The liquor store is full of people stocking up for the weekend. Young guys maneuvering shopping carts full of beer cases out of the store. Old ladies packing Rositan or Marinellan liquor with endless care in their wheeled shopping trolleys. Self-assured middle-aged men who leave the store with bags heavy with Amarone or Bordeaux.
I find a box of cheap French wine. Presumably sour and oxidized before I even open it, but at this price it’s still quite a steal.
Then I freeze. Sure, it’s cramped in the store, but the hand that I feel on my right thigh can scarcely have ended up there by chance. Since my arms are full of wine and my way forward is blocked by an elderly couple, I turn around to confront the person who thinks he knows me well enough to put his hand on me.
Matted red hair.
A beard that brings to mind pictures of my dad in the seventies.
A faded T-shirt and a guitar across his shoulder. He is standing so close I can smell his body odor: sun-warmed skin and sweat.
It’s Robert. Aina’s Robert. Although, not anymore—because as far as I know it’s over between them.
I am so taken aback that the impertinence I had prepared got stuck in my throat. I just stare and back up a couple of steps instead. I don’t want to get too close to him.
“Hey there!”
He looks happy and doesn’t seem to realize that he just violated my personal space, that he isn’t someone who can touch me like that.
“Hi.”
“Thanks for the party! It was fun. Exciting colleagues you have,” Robert says, grinning so broadly that had I wanted to, I could count all his fillings.
“Were you thinking of someone in particular, or are you just being generally disparaging?”
I’m not laughing. There’s nothing funny in his comment. I don’t understand the logic either: Does he think he’ll win me over so that we can have a contemptible conversation at the expense of my colleagues?
“Listen, I was just trying… to be funny.”
“I don’t think you’re funny,” I say, and hear at once how hard the words sound. They fly out of me. Impossible to take back once they’ve been let loose. It wasn’t my idea really to respond so harshly, but the fact is he frightened me when he snuck up behind me without saying anything.
He purses his lips and nods slowly, as if he just understood something important.
“Well, okay, then. I won’t disturb you anymore.”
I don’t say anything, just watch him as he lumbers out of the place with the guitar over his shoulder. Slouching. Offended.
Only afterward does it strike me: How long had he been standing behind me? And how close? Close enough to hear my breathing?
Close enough to smell my scent?
SEPTEMBER
I lay her gently down into the water with all the self-control I can muster. An indescribable sorrow fills me, as unexpected as it is sudden. I wouldn’t have believed I would feel anything. I didn’t think I could feel anything anymore. Not for real. I thought my emotions were dead. Now I know that maybe something inside me is still alive, despite everything. I don’t know if that’s good or bad.
Slowly, I let go of the cold, smooth body. It slips between my fingers like a water animal in flight, sinks slowly but then floats upward again and remains hovering a few inches below the surface.
Weightless like a spacecraft hovering in the middle of nothing.
Sorrow is still heavy in my chest and now I know why: Justice is done, but I can never get my life back.
Once upon a time my life was perfect, like the pictures in the glossy, heavy pages of a homemaking magazine. Little things were important: snow tires, espresso machines, sunscreen, tax assessment notices, recorder lessons, vaccinations.
Then she took everything from me.
The ride home to Värmdö feels lovely. The thought of my little red house calms me, slowly releasing the band of tension that has wound itself tightly around my head during the long day at the office.
When I get off the bus, the sun has finally disappeared behind the clouds and a damp, hot wind sweeps over the cliffs. On the horizon, a massive wall of violet-blue clouds is gathering over the sea. I figure I should probably take my evening dip early, because it looks like rain.
As I balance my way across the flat rocks in front of my house, the first raindrop falls on my cheek. The sea feels warm and welcoming as I dive from the rounded swimming rock that Stefan and I used to call Lasse’s Ass, after his stepfather. I swim straight across the bay toward the little crooked pier in front of my house.
That’s when I see it: first, as a movement in the waves by the small stony beach to the right of the pier. As I swim closer, I see something lying in the water. I swim even closer. Curious but also a little worried. Last fall a dead seal washed up at that exact same place.
I climb up the other side of the pier because the sharp rocks on the right side make it far too risky.
Once I’m up on the tar-scented little pier, I finally see her. She is lying naked under the water, her fair hair drifting around her head like an aureole. Her eyes are open and her face rests almost peacefully against a large yellow-brown bushel of kelp. With every wave, her head heaves and her hair makes a billowing motion, like the seaweed wrapped around her body. Her mouth is open and her lips have taken on a blue color. Her arms are stretched above her head as if she were trying to reach something out there in the water. Her fists are half clenched, but I can still see traces of the green nail polish on her unnaturally pale, slender fingers. Her body is small and thin like a child’s, but with the shape of a woman.
It is Sara Matteus.
How do you assess a person’s life? Is there some kind of divine power that spreads suffering and misery equally among us all? That creates justice and balance out of chaos? A hard childhood, a difficult adolescence, illness and alienation? So much the better, for then comes success and a career, life-long love, money in the bank, and golden years in a circle of loving children and grandchildren.
