i immediately notice that something is different. They take the elevator up together, then ring the doorbell. She’s holding her car keys, clutching onto them. She keeps twisting and turning and rattling them, and I don’t want to tell her to stop, because today I am not sick. But it’s so annoying, I finally shout.
“Stop that!”
She drops her keys in surprise, and he looks at me darkly. I turn my back on them and walk toward the elevator. Hear they aren’t following. They are still standing there whispering. He’s comforting her. She’s sick, I think. Today, I’m healthy, and she’s ill. It’s surely cancer—it would be. I’ve given her cancer. Today, I’m healthy and she’s dying. What if I am the one who gets to live and she’s the one who dies, leaving me behind? That thought scares me more than anything ever has.
In the car we all sit in silence. I, who had been looking forward to an easy day, to being happy. All of us. I try to read their backs. He seems fine. She’s the one who is tense. I try to think of something to say. Something to ask. I realize I haven’t needed to do that for a long time. She asks all the questions, and all I have to do is answer. It’s hard to think of questions.
“How’s work, Johan?” I hear myself say.
It wasn’t the kind of question I had in mind, and it wasn’t him I wanted to talk to.
He turns around. Looks happy.
“It’s going well, Nahid. Thanks for asking. But it’ll be nice to have some vacation soon.”
He doesn’t add anything, and I turn away and roll my eyes. All these empty words we say to each other. They don’t mean anything at all.
“How do you feel? I heard it went well at the doctor this week.”
I smile at him and make the victory sign.
“I won! The cancer is gone.”
She looks at me in the rearview mirror.
“The tumors are gone, I mean. I’m tumor-free. So right now I don’t have cancer, and that’s something, right, Johan?”
He reaches for my hand and squeezes it hard.
“It’s a lot, Nahid.”
He has tears in his eyes, which I’m not prepared for. I’m not prepared for him to care, not in that way.
She clears her throat, looks at me in the rearview mirror again.
“We thought we’d stop at Delselius, Mama. Have a coffee and a vanilla bun. Is that okay with you?”
“Today? It’s Midsummer—are they open?”
“Yes, I called ahead and made sure,” she says.
I don’t understand why it’s so important. None of us is that crazy about pastries anyway. I say as much, and she smiles.
“No, I know. I just really want one. And it’s been a long time, right? How long was it? Fifteen years ago?”
I nod; it was. Fifteen years ago we bought the apartment in the city and drove home to Gustavsberg in shock, sat in those very café chairs and ordered semlor, because it was February, and almost laughed out loud. I don’t think any of us thought it would actually happen, but we managed it. Bought a new home, a different kind of home, and left everything else behind. Or so we thought, as everyone does when they flee, when they move. Now we’re leaving it all behind. But that’s not how it works. It comes with you, no matter how far you go. Still, we celebrated moving on, and we were happy.
I want to say the words. It’s been fifteen years since we had a happy moment together. But it sounded so incredibly sad in my own head, mostly because I wasn’t sure we’d ever get another one again. You can’t say It’s been fifteen years since we were happy until you’re happy again. I wonder if maybe that’s the hardest part. To be reminded of better times. Be reminded that it can be better. Be reminded that happiness is so close, that it’s actually within reach.
“That’s fine,” I say simply, and she looks relieved. As if she’d expected me to make a fuss.
we park near the square and climb out. it looks abandoned. Not just because it’s Midsummer, but because there’s almost nothing left there. A pizzeria, a bakery, a video store, though there are hardly any video stores left anywhere else these days. The type of stores people actually go to wouldn’t fit here. Rusta, Ica Maxi, McDonald’s. Such places are built far from here, where there used to be forest. I wonder why they haven’t torn down this old place. Done something else with it. I remember when we used to go here every day. Shop at Domus, pick up large packages from Iran at the post office, go to the movies at Folkets Hus. We discovered Sweden through this small square.
“It’s a ghost town,” I say to her, and she takes my hand.
