in my sights, even though they frighten me less than the doorframe.
It feels liberating to lay my head on the cushion. Even if I should feel the urge to hit my head against the floor again—now I won’t be able to hurt myself that badly.
When I straighten the cushion a little, I see a red stain on the yellow fabric. Blood. Not much, but it’s there. Just seeing it gives me a worrying sense of pleasure.
I tightly grasp the cushion and force my eyelids shut. I count my breaths, and hope that Erik will come back quickly, hope that he’ll be here again soon.
Out of the two of us, he poses the lesser threat by far.
18
I can’t even recall how I got to the small park. All my thoughts have been tangled up with Joanna and the past few days.
Clearly my subconscious hasn’t just taken over the control of my legs but the navigation too.
Now I’m sitting on this wooden bench with my eyes closed. I’ve shut out the world. Not that I’m feeling any better for it.
Nadine! All of a sudden her name pops up in my head. Why, of all people, am I thinking about her? Because these thoughts, about everything that’s happened, everything that’s been said, are crushing me? Because I feel the pressing need to talk to someone who knows me really well? Is it crazy that I would think of my ex-girlfriend?
No, I think it’s more because Nadine, despite all her faults, has always been a good listener. And she usually finds the right words to pick me back up when I need it.
At work she’d asked me if I was having problems. She’d seen it in my face. No wonder, really. We were together for almost five years; you learn to read your partner’s moods in that time.
“Are you OK?”
I jump, and find myself looking into the eyes of a white-haired woman. The years are engraved in her face as furrows; deep ones on her forehead and at the corners of her mouth, but not quite as pronounced around the eyes. Her expression is one of concern.
“Yes, thank you, I…” I don’t want talk to her. Even if she does mean well. “I’m very tired, that’s all. I’m fine.”
She hesitates. Eventually she nods and leaves.
My thoughts return to Nadine. I ended our relationship back then because I couldn’t deal with her jealousy anymore. Her keeping tabs on me all the time; having to justify myself for every conversation, for every time I’d go for a drink without her.
We were almost always together. At work during the day and at home during the evenings and at night. I had felt like I couldn’t breathe anymore.
Nadine wouldn’t accept I was leaving. Again and again, she would profess just how much she loved me and that she’d change. But it was too late.
Once she’d realized, she’d put some distance between herself and me. At first anyway.
Two months later, there she was all of a sudden, right in front of me when I went to my car in the company parking lot. Could I spare just half an hour for her, she’d asked. Just one drink at the bar around the corner. I didn’t want to go, but when she assured me she wouldn’t try to talk me into getting back together, I went with her.
She said she knew that she’d made a lot of mistakes and that we wouldn’t be able to get back together. But she wanted to be friends. After all, you couldn’t simply sweep away five whole years just like that, she said.
I hadn’t been able to promise her a real friendship, but I said we could interact in a friendly way at least. Maybe a drink or a chat here and there.
Sure, I mean why not? Five years. That’s a really long time, after all.
The view in front of me becomes blurry; the different shades of green flow into one another. A tear rolls out of the corner of my eye, slowly trickles over my cheek and down to my chin.
My phone’s in my pocket; Nadine’s number is saved on it. Two rings and she picks up.
“Erik! Thank goodness. How are you? I’m glad you called. I heard about that awful business. The boiler. What happened, tell me?”
Damn it. I wasn’t expecting that. What an idiot I am. Of course she’s going to ask me about that. Everyone at work will probably have heard about it already. Now what am I going to tell her?
“I … don’t know, exactly. The fire department’s not sure either. They said that it was probably the weather conditions pushing carbon monoxide back into our bathroom. An accident.”
My voice sounds uncertain and hoarse.
“How’s your girlfriend? Is she at home?”
“Yeah, she’s feeling better again. She was … We were lucky.”
All of a sudden there’s a pause, I can almost physically feel that Nadine’s waiting. Waiting for me to tell her the reason for my call. I don’t usually just call her out of the blue, I haven’t done that for over a year.
In the end she can’t hold back the question. “Why are you calling?”
“Because I wanted to talk to someone.”
“Well
, it’s very nice that you thought of me. Where are you? At home?”
