The Dark Blue Winter Overcoat and Other Stories from the North

by Sjón

  *

  As I stand here and say my last goodbyes to you, it is hard to keep my thoughts in the present. I think about everything you have done to me and everything you never did for me. Mother is just a word.

  EXTRACTION NO. 1

  Without a sound, she takes out her gear and tries to open the driver’s door. Her face clenched, she looks around her, ever on guard. She gets the door open, gets in and closes it quietly. She tries to start the engine. Successful, she immediately turns the heater on high and lets the warmth hit her hands which cover her mouth. Quietly and carefully she lets the car roll. When the house has disappeared from sight, she hits the accelerator. The heat begins to spread slowly throughout her body and a tense smile appears on her otherwise expressionless face. She laughs forcefully, but it is false and hollow. She turns on the radio and, screaming to the blasting music, she drives way too fast out towards the airport.

  She drives as if intoxicated. She owns the asphalt. With yet another forced laugh, she aims directly at the street light, before straightening up the car right at the last moment. Over and over she plays “chicken” with the street light. Her eyes grow moist, but she dries them as if it doesn’t matter. On a long straight stretch, she floors it. With a firm grip on the steering wheel, she lifts her body up towards the windscreen and screams, then slumps back into her seat. The tears run freely down her cheeks, and she lets go of the steering wheel to dry them away.

  ZOMBIE

  You would see Louisa out walking in town with her mother. Like a wounded animal, following its owner, always with its head bowed, always compliant. She walked with small, hurried steps, shifting her weight between each foot. Stopping when her mother stopped; walking when she went onwards. Pulling on the sleeves of her coat, she scanned the ground intensely, but without really looking. There was no longer any Louisa left in Louisa. When people greeted her, she would laugh like a small child. But the laughter was toneless, not a child’s. A cold, empty laughter. The laugh of a crazy woman.

  I remember clearly one day, when my mother picked me up from school. I wasn’t very old. When we went outside, I couldn’t zip up my coat. The zip on my coat began to taunt me: it wouldn’t work as it should do. Scared of making my mother mad, I tried frantically to zip up my coat. The more I tried, the harder it got. She had already gone a few feet when she turned around and saw that I had not followed her. When she got back to me, she grabbed hold of my coat by the chest, lifted me up and began to shake me. Stupid, useless, kid. It was during a break-time in front of a load of kids who were out playing. She shook me so hard that my coat was ripped to shreds along the zipper, and the down began to fall out over the playground like fake snowflakes. I cried: not because of the pain, but out of shame.

  I have always known my mother’s rage. Her recurring breakdowns. The number of pills she took rose and fell like the tide. There were periods when she would be drained of energy and strength. Her mother had apparently suffered from this too. I didn’t know what this immense exhaustion was. I couldn’t understand it, but I bore witness to it every single day. I was just a child.

  It was me alone who took care of the household chores. My mother never cooked, she never did the washing up, she didn’t do laundry, she never took care of anything, including me. She could spend an entire day on the sofa. She must have been really tired. In the beginning I would refuse when she asked me to do something. I thought I could say no, thought I had a choice. I quickly learnt that I was wrong. Her wish became my command.

  I met a man. He was quite a lot older than I was, but that didn’t matter, because I loved him. Fari was a nice man, he had an education, a steady job at a fish-processing plant, and that made me feel safe and secure. I really felt like I had met the man who I would spend the rest of my life with. When we moved into our own home, we started a new family. We had three children, one after another, and I was going to be a good mother. My children would not have to go through what I had endured.

  At times—and I am so grateful for being able to see this—I find myself being too hard on the children. When this happens, I always make sure to apologize to them, to look them deep in the eyes and promise them that I will pay more attention to my behaviour in the future and be better at controlling my temper. I don’t know why I sometimes act like this towards my own children. I can never really put my finger on what it is that makes me do this.

  I hurry home as soon as I get off work. It’s become a habit for me to hurry, even if there is nothing in particular I have to do. I have a husband now, we have our own home, but still I can’t seem to shake off old habits. Perhaps I ought to do some cleaning before I go and pick up the kids.