“I know. It’s completely different now. But that doesn’t matter, right? It doesn’t affect us.”
I realize that I agree with her. This has nothing to do with us. We’re not here anymore; we left it behind us long ago. Then I realize that she really means something else entirely. That this is too trivial to touch us. The loss of a place doesn’t matter to those who have lost their people. Doesn’t matter to those who are dying.
I lower my head. Say it still does. That I feel disturbed by it. A place you left, a place you’ve fled from, it shouldn’t get to you, but it does anyway. All loss touches you. When death is near, you don’t want to acknowledge that things can be lost.
We go into the Delselius Café, and everything looks like before. Glass dishes with traditional cakes and open sandwiches and cinnamon buns and vanilla buns. Blond girls behind the counter, with the same striped aprons. Red velvet on the seats, the same fabric and the same chairs. It looks rundown, not as nice and inviting as it felt back when Aram was small and we could only afford five-kronor buns and then only rarely.
Johan goes to the counter to order, and Aram leads me over to a big table by the window. We are the only customers inside. A couple of older men are drinking coffee on the terrace. Someone comes in to pick up a cake for their Midsummer celebrations. It’s a little dark inside, the sun is shining outside, and I still don’t understand why we stopped here. She sits diagonally across from me and he takes the place next to her. On the tray lie a couple of buns and a Mazarin. The waitress brings us our coffee. I look at the clock on the wall, one of those big ones like what used to hang in Aram’s classroom.
“Won’t we be late to see your parents?”
“It’s no problem.”
Johan glances at her. Aram gently shakes her head. Leans forward and whispers in his ear.
He clears his throat.
“Nahid, there’s something we want to tell you.”
“Okay. Well, tell me, then.” My heart is pounding, and I know it. This is about life and death. She is sick, she’s the one who’s dying now.
He looks at her again, and she looks away, so he clears his throat again.
“Well, Nahid, here’s the thing. You . . .”
Aram rises abruptly from her chair, and he looks up in surprise. She looks like she wants to run away, and I feel the same. I don’t want to be here. Why did they take me back here? To old memories and old disappointments, just to add a new one.
He takes her hand and holds it tight. She remains standing there next to him.
“Nahid, you’re going to be a grandmother.”
It goes black in front of my eyes. I think at first that I heard wrong. Or they’re kidding—it’s a joke to lighten the mood. I squint at him.
“What did you say?”
He becomes hesitant. Glances at her, but she looks away.
“Well, we’re having a baby. You’re going to be a grandmother.”
I grab the edge of the table, hard.
“Oh,” I moan. “Oh, oh God.”
I’m trying to get up to go over to her, but I can’t. My legs are trembling, and I feel like I might fall down. I want to say something. Something lighthearted. This day! So full of life. But I can’t. Instead, I put my head in the crook of my arm and start to sob. Tears fall like a veil before my eyes, and I disappear into myself. Into my cancer, all my struggles. I think, This is everything I longed for. To receive some sign that I was not a redundant hum
an being. I am more than a traitor. More than just the reason other people die and are unhappy. I think of my mother, sitting by the phone in her tiny apartment. I think about how she always expects the worst. About the way she sits there on the rug, guarding the front door and watching over the phone, and sometimes she gets up and peers out between the curtains. I never called to have that conversation. I never called to say: Mama, I have cancer, and I’m going to die. And now I can call and tell her this instead: Mama, we’re going to have a baby!
I look up at them. Aram has sat down on her chair again, and he holds her, his eyes red. She trembles in his arms.
“Is it true?” I ask. “Is it for real?”
She doesn’t look up. She cries into his chest. But he nods, nods and smiles.
I wipe my face with a napkin, but can’t stop. Can’t stop. I, who was supposed to die. I, who should die and go to waste. Now I have this to live for.
“Thank you,” I say. “Thank you.”
