[2013] The Heart Echoes

by Helena vonZweigbergk

  Per says nothing, but Sandra goes on.

  “Can you believe she stuck an olive in every single one of those cheese thingies? I can just picture her standing there with her tongue sticking out as she fiddles with the olives, stabbing a toothpick in each of them in the exact same place, one after another.”

  “Uh-huh,” Per mutters without looking up. “Very fancy.”

  “Sure, but why bother? I mean, really. It’s just so typical of Astrid.”

  Per lowers the newspaper.

  “You know what, Sandra? I think it’s great. As long as there are people who stick toothpicks in olives for someone else’s sake, there’s hope that all of humanity can find love.”

  Sandra searches for the sarcastic glint in Per’s eye, but she doesn’t see it. “Excuse me, but what kind of shit are you babbling now?”

  She drops the yogurt bowl in the sink. She knows that Per sometimes has sentimental thoughts about Astrid, that he can swing between sarcasm and adoration when it comes to her sister. Sandra suspects that this actually has more to do with her than Astrid. When Per wants to get closer to his wife, he aims his sarcastic remarks at her sister, and then they unite in joking about how Astrid is so uptight and such a perfectionist. But when Per is deeply angry with Sandra, he always praises Astrid to the skies, all of a sudden expressing a great warmth for his sister-in-law.

  “Seriously. What’s so terrible about her wanting to make everything nice for Viktor?”

  Per stares at Sandra, a pained look in his eyes.

  She knows he’s trying hard to cope with both a hangover and the remorse he feels about yesterday. She notices the beet-red color of his face, the slight trembling of his hands, the strained quality of his voice.

  Sandra goes into the bathroom to get her toothbrush, then comes back to the kitchen and circles the table as she furiously brushes her teeth.

  “You’re just pretending to be stupid,” she mutters, her mouth filled with foam. “You know exactly what I’m saying.”

  “Love is everything.”

  Sandra laughs. “Sure. That’s right. How ridiculous!”

  “How did you end up so cold, Sandra?”

  She takes the toothbrush out of her mouth and stares at him in surprise and alarm. Foam dribbles down her chin, and she goes over to the sink to rinse her mouth. Then she turns back to look at Per, who is sitting with his arms crossed, staring at her. He looks both tired and genuinely sad. As if he has let go and doesn’t feel like fighting anymore. Fear suddenly surges in Sandra’s gut.

  Everything is falling apart.

  “I don’t know,” she says. “You think I’m cold? Maybe I am. Or maybe that’s what I’ve become. It’s this whole money thing. It’s really getting to me. To us. It’s gnawing at me, stripping away everything.”

  Per picks up the newspaper again and puts his reading glasses back on. “It’s always money,” he says. “That’s all we ever talk about.”

  “Because we don’t have any!”

  Sandra flings her toothbrush into the garbage can. It’s a disgusting, old toothbrush with stinking bristles that are splayed in all directions—a shining example of their growing poverty and their fading energy. She can’t bring herself to get a new toothbrush or wash her old bathrobe or scrub the sticky kitchen floor. Everything is falling apart, and it’s happening fast.

  “Next month I have to pay forty-four thousand kronor to the tax authorities. That’s where we stand right now. If we can’t come up with the money, we can say good-bye to the dance studio. You know we don’t have the money. I’m going to try to sell some courses, and maybe we can get an advance, so we can pay the taxes. Or do you have a better idea?”

  “I could drown myself,” he answers dryly. “Then you could collect the insurance money.”

  “Don’t be stupid, Per. Why can’t you ever be serious?”

  “Why should I be?” he counters.

  Sandra feels hot tears running down her cheeks. Per tosses the paper aside and props his chin on his hand. His eyelids, with their light lashes, twitch when he sees Sandra’s tearstained face.

  She stretches out her hand toward him. “Please, Per. I can’t handle it anymore . . . don’t be like this . . .”

  Sandra’s cell phone starts to ring, lying on the kitchen table. In the midst of their slide toward the abyss, their eyes are drawn to this buzzing object. A photo of Kerstin appears on the display with the word “Mamma” at the top.