  When I step in through the door, I am surprised to see my husband’s work overalls and large rubber boots in the hallway, but also glad to know that he is home already. I dash into the kitchen. It’s empty. Then I hear a sound from the bedroom. As I get closer, I’m met by voices and other sounds. I open the door and my “Hello” is replaced by a scream. Like a punch in the face I see my husband … with my mother. Her nakedness has infiltrated his. They are like a patchwork quilt; legs locked around each other, his hands all over her back, even on her flabby, wrinkled buttocks. Pearls of sweat dot her bare neck. Despite her long hair covering his face completely, I still know that it’s him. The scar over his knee glows white and mocking up at me.

  I scream and try to get my mother out. Point towards the door. I am no longer the master of my own body or my conscious thoughts. Both of them are busy getting dressed. I become immersed in the nightmare, I feel only disgust. Neither of them attempts to apologize. They just want to get out. Fari takes a long time to put on his sweater, but my mother has disappeared. With an imploring look on his face, a “Let me explain”, he reaches out for my arms. With my entire body I ask him to go to hell.

  As soon as the front door has slammed shut, my body starts to shake wildly and feel weak, and I fall down to the floor and break down in painful tears. I sob so fiercely that I can barely catch my breath. In the hope of waking from this nightmare, I scream my lungs out—I don’t give a shit if the neighbours can hear me. I could somehow have expected this from my mother, but from my husband? Never. I would never have imagined that he could do this to me. I hit myself and imagine that it is Fari, that shit, who I’m hitting. I want to beat him until I’m not angry any more. Right in the gut. Or the head. I can almost feel his nose as it crunches under my fist, and the warmth from the blood as it streams down his face. I reach for a cushion, press my face into it and scream as hard as I can as the tears keep running.

  Some days have passed, but I am still exhausted from the rage I’m feeling. I take care of the kids alone, I will not fail them. I’m not that kind of mother. I am not ready yet to see Fari. Fuck Fari. When I get off work, I pick up my two eldest from preschool and the youngest from daycare and head home. They are whining and impatient. I decide to make their tea early so I can get them into bed as soon as I can. They are fighting in the living room. I hear a little bump, someone’s fallen, two of them are shrieking. I ask them to say sorry to each other, to come to an agreement. I am patient. Gentle. A good mother. They turn on the TV.

  As I stand there making the dinner, I start to miss Fari. God, this is gross! The bastard! Why in hell should I have to take care of our children—I could just as well drink myself to pieces! Making me miss him. Failing me. Making me lonely. Shitty, shitty love! Why me?! Everything is shattered. I know that she did it on purpose, out of jealousy. She’s jealous, because I am happy and have built myself a good life. So she tries to destroy it. That’s why. The injustice of it all hits me hard in the gut. The sound from the TV becomes a faint hum, which merges with the yells of the kids. Constant squabbles. Strife, violence and jealousy. Why do you have to decide … Ow, let go, that hurts … Mummyyyy … Stop … Crying, my youngest child walks in and nags me to be picked up, as she pulls persistently at my trouser leg. I grab hold of her neck and knock her head into the table. Everything i
s quiet.

  I’m sitting on the floor when I regain consciousness. Everything around me has been painted red. My two eldest children are crying and calling for me, bringing me back to life. Once I have come around, I start searching manically for my mobile phone. I find it and dial 999. I need an ambulance right away, my daughter is not breathing.

  I look at her through eyes that are not my own. Her lifeless body, swaddled in a blanket of blood. Feelings race through me. Restlessness. Shock. Repulsion. I feel only one thing and everything at the same time, as a dream. My whole body is shaking. My legs feel drained, so I remain on the floor next to her bloody body. I don’t know whether I am crying. The sounds around me return, and the crying of the two eldest children finally reaches me. I get up, take them into the living room, try to calm them, to soothe them. I hold them tight, and while I sit with them in my arms, our cries become one.