She won’t meet my eyes, but I say nothing about that. I stand up and go to her and throw my arms around her, and she lowers her shoulders. I feel her relax against me, and I push my wet cheek against hers and say thank you once more. I say, I’m here for you. I’ll be here for you. She starts to cry again, and he throws his arms around us both, and we sit there like a heap, as a human heap. Another type of meat mountain. She, I, he, and the little one growing inside her.
The little one. That’s all I want. If I get this, I won’t ask for anything more.
“I will be the world’s best grandma.”
She looks up at me, looks straight at me. Her eyes are full of doubt. Doubt and the other that never disappears, the splinter, the gleam, the naïve childishness. Her hope.
Her hope in me.
we drive on, down that road i’ve traveled so many times before. We pass by forests and beaches. We drive over the Djurö bridge and the water glitters so it flickers in my head. What a beautiful place, and today I am a part of it. A part of life and beauty. Today I will not die. Today I’m a grandmother. Today I am immortal in every way you can be immortal. It tingles in my stomach. I fought cancer, and this is my reward.
I think of the big trees out on the island. I think, My grandchild will not be like me. She will be a child of roots, not sand. She will live where she was born. Her roots will penetrate deep into the earth. I created that. I was the one who made sure my grandchild could have both freedom and roots. My escape made that possible. I clasp my hands in my lap. Let the air out between my lips and sit up a little straighter. Aram looks at me through the rearview mirror again. Our eyes meet, and I see her smile.
His parents don’t know about the pregnancy, and we tell them together. I am one of the ones who tell them, and it feels good. This is my grandchild. They already have four.
“Oh, how lovely,” says his mother. That’s all. It must be the difference between knowing death and never having faced it. Life’s greatness passes you by.
We sit at the lunch table and pour wine into glasses, and I ask them to fill up mine. We toast and I take a big gulp. We all laugh, me the loudest. But soon, I want to go, go to the beach and the woods and be alone with my thoughts. I say I’m going to rest, and everyone understands. I take off my shoes and leave them on the dock. I want to feel the stones and sand under my feet. I walk down to the beach and sit with my arms around my legs. There is a slide here. I didn’t notice it last year. There’s a basket of plastic toys under the dock. A truck peeks out over the edge. I want to buy a bucket and spade, I think. A little bucket and spade for her, because I know it’s a girl. A girl to take Noora’s place. A girl to fill the void.
It’s when I’m helping to clear the table that I notice. I walk down the path, between the towering trees, with a tray in hand. Making an effort to be healthy and capable. So I don’t have to say I can’t, so I don’t drop everything and crush the wineglasses against the stone. I focus my gaze on the tray, but still from the corner of my eye I see that something is wrong. I look again. The roots are gone. I turn around, look at the other side. They are gone, completely gone. Small splinters on the ground testify that they were there, but they’ve been pulled out. I put down the tray, get down on my knees, and feel the ground. Just earth. I hear footsteps behind me, Johan’s mother calling to me. Asking if everything is okay.
“They’re gone, the roots. The ones that used to lie here?” It’s a question, because I think she may have moved them in some way. They may still exist, just not here.
“Yes, that’s right, isn’t it nice,” she replies. “We cleared them away this spring. So much work, they’re more stubborn than you’d think. But didn’t it turn out nice?”
I must have looked at her blankly, because she stops.
“And we wouldn’t want the grandkids tripping on them.”
I don’t know what to say to her, and she probably thinks my silence has to do with my health anyway. Thinks I’m sitting on the ground because I’m sick.
“Leave the tray, and I’ll ask Nils to get it,” she says, and walks past me toward the house.
I follow her with my eyes until the red door slams shut behind her. Then I dig my fingers into the earth, digging as deep as I can go. They have to be there still, somewhere below the surface. Surely roots can’t just be pulled out, can’t disappear. But my fingers never reach them.