  Mamma. Help.

  Sandra picks up the phone to take the call. She wipes the tears from her face on the sleeve of her robe as she does her best to steady her voice.

  Per gets up to rinse off his plate in the sink.

  That’s not what someone would do if he was about to kill himself, right? she thinks. He wouldn’t bother to wash off his plate, would he?

  Sandra anxiously watches Per as he leaves the kitchen.

  Kerstin is sobbing on the phone, and Sandra switches her attention to her mother. “I think she’s sick, Sandra,” Kerstin wails. “She . . . it’s so awful. Something’s just not right.”

  “Mamma, please. Try to calm down. I can’t understand what you’re saying.”

  And then Sandra listens as her mother tells her about Lena. When they went home together, Lena said that she’d already had an X-ray and that she knows she’s very sick. And now Kerstin is supposed to go with Lena to the hospital on Monday because she’s going to have laparoscopic surgery. There are tumors growing inside her, and the doctors want to take biopsies.

  “But Mamma, that’s not necessarily serious. It’s common for people to have tumors that turn out to be benign. You need to calm down,” Sandra tells her.

  “They do? Really?”

  “Yes. I’m sure everything will be fine. Is she in any pain?”

  Kerstin’s pauses before answering. “No, at least not much, but there’s something different about her. She’s just not herself.”

  “But if she’s not having any pain, then I don’t think it’s anything serious. Maybe it’s a cyst, or something like that. Don’t worry.”

  “A mother senses when—”

  “All right. I know,” Sandra interrupts. “But I have to go now. Call me again over the weekend. I’ll talk to you later.”

  Kerstin mumbles, “Good-bye,” and Sandra can hear that her mother is still crying. An icy sensation spreads through her body.

  What if there really is something seriously wrong with Lena?

  Sandra looks at the five health-and-wellness consultants. She had hoped more people would come to the meeting. After she made some calls and contacted people on Facebook, eighteen had expressed a certain degree of interest. But only these five have shown up in the conference room of an insurance company where the consultants have gathered for several days of seminars with the theme “Health in the Workplace.” Sandra has managed to talk them into letting her give a presentation.

  Her knees are shaking. The realization that she’s on her own almost does her in. She has to carry this load alone. Per has decided to turn his back on her. Lately she has noticed that’s exactly what he’s doing. It’s no coincidence—nor the result of fatigue or depression. He is doing it deliberately.

  And then there’s Lena. The two sisters talked for a while on the phone last night. Even though Lena tried to downplay her illness, there was a resigned tone in her voice that worried Sandra.

  Her whole life seemed to be in such upheaval at the moment that Sandra felt the need to get off the bus one stop early so she could have a good cry, standing close to some shrubbery and turned away from the street. Then she continued on.

  Sandra splashed cold water on her face, then cried some more before splashing more water on her face and rubbing it vigorously with the hand towel she brought in her bag. She also brought her dance outfit, which she had planned to wear for the meeting, but she’s grateful she changed her mind. She feels stupid enough as it is.

  She looks at the participants. The whole setting seems unreal. She bl
inks several times, but that doesn’t seem to help. The mute faces turned toward her look like masks, and Sandra feels herself staring back in panic, hoping that something warm, normal, and alive will materialize.

  “How long are we going to be here?” one woman asks as she digs in her purse. Another woman is scrolling through Facebook and occasionally glances up at Sandra.

  They’re waiting for me to say something, she thinks. I need to begin. I have to get started. It’s a matter of life and death.

  “Okay. Well, welcome, everybody.”

  The word everybody seems to echo through the room, bumping against the silence that has settled over the empty chairs.

  “I know that you promote health programs at the companies you visit, and I wanted to talk to you today about a proposal that will advance both health and creativity.”

  This is not what she planned to say. She went over her speech so many times in her mind. When she practiced at home, she had a glint in her eye as she delivered a forceful presentation full of promise. But now she finds herself drowning, murmuring her sentences with lips barely above water.

