More Bitter Than Death

by Camilla Grebe

  Roger smiles to himself.

  Sonja is going to crack this Polish brat in no time.

  MEDBORGARPLATSEN

  NOVEMBER

  I’m sitting in my office at the clinic, the one we call the Green Room.

  Aina is holding my hand, firmly.

  For once she’s the weak one. Tears running down her red, splotchy cheeks, she wipes her nose on the sleeve of her purple mohair sweater and shakes her head, resigned.

  “Anyone, but Hillevi. It isn’t fair. Who’s going to take care of her children now? Their abusive father?”

  I squeeze her hand without responding to her questions, because what is there to say? That was the first thought I had after the shock wore off. Hillevi’s children, those three little boys, the ones who are so afraid of their father that one of them wet his pants when he found out his dad was going to pick him up from school. What would happen to them now?

  I feel the damp slip of paper in my free hand, glance at Aina again, into her bloodshot eyes.

  “Make the call. Now!” Aina says.

  I nod and reach for the phone, smooth the slip of paper out on the desktop, read the hastily jotted-down number, the number for the manager at Solgården, the women’s shelter where Hillevi was staying with her kids.

  It rings five times, and then a high-pitched voice with a Spanish accent picks up.

  “Solgården, Mirta speaking.”

  I explain why I’m calling in a voice that is quiet and maybe a little frantic. I explain that Hillevi was in my counseling group, how she had told us about the abuse, that we were there when she died, and that I’m wondering what will happen now.

  “It’s the children, I’m wondering what will happen to the children. I can’t . . . stop thinking about that. The kids’ father hit one of the boys too. You know about that, right? It’s very important that the boys not be placed with him.”

  “It’s such a tragedy,” Mirta says, as if she hasn’t heard me. “In all the years I’ve worked here, I’ve never lost a single woman, not one. My clients have been beaten and raped, but never killed. Dios mío, we couldn’t protect her.”

  “But it wasn’t her husband who killed her.”

  “Oh, the violence men perpetrate against women,” she begins, but then stops short and sighs deeply. “What can I do for you?”

  “Uh, the children . . . ?”

  “The children are being looked after by the child welfare authorities. They’ve been placed in a foster home in Nacka while they wait for the investigation to be completed.”

  “The investigation?”

  “Yes, the oldest son, his name is Lukas, well, he said his father had hit him. So we informed social services, which we are always required to do if we find out a child has been abused. That’s the law. Now the family group at social services will conduct a sort of expedited investigation. But if you ask me, I think the kids will be back with their father in a couple of weeks. That’s usually what happens. It’s just really hard to prove the boy’s accusations, you know? And the father is the sole guardian now . . . obviously. Well, I mean maybe I’m cynical, but that’s what I suspect will happen.”

  Suddenly a child in the background screams so loudly that I almost drop the phone. I can hear Mirta scolding someone, I’m guessing a child, in Spanish.

  “Sorry, things are crazy here today. We just got in three new clients. Well, yes, I suppose life goes on here . . .”

  The line goes quiet; neither of us knows what to say. Then she starts again.

  “Hillevi, she was special, that woman, wasn’t she?”

  “Yes, she was very special,” I say.

  “She was strong. And she shared her strength with all the women here.”

  I feel a lump in my throat and don’t know what to say to her.

  “She was a real angel, that woman. Yes, she was,” Mirta says softly.

  “An angel,” I whisper. “It’s true, she was an angel.”

  * * *

  We walk the short stretch from Söderhallarna to Aina’s little apartment at Blekingegatan 27. The cold drizzle in the darkness makes the autumn leaves surrounding All Saints’ Church dangerously slippery. Aina doesn’t say anything, just hunches over slightly, recoiling from the rain and wind. Her red scarf is wrapped again and again around her neck, her hands thrust deep in her pockets, her eyes locked on the wet asphalt.

  Once we’re at her place, she lights some candles and puts the teakettle on. We sit in silence at the table in her old-fashioned kitchen. And it’s as if Hillevi is there with us, in this quiet little apartment. I can almost smell her light, androgynous perfume, see her finely lined, doll-like face and those perfectly manicured hands.

