In Every Moment We Are Still Alive

by Tom Malmquist

  Livia continues emptying her bowels into my hand, I can’t let go of her with my other hand, in case she rolls round and falls off the changing table, there’s another ring at the door, I have to shunt the changing table against the sink with my body while I rinse the excrement off under running water, all without letting go of her.

  The vicar has a motorcycle jacket and Ray-Bans, heavy black boots, close-cropped hair, a short beard shot through with grey streaks. Tom? he asks and takes off his sunglasses. Yeah, that’s right, and this is Livia, I answer. Oh yes, Livia, yes, hello there. He takes her hand then offers me his. Totta, he says. Yes, I worked that one out, I answer. We did say eleven o’clock, didn’t we? Yes, we did, I was changing a nappy, there was shit everywhere, I answer. He chuckles, steps out of his boots, stares with curiosity into the hall, and says: I was a bit early so I had a wander around the area, it’s nice, how long have you been living here? He has bright red socks, he moves along gingerly, carefully lowering his head as he goes through every doorway. We moved here in 2008, I answer. It’s a one-bedroom flat? Yes, it’s all studios and one-beds here, when we moved here we found out that all the flats here used to be accommodation for widows, it was a charitable thing run by the Association of Burghers on Högalidsgatan. Really? Yes, at least that’s what I heard, it’s the sort of thing I commit to memory these days. Tom, I am very sorry about what has happened, what’s happened to your family is truly tragic. Thanks, you want anything, coffee? I ask. Thanks, I’m fine, I already had a meeting here earlier about a christening, I’ve had enough coffee, a bit of water would be welcome, thank you. I open the fridge and bring the water jug. It’s one of the good things about being a clergyman, one can play a part in the big events in people’s lives, he says and takes the glass from me, immediately putting it down on the table without drinking from it. He looks at the sofa and asks: Is that reserved? Sit, please, I say and pull out a kitchen chair for Livia and myself. One doesn’t get any younger, he says, stretching his legs and adding: As I said on the telephone, I like to do it like this, home visits are by far the pleasantest way of handling things, church premises often seem too formal, an open-hearted chat, nothing else. I say, Sven and Lillemor told me about you, they told me you confirmed Karin. Yes, I remember Karin very well, and her brother. Karin was very receptive, good at discussion and speaking, a person who liked to write even back then. She was honest, on one occasion she apologised, she wanted to confess something, she was properly ashamed, and then she admitted to me that maybe she was only getting confirmed because she wanted to rebel against her parents. She described them as atheists, she had an admirable ability to empathise, she was a person who waited for the other children, if you can appreciate what I mean? Yes, Karin was kind, but not a walkover, I answer. He picks up a notepad bound with black leather and makes notes. Is that an attribute that you could see most easily in Karin, kindness? he asks. Maybe, I answer. Kindness can be a bit of a walkover but kindness without being a walkover is obviously something quite different, he says. I’m allergic to summing people up like that, whether it’s about being kind or nasty; she was in many ways the diametrical opposite of nasty, she complemented me, my weak areas, my volatile temper, my small-mindedness, my inability to let things go, the list is damn long, believe me, but she cleared my system of all that shit, she got me to take responsibility, she was the only one I listened to, she got me to like myself, kind was one of the finest words she knew, I mean the significance of it, anyone could have died but not Karin, it should have been me, it should have been Karin and Livia here now, she was worthy of a long and happy life. Tom, I can understand it all seems black as night, because it is black as night, he says, but I interrupt him and ask: The ways of God are mysterious, or what? I was going to say that it’s in this very darkroom that we humans are developed. Uh-huh, okay, I answer, with a little laugh. I think those were the words of Nils Ferlin, the poet, he adds, and then leans forward and caresses Livia’s head. I heard that you’re working on the funeral oration, he asks. Yes, I haven’t finished it yet, I answer. I imagine it must be a relief for someone who has an ability to write, that you can get it off your chest a bit? he says. Well, I would never let anyone else take care of the oration, I say. Have you ever written a speech before? What does that matter? No, of course, it has no particular importance, this is just a bit of a chat, I mean Karin was someone who wrote, that’s what I’ve understood from everyone I’ve spoken to, maybe you are too? Karin loved to write, I answer. Are you going to give the speech yourself? No, a friend of Måns is an actress, she’ll read it, I answer. Is there anything in particular that you intend to bring up in your speech? I won’t swear in church, I answer. If that’s what you want to do it’s okay with me, that’s not why I was asking, he responds. You can read the speech when it’s ready, but I can tell you right off that I will not be paraphrasing Ferlin’s “Getsemane.” He’s confounded by that, and rubs around his mouth. I was mostly asking because I don’t want to say anything that you may also be saying, repetitions like that are a bit boring, he says. I realised that, that’s why I said I won’t be paraphrasing “Getsemane.” Tom, I don’t doubt for a moment that there are things you want to say in the oration, important things, but I usually double-check a bit with the speechwriter before the ceremony, how long will it be, do you think? I don’t know, what do you think? I usually say five to ten minutes is about right, but obviously it varies. I’m basing it on the five senses, I say. He leans back in the sofa and touches his chin, leans forward, turns his head. You were asking if there was anything special I was going to bring up, and there is, I add. The senses? The five senses, I answer. It sounds like a bold concept, I mean I almost want to ask how it might be done? I don’t know if it’s so bold, it starts at Söder Hospital when we first got the leukaemia diagnosis and Karin gave Livia her name, I don’t know, I can’t explain it any better than that, but at least it’s a sort of answer. He reaches out and caresses Livia’s head again, and says: Tom, once you have met Karin you cannot lose her, that’s the sort of person she was. You’re speaking of memory, maybe it’s true you don’t lose that, except in cases of dementia or death, but at the same time you can hardly lie there with your arms around a memory. Were you thinking of some particular sense? he asks. No, the oration will be divided into five parts, one for each sense, it’s a mix. A mix? I can’t explain it better than that, I answer. He drinks his water and looks down at his socks. I also lost someone close to me, he says. I wasn’t aware of that, I’m sorry. He interrupts me: I didn’t tell you because I wanted your empathy, it happened a long time ago. He writes something in his notepad, then closes it and puts it back in his rucksack. Obviously you don’t have to answer this, but did you doubt your faith when it happened? I ask. The way I usually put it is, prayer is doubt, why else would anyone pray? He tries to look me in the eye. I feel uncomfortable, and keep my gaze on Livia and her blueberry-coloured fleece blanket with Moomintrolls on it. My son lived till he was twelve, I hit the wall, one of my best friends moved in with us, he saw how bad I was feeling, he realised I didn’t have the strength to come back, and so he asked me: Totta, the grief you’re feeling now, would you exchange it for never having known Johannes at all?