“No, I’m in a park.”
“Do you want me to come over to you?”
“No. Let’s talk on the phone.”
How do I start? Where do I start?
“You probably heard at work that we’re having some problems at home.”
“Apart from the thing with the boiler, you mean?”
“Yes. I’m sure Bernhard must have told everyone.”
“No, he didn’t. Not me, at least. What exactly do you mean?”
Is she telling the truth?
“It’s about Jo. I … Christ, it’s idiotic of me to be talking to you about problems that Jo and I are having.”
“No, it isn’t. As I said already, I’m happy you called. And that means something, don’t you think? I always knew there was still something there from the time we spent together. More than just being superficially friendly to each other.”
This conversation is taking an unpleasant turn.
“That’s not what this is about, Nadine. Jo has … gaps in her memory. She can’t remember certain things. Things concerning us. Her and me.”
That was the understatement of the century right there, but something inside me is fighting the impulse to tell Nadine the whole truth. It feels like by telling her, I’d be exposing Joanna. Betraying her, even, to Nadine of all people, the bitterly jealous person from whom I had always wanted to protect her. I even went to all the work parties by myself to prevent the two of them from meeting each other. I know Nadine well enough to know that her meeting Joanna would inevitably lead to trouble.
“That would never happen to me. I haven’t forgotten a single second of the time we spent together.”
“Nadine…” Fuck. Calling her was a mistake.
“Never mind. So? Did she already go to see a psychiatrist? Something’s obviously not right in her head.”
My first reflex is to snap at Nadine for the insensitive remark. Unfortunately, though, she’s probably right.
“The doctor reassured us and explained there could be several reasons. But it’s a difficult situation, because the things Jo’s forgotten are really essential. She … well, I’m feeling really desperate right now. We just had a fight, and I left.”
“You left? Did you leave her?”
“Leave her? No. I … I left the house because I felt like I needed to be alone.”
“Oh … That doesn’t sound good at all. I did see it coming though, remember? I’ll admit, I feared from the very start it wouldn’t work with the two of you. Because you still have feelings for me, Erik. But you’d never admit that to yourself, because then you’d have to accept the whole thing with Jo was a mistake.”
“No, for God’s sake. I just needed to talk to someone.”
There’s a short pause.
“Erik?”
“Yes?”
“My door’s always open for you, I just want you to know that.”
“This again, really? I love Jo. That hasn’t changed.”
Her voice has an edge now. “You think you love her. But you don’t really. You’re only using it as an excuse because you hope it’ll help you get over the two of us, but it’s not going to work. And she doesn’t love you either, Erik. Not like I do. I’d never forget anything to do with you. Not for a single second.”
“OK. Let’s stop this. I’m going to go back now.”
“Wait,” she says hurriedly. “Don’t hang up. There must be a reason you called me. You were thinking about when we were together, right? How good we had it and how much we loved each other.”
“Come on, Nadine, that’s just…”
“No, listen to what I’m trying to tell you. I’ve been holding it back for more than a year now. Every day I see you at work, and it stings me every time. And the only thing that lets me endure it is the certainty that one day you’re going to realize how much there still is between us. And now you’re calling me because your Joanna forgot some things that concern the two of you. Is there anything worse you could do to your other half than forget the things you’ve shared?”
This call was most definitely not a good idea.
“Think about it, Erik. You really think she’s the right person for you? I don’t.”
“I do,” I say and hang up.
I hope, I think to myself.
It takes me a good fifteen minutes to get back to the house. Outside the front door I take a deep breath, then I step inside. I walk through the hall and into the kitchen. Even before reaching the passage to the living room I see Joanna lying on the floor. I freeze momentarily, then dash to her side. Her head is lying on a pillow, her eyes are closed.
“Jo! What’s the matter?”
I kneel down beside her, see her eyes flutter open, see her blinking at me.
“My God, I thought something had happened.” I put my hand on her head, wanting to stroke her hair, but Joanna groans and pushes my hand aside. “No, please…”
She raises herself up a bit, turns her face fully toward me. It’s only now that I see the swelling. It stretches down from her right temple to above her eye, giving her entire face a misshapen appearance.
“You’re hurt! What happened?”