  “This sucks,” Aina says, chewing on her thumbnail and looking out the window, down at the dark street, where the rainwater is forming small, dirty streams in the gutters.

  I nod in silence, sip the hot tea, and carefully stroke Aina’s arm with my free hand. Suddenly she looks at me. There’s something black in her eyes now, a suppressed rage coming to the surface, and suddenly I feel scared. Aina does scare me at times. There is so much darkness in her, something so harsh about her.

  Then suddenly I remember something, another rage, another darkness.

  “Hey, you know all that stuff with Hillevi . . . It was so intense, so totally draining. I’ve been thinking about it so much that I forgot about something. Do you remember what Malin said at the session, before Hillevi got shot?”

  “Malin?” Aina asks.

  “Yeah, before Henrik came in. She said something weird, something about how maybe that woman—Susanne, who got kicked to death—got what she deserved. Do you remember that?”

  Aina’s eyes are dark, and without looking away, she carefully sets her teacup down on the little saucer. “Yeah, I remember,” she says. “What on earth could she have meant by that? That was a really weird thing to say.”

  I shiver, feeling a faint flutter in my stomach.

  “Don’t you think there’s something a little suspicious about Malin? All that talk about strength and self-defense, and then this comment?”

  Aina sits there quietly for a bit with her steaming teacup in her hands. “I don’t know. I think Kattis is a little odd too.”

  “Kattis?” I ask. “She’s probably about as normal as they come. Why do you say that?”

  Aina holds up her hand as if to stop me from talking. “Now hang on a sec, Siri. You are not objective when it comes to Kattis. You guys are like BFFs, right? Sitting in the office holding hands, calling each other on the phone, crying on each other’s shoulders. You think that’s okay? You think that’s ethical?”

  Aina’s cheeks flush and I can tell she’s clenching her jaws.

  “No, but . . .” I laugh. “You’re not jealous, are you, Aina?”

  The question comes out of nowhere, but as soon as I say it, I feel its weight.

  Aina furrows her brow and leans back on her crooked old kitchen chair. “Maybe. There was a time when we shared everything, don’t forget that.”

  Her words feel like a rebuke and I turn away as they hit home: she is right. Part of our intimacy has been lost. Maybe it’s because of my relationship with Markus. Maybe we just haven’t been taking care of our friendship. Maybe it’s just changed over time, evolved.

  I reach for one of the napkins sitting in a pile on the table. They have a picture of a maypole on them. I hold them up to her questioningly before blowing my nose into one.

  “Um, May was months ago. You don’t think maybe it’s time to freshen up your napkin supply here?” I tease.

  Aina smiles. “Oh, Carl-Johan brought those over last week. I don’t know where he gets all these weird things from.”

  “Carl-Johan.” I linger on the name. “You’ve been seeing him for a while now, huh?”

  Aina squirms and suddenly looks embarrassed. “Yeah, I guess so.”

  “Is there anything you want to tell me?”

  “Absolutely not,” Aina says.
<
br />   Aina’s love life is legendary. There is a constant string of new men in her life. I’ve watched them come and go over the years, young and old, long-haired and bald, bearded and clean-shaven, trash collectors and CEOs, Swedes and foreigners. Aina doesn’t discriminate; variety seems to be her thing. Which is why I’m surprised when I find out she’s still seeing this guy. She should have dumped him ages ago.

  “You’re not—?” I prod.

  She waves her hand dismissively. “Of course I’m not.”

  But then she looks away and her cheeks turn red. “Oh shit.” She sighs deeply. “Do we have to talk about my conquests? Hillevi is actually dead.”

  We contemplate this statement in silence as the tea cools in our cups.

  “The point of coming here on your own, of course, is for you to have a chance to talk about things that you don’t want to discuss when Mia is around. It doesn’t need to have anything to do with your relationship. We can discuss anything you want.”