Watching aram’s belly grow is the most beautiful sight I’ve seen in my life. I ask her to sit next to me on the sofa so that I can touch it. Sometimes I go over to her while she’s making tea or doing the dishes and lift up her shirt. Put my cold hands on her skin. It makes her uncomfortable, I can see that in her eyes. Her watchful gaze. I understand. She wants to protect her child. She wants to protect her child from me.
I think it’s good she wants to protect, because it’s difficult. It’s difficult to do and sometimes it’s difficult to want to do. Sometimes you feel you need protecting. As if even your own child can handle more than you. I wish it wasn’t so. That I came from something else, that I could handle things better on my own. But that’s not how it is.
I sneak a glance at her, stare at her when she doesn’t notice. Trying to make out if she’s damaged. Damaged like me. So damaged that she’ll forget to protect, that she’ll choose to avoid it. I want to ask her what she thinks about all this. If she thinks she’ll end up like me. But how can I ask that without starting a conversation I absolutely don’t want to have? No, I’m not going to talk to her about the past. I’ve decided that. Sometimes I’ve noticed she wants to. She tries to bring it up. Wants me to explain. Maybe ask forgiveness. But then I say something that gives her second thoughts. Something that tells her I won’t talk, that I’m not a person to seek comfort from. I never have been, and I won’t spend my last months consoling her. I’m the one going through treatments and nausea and shortness of breath, lying like a vegetable waiting for death to pluck and carry me away.
So instead I call her one day. She’s at work and doesn’t have time, but I say it’s important, so she goes out onto the street to listen to me.
“Can you be a good mother?” I ask.
She falls silent.
“Will you be a good mother?”
“I don’t understand,” she replies. “What do you mean?”
“I’m not sure you can! You’re not strong enough for a birth. And taking care of a child is difficult. Can you handle it?”
She inhales sharply. It’s as if I can hear every molecule bouncing against her throat and down into her body. Then she exhales. Heavily.
“Mama. I’m hanging up now. Please, don’t call back, don’t call me again today.” She hangs up. In my ear. Before I have time to say anything else. I stare at the phone in my hand while my throat thickens and my chest swells, almost bursts. I hate her! She makes me feel alone. Abandoned and unimportant. In that moment, I hate her.
I write: How could you do that to me. I’m sick!
There is no answer.
I ring her doorbell. it’s
saturday morning, and she doesn’t know I’m coming. I don’t know what she will say, but I had to come. I couldn’t call her and risk her not picking up.
It takes a while for anyone to open the door. At first, it’s completely quiet, so I press the bell again. Then I hear a body moving, slowly. I’m not sure she’s headed for the door, so I ring again. Only after I press the button do I remember that this is the way she was informed after Masood’s death. Police officers rang her door, again and again when she didn’t open up right away. I think it’s the same thing again, that this is her lot in life. Death knocking on her door. As it was ours to watch Rozbeh fall to the ground and bleed away from us. As it was our lot that Noora never came home. I think how her life must be a repetition of mine. That’s the only possibility. The only justice. So I press the doorbell again.
When she opens the door I can see she is miserable. “Mama. What is it?”
She has a hard time even forcing the words out, and her movements reveal she’s in pain.
I step forward and put my hand on her arm.
“What is it, honey? What’s going on?”
“I don’t know, Mama.” She leans against the wall and hunches over. “Something is wrong.”
She lifts her hand to her belly, and I drop my purse on the floor. We both flinch from the bang.
“No, no,” I cry. “No, this can’t happen.”
“Mama, please. Sit down, please. I’ll call Johan.”
“I’ll call an ambulance,” I say. “I’m calling an ambulance!”
This can’t happen. This was not what I meant, this isn’t our lot. Her lot. Our lot. We need this child. We deserve this child. This child is our consolation. I sink down onto the chair in the hall, panting heavily, trying to catch my breath. I hear her talking on the phone, softly. And then again, with a more authoritative tone. She’ll fix this, I think, she can fix it.
“Mama, do you want to come with me?”
“Where are we going?”
What We Owe Page 9