I know this isn’t true. Sara will never win the lottery, meet the right man, or use her difficult experiences to rehabilitate young girls gone astray. Her life was short and hard, and that thought consumes me, makes my hands tremble and my eyes tear up.
We are sitting in my living room. I’m on the couch, with my legs curled under me and the old tartan blanket wrapped around my body, while across from me on two kitchen chairs sit Sonja and Markus, police officers who seem to have an endless supply of patience, understanding, and sympathy. They listen patiently to my confused report, stuff pillows behind my back, offer coffee, and Markus kindly brings me the glass of wine I ask for instead.
I have told them everything I know. My story must be confusing: disorganized, incomplete, partial observations and memories. Piled on top of each other. Woven together. That I came home, took my usual evening dip, found Sara by the pier, and can’t recall how I got into the house and dialed 911. That I then had a confused conversation with the officers in the first patrol car to arrive on the scene, as they cordoned off the area around my little pier with plastic tape.
How I became hysterical and cried against one policeman’s shoulder while the other one, a young blond woman, called for the “duty desk” and something called the “MDA doctor.”
I couldn’t understand why anyone would call for a doctor when Sara was so obviously… dead.
“So, she was one of your patients,” Sonja starts when she has supplied me with yet another glass of the sour wine from the box.
“Yes.”
I try to answer the questions clearly and confidently, but my voice doesn’t really hold up. It sounds hollow and weak.
“Why did Sara come to you? I mean, she must have had some kind of psychological problem?”
“Sara had a psychiatric diagnosis, borderline personality disorder, or emotionally unstable personality disorder, as some prefer to call it.”
Sonja is the one asking the questions, she is clearly in charge. A dark, middle-age
d, thin and sinewy woman with obvious authority. But there is something stressed about her manner. Her words come quickly—treacherous as streaming, shallow water in a flood. It looks harmless, but if you don’t watch yourself you are going to be swept away.
She pushes a strand of shaggy dark hair behind one ear. I wonder what it’s like to work with death. With evil. Misery. If it shows in her face, in the wrinkles on her forehead, in the hard lines around her mouth, in her way of clenching her fists so that the knuckles whiten as she fixes her gaze on me.
Markus makes a note. He is young, looks like he’s twenty, but I assume he must be older. Blond, curly hair, a childishly plain, boyish face. Like a cherub. Light, clear blue eyes that watch me constantly. His body is compact, like an athlete. Sinewy, tan muscular arms, broad shoulders.
“I’m sure you know that the therapist-client privilege can be broken when a person is subject to a police investigation. And there will be an investigation now, because Sara is… dead.” Sonja says the last word hesitantly, as if it is dangerous and must be pronounced with greater care and respect.
“I know,” I answer.
Contrary to what most people think, therapist-client privilege also does not apply if a client discloses that he or she has committed a crime punishable by more than two years in prison. Only clergy have an absolute obligation to keep confidentiality.
“Tell me a little more about borderline personality disorder,” she encourages me.
“Okay, I’m sure you already know this, but as I said, borderline is a kind of personality disorder. The typical borderline patient is a girl. She is emotionally unstable and sometimes self-destructive. Has unstable but extremely intense relationships, often acts out sexually, and is also sometimes prone to suicide. Although Sara really wasn’t suicidal.”
I realize that I sound like I’m spouting facts out of a psychiatric textbook and interrupt myself with a little more wine.
“And what does this all mean in practice?” Sonja asks, glancing at the watch on her slender wrist.
I briefly recount Sara’s background. Everything from her foster home placement and the sexual assaults to her habit of cutting herself.
“Why do these girls cut themselves?” Markus asks in a melodic Norrland dialect.
It is the first time he speaks during our conversation, and I am fascinated by how light and gentle his voice is, just like his face.
“To subdue the anxiety, or maybe to get attention. Because they are filled with self-hatred. There are also those who maintain that cutting oneself has become somewhat fashionable. And not everyone who cuts herself has a borderline problem. These days you can learn how to cut yourself on the Internet. If one girl tries, her friend will try it too. But it’s not the same thing as a borderline personality disorder…”
Markus nods. He doesn’t look like a policeman, I think. He looks too young. On the other hand, I don’t know what a real-life detective looks like. I’ve never been interrogated this way before. Because that is what they’re doing, under the surface of empathy and kindness.
“So you were going to cure Sara from this borderline thing,” Sonja says, examining me.
“No, not cure. Borderline personality disorder is not like the common cold. It’s more about helping the patient find a functional behavior, to be able to put up with painful emotions. We worked on getting rid of her self-injuring. So she wouldn’t cut herself,” I explained. “I, we… tried together to make her life more… bearable.”
Markus makes another note on his pad.
“And all your patients have this kind of”—he hesitates—“borderline problem?” He seems satisfied that he used the terminology correctly.