“I tripped,” she explains, and sits up, her face twisted with pain. “The doorframe. I crashed into it with my temple.”
“Did you ice it yet? Do you want me to get ice from the kitchen?”
“No, leave it. I don’t want to touch it again.” Joanna lowers her gaze. “I think I did it on purpose.”
I don’t understand. “What? How do you mean, on purpose?”
Her eyes fix on me again. She looks awful. “Maybe I wanted to hurt myself.”
Now I get it. Oh no. Not this as well.
“But … If you did…” I shake my head. “How is this possible?”
“I don’t know.”
A thought flashes through my head. I stare at her. “Jo, you didn’t do this because we were fighting, did you? To punish yourself, or me? Something like that?”
“I don’t know.” Her voice is so quiet I don’t really hear what she says, but I can guess at it.
Inside me, the urge to take her into my arms fights against the voice telling me to call an ambulance and have her brought to a psychiatric clinic right away.
“All of this is very … difficult,” I say, and I can hear how weak my voice sounds. What I should really tell her now is that things will surely go back to the way they were and that I’ll stand by her. That we can get through anything together.
But I’m no longer certain. Utter chaos, not just in my head, but in my heart as well. Things are no longer like they were six days ago. Yes, I love her. I want to love her. Despite everything. But I’ve got no idea if I’ll have the strength to do so much longer. And if it’s my presence that’s making her do all this—
“How would you feel about me checking into a hotel? Maybe for a couple days? So you get a chance to straighten yourself out? Maybe you’ll remember me again if you don’t see me every single day?”
I’m completely aware how idiotic that sounds, but I don’t have any other ideas right now. The look in Joanna’s eyes changes, but the swelling makes it difficult to read her expression.
“Don’t do that, please. Not now.”
“I get the impression I’m only making things worse for you right now.”
“No. When you showed up here five days ago I was scared. But right now I feel safer when you’re here with me.”
“I didn’t show up five days ago. I’ve been living here for more than six months. With you.”
“Yes, OK. Still, for me you’ve only been here for five days. Come on, it’s not my fault. Erik…”
“What do you want from me, Jo? For days you’ve been telling me to go away. And when I finally realize, after these five shitty days, that it would probably be the best thing for me to do, all of a sudden you’d prefer it if I stayed. I can’t deal with this constant back and forth an
ymore.”
She reaches for my hand. I’m suddenly aware it’s the first time she’s done that since the start of all this. Is it because she really wants me near her? Or does she have an ulterior motive?
“Stay. Please. Let’s talk to each other. OK?”
“How long for? Until you tell me to go away again? I promise you one thing—the next time I will. For good.”
19
He stays. And if I’m being honest with myself—I wouldn’t have known what to do if he had gone. Apart from, maybe: call an ambulance. Have myself committed after all, but I’m still afraid of that option. I don’t want people feeding me pills to keep me under control; I want to know what’s wrong with me.
The pain in my head is raging. Erik says that if I start to feel sick, we should go to the hospital, because it could mean a concussion. Just the thought of ending up there again is almost enough to turn my stomach.
Erik convinces me to take two aspirin and let him put the cold pack against my forehead. If I’d been even slightly in the mood for joking around, I would have suggested he use the pack of shrimp instead so it’s good for something at least. But I can barely get a word to cross my lips. Again and again, I catch myself taking his hand and holding it tightly. Because, at this moment, there is nothing I’m more afraid of than being by myself.
Perhaps Erik senses that it’s this fear, above all, which is bringing me closer to him; in any case, he doesn’t look pleased by my sudden trust. He takes care of me, changing the cold packs at regular intervals, squeezing my hand dutifully, but his thoughts are clearly somewhere else.
After just half an hour, I’m feeling better, at least enough to get up and go to the bedroom.
He helps me to get undressed, pulls the covers over me, then drags a chair over to the bed and sits down next to me. As if he were a father and I his child.
“I wanted to tell you again that I’m sorry about how I behaved earlier,” he says. “It was wrong to shout at you like that, and even more so to be rough with you. It was just … too much, all of a sudden. I know that’s no excuse, but…” He doesn’t finish the sentence. He just stares at the floor.
Strangers Page 12