  “Dance is life,” she goes on, her voice unsteady. “Dance is the creative point at which body and soul, musicality and technique, independence and camaraderie can—what shall I say?—converge. Above all it’s a joyous and . . .”

  Suddenly Sandra comes to a halt. Joyous and . . . Her mind is totally blank. She looks at the five participants and can’t bring herself to continue. Her mouth is dry. She reaches for the bottle of Ramlösa mineral water standing next to her bag. She unscrews the cap with trembling fingers and takes a long swig, not daring to look at her audience.

  “So. Well. Dance is joyous . . . and it’s life.”

  That’s what she meant to say, that’s what she was thinking. “It underscores the life inside of you. Dance means feeling alive, shaping and maximizing your life, making it larger, clearer, nullifying any oppressive limitations so you can simply live.”

  The words come pouring out of her. One woman jots down a few notes, smiling a little awkwardly when Sandra gives her an appreciative glance. “We can dance,” Sandra says firmly, adding silently, Yes, that’s what we do. “My husband has performed in New York, Paris, and Moscow. In fact, he has danced on all the major world stages.”

  What has caused us to sink to the bottom so easily? she thinks to herself.

  Sandra planned to end her presentation by listing the dance classes they could offer, and by demonstrating a few steps. She decides to skip the last part. When she’s done speaking, she takes a pen and notepad out of her bag so she can write down the names of those who would like to sign up. She stands there, ready, but four of the participants get up and hurry out of the room, giving her only brief smiles. The woman who smiled at Sandra earlier stays behind.

  She tells Sandra that her proposal sounds interesting. “Actually, it would be great. It’d be nice if corporate life could loosen up once in a while,” the woman goes on. “All these guys are so inflexible. They could really use a chance to get in touch with themselves.”

  Sandra smiles at the woman, though she can feel the smile is strained. For a few minutes she was immersed in her own vision and forgot all about her concern for Lena and the taxes that have to be paid. But now reality has slowly seeped back into her consciousness, the way the lights go on in a movie theater.

  “I’ll take down your name. Sorry, but where is it you work?”

  The woman mentions a company, though it’s not one Sandra is familiar with. But as she writes down the name, the woman adds that it won’t really do any good. “They’re cutting back on all these kinds of things right now. In the past we were able to hire an entire Friskis & Svettis gym team if we wanted to. Or arrange for champagne tastings, for that matter. But nobody can afford that sort of thing anymore.”

  Sandra lowers the notepad. “But this is more like a sensible investment for your company,” she says, hearing for herself how hurt she sounds.

  At least it’s more useful than champagne tastings, she thinks.

  “That’s the intention, anyway,” she goes on. “An easier way to stay healthy, which will also improve your job performance. A stimulated person can function—”

  “Oh, I know,” the woman interrupts her. “You don’t have to convince me. But there’s just no money for it.” She gives Sandra a wink.

  “So why did you stay behind?”

  “Well,” the woman says quickly, “I went to school with your husband, Per, in Tyresö. That was a long time ago, of course. But I thought he would be coming to the meeting, too. And it’s always fun to say hi to old school friends, you know, after we’ve all gone off in different directions, and . . .”

  The woman stops without finishing her sentence.

  Sandra can’t help saying, “And?”

  “Oh, nothing. I guess that’s all.”

  “Oh. Okay.”

  Sandra wants to nod or say something other than the usual platitudes. But suddenly she feels uncertain. Should she nod, tilt her head, wink, what? She ends up simply staring at the woman.

  The woman hesitates, then leaves the room, adding over her shoulder, “Tell him Gittan said hi.”

  Sandra watches her close the door. The empty chairs are gaping at her like a row of hungry baby birds. What did I expect would happen? What kind of dream world am I living in? she thinks.

  She had such high hopes for this meeting, imagining a room crowded with enthusiastic participants. She envisioned herself standing here and filling her notepad with the names of people who wanted to sign up as she casually mentioned that she would have to request the payment be made within ten days, otherwise she’d have to give their place to someone else.