  The paramedics get here. I can see on their faces that it is already too late. We drive to the hospital in the ambulance. With a child under each arm, I try to keep calm. Tears run down my cheeks. Don’t take them from me. They are mine. Don’t take them from me. Calm down, Louisa. You’re still in shock. Don’t take my children away from me …

  The police show up in the waiting room. They have come for me. Fari has apparently been contacted, because he shows up too. He takes the children and goes into another room, and I am left alone with the police. They start on their rain of questions, questions which I answer as best I can. I tell them everything I can remember.

  The doctor also asks me questions. How much anger do I feel towards Fari? How great is my hatred towards my mother? Am I capable of harm? Do I want to harm other people? My children? I don’t want to hurt anyone. I could never dream of hurting anyone. Louisa, it is the 19th of May, the time is 5.55 p.m., and you are under arrest for the crime of murder. You have the right … I cry.

  With a firm grip around both my arms, they lead me out of the room, and as we walk down the hall, I see my mother in the waiting room. I am suddenly filled with anger, consumed with the thought of why in the hell she should be here. I lose control, I scream. You shit mother! You are a shitty mother! It’s you that is the shitty mother! I yell it over and over again as the police lead me out of the hospital. They toss me into the car and we drive to the holding cell.

  The days pass. I don’t know exactly how many. I am quite sure that I am the talk of the town. I haven’t spoken to anyone I know since I came in here, no one at all. And that’s fine with me, I have no wish to see or to speak to anyone. I will, however, have to speak to the doctor some day soon. I find it hard to fall asleep with my constant stream of thoughts, and when I finally do, I always awaken with the feeling of having slept for eternity. It doesn’t help much that the days are long and full of light. Unlike my soul.

  I am admitted onto the hospital’s psychiatric ward—the secure one—and referred to a shrink. I miss my children. A lot. To escape my constant stream of thoughts, I have started walking. Up and down the hallways like a stray mutt looking for an owner. I count my steps. A doctor walks past. His smell, the smell of men, hits my nostrils, and I think immediately of Fari. If he could see me now, he would think it would be best to put me down like the dog I am. That I deserved it. Even though all of this is his fault! Stop using scent! What the hell do you get out of it?! You are a bastard, an abuser of women! You shit! I am immediately surrounded by hospital personnel. They take me back to my room and strap me to the bed. I’m still screaming. Louisa, calm down. Bastard! Never come here again! You mean nothing to me! My broken voice carries itself down the hall. Like the whine of a wounded animal.

  After having been on the ward for days, examined closely under the psychiatrist’s magnifying glass, I receive my diagnosis: nervous breakdown. The psychiatrist suspects that this is a result of inherited patterns of behaviour … As soon as I hear this, it feels as if my muscles finally relax. Resignation. When I look at myself in the mirror, a stranger looks back at me. I no longer see myself.

  I resume my walks up and down the halls, but these are led now by the conversations I have with the voices, which have taken up residence in my head. Without having consulted with me first, my body has started to walk differently. The steps are shorter, and when I stop and stand still, my feet fight restlessly to carry the weight of my body. I am no longer in control of my body. I am convinced that I share my body with someone else. Another me. The voices in my head never agree: one voice says that I am here because I killed my daughter, while another says that it is the doctors who are out to kill me. That I have been filled with lies and manipulated into believing that I have killed. I don’t know what I should believe.

  I am placed before the District Court. It decides that, due to my psychological state, I should neither serve time nor be punished in any other way. Can this really be true? Can I really come home? My reactions are slow. My mother … My mother … My mother … The sentence sits waiting in my throat without wanting to come out. It is my mother’s fault. She is to blame. But my mouth will not obey.