  * * *

  —

  Metargatan doesn’t want me here without Karin. I can’t get to rest in the one metre twenty-wide bed. Just the sight of it makes me angry and jealous. The day I moved in with Karin I immediately asked how many men she’d had in that bed. I remember she stared at me as she answered:

  It’s only a bed.

  It’s another twelve hours until Karin’s operation. I haven’t got rid of my leasehold flat in Huddinge and I feel I have to sleep there. At a quarter to three I take the night bus from Skanstull and get off by the old bus station in Huddinge. My migraine has come back. I have to rest against an electrical box below the high-rises by Kvarnbergsplan. In a flat nine floors up I see a globe in the window. Its stand is the shape of a foot and it has a built-in light.
Apart from the streetlamps, that globe is the only thing that’s illuminated, it’s so real. For a few moments I imagine that it is the Earth, and that I’m staring at it from an immense distance.

  The morning after two nurses come out with Karin from the post-op section. She’s lying in the hospital bed. Confused with all the drugs she’s on, she complains about the pain in the back of her head and tries to scratch herself under the dressing. I spread the council-issue blanket over her feet. Two doctors are waiting in R16, one of them the brain surgeon who operated on Karin, Taavi Marsala, he’s never had time to answer my questions. The other is the anaesthetist, an elderly man with bags under his eyes and a halfcircle of grey hair on his head. I’ve never seen him before. The nurse reads out the social security number written on Karin’s wristband. The anaesthetist leans over the bed and checks the drip stand.

  There’s no need for more morphine, he says.

  Karin puts her hand on her oxygen mask. It’s as if the light is harming her. The brain surgeon exchanges a few words with the anaesthetist before he hurries out of the ward with rapid steps, a phone pressed to his ear. Karin is rolled down the corridor. She is left by a large, semi-open window. She has a support collar around her neck. There’s dried blood in her hair by one of her temples. Her cheeks are swollen, her lips dry and cracked. She’s fallen asleep again. Below the brick building the Eugenia Care Home can be seen, and beyond that I can make out the neighbourhood of Vasastan through the mist. So much late summer hanging over it all, so much everyday darkness. I ask the anaesthetist if it’s wise to keep the window open. He backs away from me. I point out that dirt might make its way in and infect Karin’s wound. He answers:

  Fresh air never hurt anyone.

  I fall asleep in the armchair next to Karin until voices in the corridor wake me. The blinds have been lowered. The morning light can be seen on the polished plastic floor in a striated, trapezeshaped pattern.

  Hey, I exclaim when I notice that Karin is looking at me. I stand up and take her hand in mine. How are you feeling?

  You’re still here, she answers.

  I’m a bit drowsy.

  You’re still here, she says again.

  Yes, I slept here. She turns her head away. Are you in pain?

  I’ve been awake for a while.

  How are you feeling?

  I have to ask you about something, she says.

  Of course, anything. Karin’s support collar is gone and someone has washed that blood off her temple.

  I just want you to be here, she says.

  How do you mean? Of course I’m here, obviously I’ll stay, whatever you want. She turns to me again and says:

  I can’t deal with having my parents around.

  You’re cool with each other, aren’t you?

  Promise me that? she says in a slightly louder voice.

  What’s the problem, I don’t quite understand…

  I’ve been ill before, she answers.