  The dance classes wouldn’t start until the fall, but there was nothing unusual about asking for payment in advance. That’s how it’s done. Or so Sandra hoped. Four thousand kronor, paid up front, for a group of fifteen.

  That was the plan.

  But now it seems there’s no money to be made at all.

  Per is out for another week because of his injured foot. Sandra has five half-filled evening classes, which she has to teach on her own. Those pupils have already paid for the lessons, and now summer break is approaching. During the six weeks of summer they will sublet the dance studio to a yoga camp, which means they won’t have to pay the lease or the electric bill until the fall, and by then the dance classes should start up again.

  Or maybe not.

  Sandra calls Per to ask if she should pick up any groceries on her way home. But mostly she just wants to make sure he’s still alive.

  “Seems like we’ve got everything here,” he replies.

  Sandra pauses before responding. When Per fails to say anything further, she says curtly, “Okay, bye,” and ends the call.

  She’s standing on the outskirts of the residential area called Ladugårdsgärdet. The insurance company is located in Frihamnen, but after an aimless, meandering walk she has ended up here. She looks at the light-green park area spreading out before her, then takes a path across the expansive lawn. She sees only one other person, off in the distance—a man with two small dogs.

  Sandra walks up a hill and sits down on the grass. She closes her eyes, imagining she can smell the presence of infection or pus. That’s how it smelled when she was a kid and had an ear infection. And later, when she had an inflamed wisdom tooth.

  This whole damn system of mine is breaking down and festering, Sandra thinks.

  And Per didn’t even ask me how it went.

  It’s finally summer. The sun casts its warm glow on her pale, bare arms. She tilts her face up to the welcoming warmth. On the other hand, she thinks, he knows that if things went well, I would have told him. He doesn’t want to ask because he just can’t face it anymore. And I can’t bear to talk about it. They’ve developed a special, collaborative silence to hide their disappointments.

  She pulls her hair back from her forehead. She’s about to hit bottom, and Lena
is sick.

  It should have been me, she thinks. Tears gather in her eyes at the thought. I should be the one who’s sick. How good it would feel, simply to give up and let the cancer gnaw away at me, one cell at a time. Who would even miss me?

  Now the tears are rolling down Sandra’s cheeks.

  How would Per’s face look at her funeral as he stood next to the coffin? Cold and expressionless. Emilia would miss her, of course. She would be dressed in black as she stood next to Per, holding his arm, her pale face mournful and tearstained.

  But Emilia would be okay. In fact, everyone would do fine without her. They would be sad, but not devastated. For the funeral Astrid would undoubtedly wear a neatly pressed black cotton dress—an attractive outfit worn with that slightly arrogant air of hers. As if to say, Yes, I happen to be attractive and well dressed. So what?

  Lena would be more flamboyant, wearing something long and boldly cut, and no doubt she would have a blood-red cloth flower pinned somewhere to her outfit. She would wear black suede sandals with high heels, and turquoise polish on her toenails. Or maybe blue or purple or light green. She would loudly proclaim that grief is not a little gray mouse, or some such nonsense. Or maybe she would simply radiate that attitude of hers. And she would turn the whole funeral into a performance.

  The one person Sandra can imagine irreparably falling apart if she died is Kerstin. At that point in her daydreaming, Sandra can’t help sobbing.

  Mamma. And suddenly she hears her mother saying, “She’s so sick, Sandra.”

  Sandra stops crying. Lena!

  Lena can’t die. The very idea seems ridiculous. It’s beyond comprehension. Besides, Kerstin always has to be so dramatic. Sandra rummages in her bag for a packet of tissues, which she finds way down in the bottom. It looks crumpled and tattered after being in her bag for so long.

  Why don’t I cry more often? she thinks. Then she hears Per’s words: “When did you get so cold?”

  Sandra takes out her cell phone and calls Kerstin. When her mother answers, she sounds very composed, which makes Sandra realize she must not be alone. Maybe Lena is within earshot.