  Patrik and I are meeting for a private session. I haven’t been doing much work lately, which maybe isn’t so odd given the situation. In my dreams, it’s me, not Sirkka, who’s bent over Hillevi trying to stop the blood from gushing out of her stomach. My hands are halfway inside her pulsing, still-warm body. And just as I realize the situation is hopeless, I wake up, bathed in sweat, with the blanket twisted up like a snake around my waist.

  Patrik, who is sitting across from me, sighs deeply and crosses his arms over his chest. His whole body trembles with frustration.

  “Sure, but I’m not the one with problems, am I?” Patrik says.

  “Your relationship is crashing and burning; isn’t that a problem?”

  “Well, yeah, but what I mean is that that’s not my fault.”

  “So then we can agree that you do have a problem?”

  Patrik sighs dramatically as he unthinkingly stuffs a pinch of snuff under his cracked upper lip and then wipes his hand off on his damp jeans. He gazes out the gray window. It’s raining again today, a fine but unrelenting drizzle that the gusts of wind periodically chase around the clusters of buildings.

  I can smell the rain-damp scent of Patrik’s wool sweater from across the room, and suddenly I remember smells from my childhood—hand-knit Lovikka mittens drenched from throwing snowballs, sweaty wool long johns that had to be taken off after skiing, a white wine–fueled make-out session some dark autumn night with a pimply classmate on a damp Persian rug. Different wool smells from different parts of my life, scent memories.

  Patrik seems to notice that I’m distracted, because he shrugs his skinny shoulders as if to ask what’s up with me. “Mia’s the one with the problem,” he finally whispers.

  “Cause and effect are often very complex in relationships. If one person has a problem, it affects both people. And vice versa. You can also say that the fundamental problem doesn’t always lie with the person who seems to be doing worse on the face of things.”

  “If you ask me, that’s a bunch of bullshit,” Patrik says, staring at me blankly from across the little table cluttered with a water pitcher, glasses, and Kleenex.

  He’s leaning back now, with his soft, black leather jacket still on. It’s as if he doesn’t really want to admit that we’re actually going to spend an hour together, keeping his jacket on to emphasize that he’s going to be going soon, very soon.

  “Patrik”—I hesitate for a second, thinking about how to word what I want to say—“you’re often angry when we meet. And you seem really angry at Mia. I am wondering what’s triggering all this anger.”

  “But that’s obvious, isn’t it?” Patrik asks.

  “Is it?”

  “You can’t just do what Mia’s doing. It’s such a goddamn . . . sellout for . . . for . . . the kids. If you bring a child into this world, you have a certain responsibility. Don’t you agree?”

  “In what way, exactly, do you think Mia is letting you down?”

  Patrik sighs again, for the tenth time in our conversation.

  “How clear do I have to be? She’s addicted to some kind of antianxiety pills. That’s just the . . . the ultimate cop-out. I mean, you can’t hurt the people you love more than that. She picked the pills over us, simple as that.”

  “So you feel rejected?” I ask.

  “Well, there’s rejected and then there’s rejected. It’s not about me, is it? It’s about the kids and about the fact that she chose this herself. How can you choose a package of pills over your own kids? I mean, a child is totally dependent on its mother, right? It just kills me.”

  We sit in silence for a bit. He taps his shoe on the floor.

  Impatiently. Unhappily.

  “Patrik, I wonder if you’ve ever experienced something like this before in your life? Someone who neglected you, perhaps? Maybe when you were a child?”

  Patrik freezes, midmotion, suddenly blinks several times, and I realize that I’ve hit a nerve, so I lean forward and look him in the eyes, give the lanky, angry man across from me my full therapist attentiveness.

  “What does that have to do with any of this?” Patrik asks.

  “We don’t know yet. Or do we? So, have you ever experienced anything like this before?”

  “Maybe.”

  “What does that mean?”

  He starts tapping his foot again, sighs, and buries his face in his hands.

  “My mom . . . she drank a lot.”

  “So your mom was an alcoholic? How old were you when she started having trouble with alcohol?” I ask.

  “Dunno. I think she always had a problem. But maybe I realized it when I was about six or seven.”