  There are conditions for my verdict. Conditions for the freedom I have been sentenced with. My children are taken from me, and complete custody given to Fari. I am classified as incapable of taking care of myself, as someone you have to be careful with, someone who could be a danger to her surroundings. It is further concluded that the best option for me would be to be placed in the care of my mother. To my horror, she has offered to be my guardian. My mother … I stutter. The judge looks at me calmly, smiling faintly. Yes, yes … you can go home to your mother …

  EXTRACTION NO. 2

  I hide away in my thoughts. It would be best if I just ended it all here. I can’t get over the urge to take my own life. I begin looking in the cupboard, I want to be free from the pain of the mind. Now. I can’t, the pain, my body simply cannot handle it. I open the cupboard, where we keep all the little things, and find a cord that would work. I take it out without hesitating.

  In my restless state I can no longer control my thoughts. My pain, my grief is too consuming, it has swallowed me whole. I go into my room and tie the cord securely to the door handle. With my back against the door, I lower myself slowly down into a squatting position. I carefully wind the cord around my neck. I try to work out how long it should be. Deliberately, I make it a little shorter and then, finally, I tie it firmly around my neck.

  I am calm when I let go. I cannot think clearly. The only thing left is the pain. It will be gone soon. In a little while there will be nothing left. The cord is tight around my neck, and my arse is almost touching the ground. I hang there, noticing how the pain and the grief are gradually leaving my body. Sounds become muted. They are coming from far away now. My heart is pumping blood rapidly around my body in a vain attempt to save something which cannot be saved. My pulse increases as too much blood gathers in my brain. My vision starts to flicker and fill with white noise. It is too late to regret this. My whole body aches with doubt now, but everything goes black. It is too late.

  DUST

  They say that she need not do anything, because she is an only child. From morning until night her parents wait on her every need. They cut up her dinner for her. Zip up her jacket when she is getting dressed. Tie her shoelaces when she puts on her shoes. She is the beloved only child, the favourite child, Arsugaq. She is picked up in a car when school is out. She must not walk, no, because she risks being run over or being kidnapped by some drunkard. As soon as she comes home, it’s “… don’t run around like that, you might hurt yourself. Sit down and relax and play with your iPad …” Between the piles of dusty toys she sits all day with her iPad, sneezing.

  Mum is always saying how Arsugaq is the second tallest in her class. She acts like she is concerned about her height, although really she’s proud. But when she talks about her daughter, she omits to mention how Arsugaq cries when she doesn’t win in a competition. Because Mum knows that she has not raised her right. She dismisses it with comments like “… she
’s just so stubborn!”, but Arsugaq, the little doll, finds it hard to understand what Mum tells her. She only knows that she mustn’t make her angry.

  One day Mum and Dad come home in a particularly good mood. “We’ve got something for you,” they say with smiles of anticipation. Arsugaq looks at the package on the table. It’s a large package. “Go on, you can open it,” they say. She opens her gift; it’s a puppy. Dad places it down on the floor and turns it, so that it starts to move around on the floor. Mum claps her hands together and laughs. But Arsugaq doesn’t find it funny. The hard puppy with the fake fur stops moving. She picks it up, examines it carefully and then tosses it in with all the other toys covered in dust. She has always wanted a dog. A dog to walk her to school. A dog that would wait outside for her all day. A dog that would be overjoyed when she came home. A dog that she could sleep with in her room filled with toys. A dog that could keep her company in her loneliness in the midst of all the dust.

  Her classmates are on their way to the after-school club, while Arsugaq is getting picked up in the car, as always. She runs over to the car; today she has something to be pleased about. She gets in the back and takes a gift out of her school backpack, which she hands to her mum.

  “I’ll open it at home,” says Mum, smiling into the rearview mirror. When they get home, Arsugaq reminds Mum about opening her gift. “Oh, yes!” she says. It’s a trivet, which Arsugaq has made in school from a cork plate covered with orange fabric, on which coloured needles have been glued to each other to form circles. Mum is pleased and thanks her, kisses her on the cheek and places the present in the cupboard. Arsugaq is sad because she used so many of her needlework classes on making this for Mum, simply for her to shut it away like that. She knows that the cupboard is used for storing all of the junk that never gets used. Arsugaq had hoped that Mum would like it because it was so colourful. At home, everything is white.