  Yes, I know, did something go wrong last time?

  Will you stay with me? she asks.

  But darling, I love you so much.

  Do you promise? she says.

  Please, you’re starting to scare me, the operation has gone well, everything is fine, or has something happened, is there something you haven’t told me? She puts her hands on her stomach and says:

  You moved away from home when you were a teenager, you separated, you had your fights, you didn’t have contact with your parents for a long time, I could never have done that.

  You’ve had your flat for many years, I point out.

  I didn’t mean like that, I just can’t deal with having my parents here, I only want you to be here, please, understand me, she says.

  Well I am here, or do you want me to keep your family out of the room?

  You don’t get it, she sighs.

  Well explain it to me, then, I say. She looks at me and snorts:

  What, my family?

  Yeah, I mean obviously I can tell them you need rest, no problem, I can say you’re sleeping.

  You are my family, aren’t you? she points out. I sit on her bed and answer:

  Yes, of course, darling, we are a family.

  Only you, she says.

  Okay.

  Promise?

  I promise, I answer tenderly. You’re really serious, you don’t want them here at all? I ask. Karin looks away when she answers:

  I can’t bear feeling that I’m unfair, but I don’t want to be a child any more.

  * * *

  —

  I have never seen a death certificate before. It’s a white A4 sheet from the Tax Authority which, in terms of its content, is similar to a birth certificate apart from the date of death and the sub-heading: Children of Deceased. Next to it is Livia’s social security number, but no name, only three long dashes. According to the Tax Authority database I have never existed in Livia’s life, so if some genealogist in let’s say two hundred years should be wondering about Karin Lagerlöf, they would see nothing but an unmarried woman from Stockholm who gave birth to a nameless girl. I add the death certificate to my pile of letters from government authorities, banks, and insurance companies. I bring Karin’s handbag to bed with me and inhale the smell of tanned leather. Throat pastilles, sanitary towels, keys, and her red calfskin wallet. Bank card, ID card, cash machine receipts, throat pastille wrappers, a twenty-kronor note. Also inside is a little bag of lavender, tied with a silk band. The glasses in the case are by Giorgio Armani, oval frames, dark brown with a hint of red. I put them on. The calibrated lenses are so strong that everything I look at becomes hazy, almost dreamlike.

  After a week at NeuroCentre, Karin is moved to Erstagården, a rehabilitation home in Nacka which from the outside resembles a pre-school. In the mornings she sits waiting for me on the same two-seater teak bench in the blinding white corridor. Her hands are clasped together on her lap. Her head is bandaged. She wears her pale blue cotton dress that I brought. The walker is in front of her. She opens her mouth when she sees me, not very much, just so that her teeth can be partly seen. She says:

  Hi.

  Karin is discharged on a Wednesday. She refuses to cut the patient band around her wrist and declines the offer of hospital transport to get home. She grabs the sleeve of my jacket and says: I want to take the bus. It’s autumn, a slightly chilly day. We get on to bus 401 at Nacka Kvarn and pass Järla Lake. I have been going past the lake twice a day for a month without paying it any notice. But there it is: an absolutely still body of water. From Slussen we continue home to Metargatan by taxi.

  Karin stops in the hall and peers into the flat. The loft bed is white-tinted, without support struts against the floor, which would impede free movement. It’s suspended from the ceiling with two sturdy planks. On the edge I have hung a flower-box with geraniums, so that the overall effect is like a balcony overlooking the sea. Karin approaches the construction. She holds out the palm of her hand as if to push it, but changes her mind.

  Did you build it? she asks.

  Yes, we have space for two desks now.

  How did you have time for this?

  I had time, I answer.

  Did you throw my bed away? she asks, squeezing her lips together with her fingers.

  No, it’s in the attic, I’ve wrapped it in plastic. She removes her hand from her mouth and says:

  Tom, it’s really lovely, but you’re a funny one, maybe you could have asked me first?

  I’m asking now, what do you think about having a loft bed?

  Yes, but what if I say no?

  Then I’ll demolish it, I say. Karin wants to try lying down on it but can’t get up the ladder, which is bolted to the wall. She scrutinises the screws fixing the planks and retires to the sofa. I show her how easy it is to climb the ladder. Karin takes off her red duffel coat and asks me to fetch the one twenty-wide bed. She goes into the hall.

  Just for now, she calls out.

  But we have space for two desks now, I say.
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  Just for now, she calls out again.

  We can sit next to each other and write, that’s something you’ve been wanting, isn’t it? She comes back into the room and leans against the bed.

  Please, she says.

  There is no lift in the house. I have to drag the bed down in the same way that I dragged it up—on a piece of rag rug. I push the bed in under the loft bed, that’s the only space there is for it.

  The patient band turns out to be a sensitive issue. Eczema flares up underneath, but still Karin won’t take it off. Sometimes her scratching wakes me up at night. One night I ask her to throw it away. She turns her back on me and mumbles something about how she gets stressed when she thinks about Midsummer.

  It’s half a year until Midsummer, I point out.

  I know it’s been tough for you as well, Tom, she responds.