“No, no, it’s fairly unusual. The majority of patients who come to me have anxiety disorders. They may be afraid of various things, spiders or blood and such. Some have social phobias; they become nervous in social situations. Others have panic attacks. I use something called cognitive behavior therapy. For simplicity’s sake one might say that I don’t try so much to figure out why people have problems, but rather I focus on how these problems can be solved. Usually we work with practical exercises. Say you’re afraid of spiders, for example. Then you have to practice looking at spiders, then touching spiders, and so on. It’s called exposure. Well, and I also have a number of depressed patients and some who have eating disorders.”
Markus and Sonja nod as if depression and eating disorders are daily fare for them, which perhaps they are. What do I know about police work?
“So Sara wasn’t normal?” Sonja asks, her head to one side.
“Normal? What is normal? No, she definitely was not normal based on psychiatric assessment criteria. But ‘normal’ is a relative term, not an absolute one. Isn’t it? Every person that falls within two, three standard deviations from the median is normal by definition. That doesn’t mean normal is better. Do you think all the great composers, authors, and artists were normal? Do you think normal people have carried civilization forward?”
I realize that I sound aggressive without really meaning to, but I am so desperately anxious to make sure that Sara will not be reduced to an antisocial, maladjusted mental case.
“Sara was talented and funny,” I say almost inaudibly.
“I understand,” says Markus, looking at me.
For a moment I feel confident that he actually does.
Suddenly we fall silent and look out over my property where crime scene technicians are still lumbering around. There are two bearded men in their midfifties in boots, uniform trousers, and tight T-shirts that fit snugly around their swelling, ball-like bellies. They are so alike they could be brothers, and they strongly remind me of a TV personality from my childhood who hosted a car program.
It has stopped raining, the sun has gone down, and darkness is starting to settle in. The familiar cramp is spreading in my chest.
“What was your relationship like with Sara? I mean, did you socialize privately?” Sonja continues.
“Never, we only met in therapy. But we liked each other,” I add.
“Did Sara know where you live?”
“Absolutely not. We never give out our private contact information to patients, and I have an unlisted telephone number.”
“Who paid for Sara’s therapy? Based on what you’ve told us, I can’t imagine she paid for it herself.”
Sonja is right. Sara could never have been able to afford therapy on her own. Most of my patients are financially pretty well-off. A few get support from the county to go to therapy. There’s a deep injustice in that. There are functioning forms of treatment, but only a small number of privileged people have access to them.
“Sara has a sympathetic social worker,” I answer. “Her psychiatric outpatient contact thought she should take part in a project for borderline girls, to help them get certified therapy from specially trained psychotherapists. But then they decided that Sara was functioning too well to be placed in the program. You see, she was not suicidal. Cutting herself wasn’t enough. At Social Services they still thought that Sara should have the opportunity to receive therapy, so even if I don’t have the same qualifications as the project therapists, she ended up with me. Social Services pays.”
“Do you have any idea how she ended up in the water outside your pier?”
I shake my head mournfully and look at Sonja. Her gaze is inscrutable.
“Siri, I have to ask. Where were you between three and five o’clock this afternoon?”
I look at her with surprise.
“I never thought I would get a question like that. Between three and five,” I search my memory. “I was in session with a patient, Anneli Malm.”
“Do you have witnesses?”
I shrug. “My colleagues were there, Anneli too. Of course.”
Suddenly I remember.
“I film the conversations with my patients. The time and date are registered automatically. Feel free to check my recordings.”
Sonja nods, squirms in her
chair, and brings the palms of her hands together in a gesture that I interpret means she has something important to say.
“Siri, are you certain that Sara was not suicidal?”
“Absolutely,” I answer. “Besides, everything was going really well for her right now. She had stopped cutting herself and she had met that guy I told you about earlier…”
I fall silent. There is something unspoken between Sonja and Markus, some insight about Sara that they do not want to share with me, but I know it anyway. Sonja gives Markus a brief glance and takes a deep breath.
“There are things that indicate this may have been a suicide. There is much that indicates that Sara has…”
She hesitates, searching for a suitable way to put it, as if such a word might exist.
“There are signs that indicate that Sara did not drown in an accident.”
“Such as what?”
“She had cuts on her arms.”
“Sara always cuts her arms,” I say, and think before I continue. “Were the wounds fatal in themselves?”
“I can’t answer that. We have to wait for the coroner’s report.”
“The fact that she cut herself is nothing new in any case. That doesn’t have to mean she committed suicide.”
“Hmm. There’s more. We found a suicide note. It was on the rocks next to her clothes.”
“A suicide note?”
“Yes. I’m sorry I can’t show it to you now, but in the letter she writes that you are…” Sonja hesitates again, glancing quickly at Markus.
“She writes,” Sonja starts again, “that the therapy is one reason she has chosen to end her life.”
“I don’t understand…” My voice is just a whisper.
Markus gets up and sits tentatively beside me on the old lumpy couch. Suddenly he looks tired. Police-tired. Seen-too-much-misery tired. Despite his age. Carefully, he pulls the blanket up over my shoulders.
Some Kind of Peace: A Novel Page 10