  “And how did her problem affect your relationship with her?”

  “Oh, she wasn’t really out of it or anything. Social services never swooped in on us, if you know what I mean, but she could be really moody. Sometimes she didn’t feed us. I almost always ate at friends’ houses after school. Everyone helped out. I grew up in Domarö, out in the Stockholm archipelago. It’s a small town. People stick together. People . . . don’t gossip about each other. They obviously knew that Mom drank, so everyone pitched in as best they could. But no one . . . said anything. And, well, sometimes she hit us or just yelled. I don’t know which was worse. I used to take care of my little brother.”

  “How long did this go on?”

  “I moved out when I was sixteen. Then Mom died the year I turned eighteen. It was a car accident, so it didn’t have anything to do with the alcohol. I think.”

  “And what do you feel when you think about your mother?”

  “I don’t think about her.” His answer came fast, and suddenly he looked at me without breaking eye contact.

  “Obviously you do. Come on. Try to put words to your feelings.”

  “I’m . . . I guess I’m . . . pissed off, actually,” he says, and then hesitates for a moment before he continues. “Ha, I didn’t think I actually cared. It’s been so long since I’ve thought about it. But there it is. I’m pissed off. Period.”

  “And what is it that makes you so angry?”

  “Well, that she neglected us. Prioritized her addiction over her own children.”

  I lean toward him. “Just like Mia, you mean?”

  Patrik studies me in silence, his hands trembling. Suddenly his eyes go moist and his face looks childish despite his black stubble. His eyes are pleading.

  I don’t say anything, just nod quietly.

  Rain again.

  Hard drops clatter against the windshield of my car. The windshield wipers try to keep up. The rhythm of the wiper blades is hypnotic and somehow safe.

  I took today off. Rescheduled the sessions I was supposed to have and freed myself up. Now I’m on my way into the city, passing black bays and summer cottages that look lonely and abandoned on these gray fall days. In the summer, the roads into town are all sparkling water, sailboats, and crowds of people out sightseeing. Now the landscape is deserted and the highway is almost empty. Every now and then I encounter ano
ther car, whose yellow lights reflect off the wet roadway, and at Baggensstäket Strait a local bus splashes my little car with rainwater from the street as it passes by. Otherwise nothing.

  The isolation leaves me plenty of room to think. What I had long tried to dismiss as an impossibility is now a fact. Evidenced by a faint blue plus on a plastic stick.

  A baby.

  I try to figure out when this happened. I’m a grown-up. I know how you make a baby and how you prevent it from happening. Still, I have absolutely no idea when this might have occurred, how this might have occurred. I can’t grasp it. Only the nausea that has taken over my body makes it real. Because this is exactly how it was last time.

  Back then, with Stefan.

  The baby that was going to be ours, the baby that never came to be. And now, a new baby. Such a surprise, strange, inconceivable. And I think about Markus, his genuine joy about the pregnancy and pain over my lackluster response. For a brief instant I’m ashamed. I feel shame churning in my stomach because I’m unable to love Markus the way he loves me. I can’t, don’t dare to, don’t want to. I’m not sure why. I just know that something inside me doesn’t dare let go.

  Somewhere in my mind there’s a superstitious belief: everything I touch is destroyed. Everyone I love dies. If I let go and give in to Markus, then . . . Well, then what? The thought is irritating and irrational, and I realize that it’s morbid and not the least bit constructive.

  I exit and head toward Södermalm, getting closer to my destination. A few people hurry along under big black umbrellas. A flock of schoolkids emerges from the Sofia School, apparently not bothered by the rain. Their clothes are soaked and their hair is plastered to their faces, but they’re totally wrapped up in kicking an old soccer ball and snacking on a bag of barbecue-flavored potato chips that they’re passing back and forth.

  A few more blocks and I’m there. Miraculously I find a parking spot just outside the entrance and I run from the car to the glass doorway of the red brick building. Safely inside, balancing on one foot, I put on the ugly blue shoe covers sitting in a basket outside the front door. I follow the signs to the maternity clinic.