The Red Address Book

by Sofia Lundberg

  I still have that letter, Jenny, among all the others in my little tin box. It might even be worth something now, given that he did gain fame in the end, long after his death.

  I stood in the post office for quite some time, his letter in one hand and the envelope in the other. I felt as though my last lifeline had been severed, and the world around me faded to black and white. Eventually, I slowly folded the sheet of paper and tucked it inside my bra, close to my heart. A strong desire to return to Stockholm as soon as possible replaced my sense of dejection. I ran to the bathroom. Inside, I pinched my cheeks until they flushed and then painted my lips red. Straightened my beige tailored jacket and adjusted the skirt that my hips still hadn’t filled out. After that, I headed straight to the John Robert Powers Agency for models. Carl had told me that in New York, beautiful girls found modeling work through this agency. That was how they got mannequin jobs here—not through department stores or fashion houses, as was done in Paris. My heart was pounding as I placed my hand on the doorknob. I had no idea what a modeling agency was like, but I was willing to find out. My beauty was my only asset.

  “Hello,” I said quietly, standing at a huge desk behind which a small woman sat. She was wearing a tight black-and-red-checked dress. She looked me up and down, her glasses perched on the tip of her nose.

  “I’m here to see John Robert Powers,” I stuttered in my hesitant English.

  “Do you have an appointment?”

  I shook my head, and she gave me a superior smile.

  “Miss, this is the John Robert Powers Agency. You can’t just walk in here and assume you can see him.”

  “I just thought that he might want to meet me. I come from Paris, where I worked with some of the big European fashion houses. Chanel, for example. Do you know Chanel?”

  “Chanel?” She got up from her seat and pointed to one of the dark-gray chairs along one wall.

  “Take a seat. I’ll be back in a moment.”

  I sat there for what seemed like an eternity. Eventually she came back, accompanied by a short man. He was wearing a charcoal-colored suit. I could see a vest beneath it, and a thin golden chain hanging from one pocket. Like the receptionist, he looked me up and down before he opened his mouth.

  “So you worked for Chanel?” His eyes flitted upward from my feet. He avoided my eyes.

  “Turn around.” He emphasized the words by raising a hand and making a spinning motion. I turned 180 degrees and glanced at him over my shoulder.

  “It must have been a long time ago,” he snorted, turning on his heel and walking away. I stared at the receptionist. What was going on?

  “That means you can go now.” She nodded toward the door.

  “But don’t you want me to try on any clothes?”

  “Miss, I’m sure you were a pretty model at one point in time, but those days are over. We have room only for young girls here.”

  She looked almost satisfied. Maybe every girl that Mr. Powers rejected was a personal triumph for her.

  I ran my hand over my cheek. It was still soft. Still as smooth as a child’s. I cleared my throat.

  “Perhaps I could book an appointment? One day when Mr. Powers has more time?”

  She shook her head firmly.

  “There’s no point, I’m afraid. It’s better if you look for another kind of job.”

  15

  “What happened to your face?” Jenny leans in closer to the screen. Doris’s cheek is covered by a large white bandage.

  “Nothing. I fell over and hit myself, but it’s nothing to worry about. It’s just a scratch.”

  “But how did that happen? Don’t they help you when you get up to walk around?”

  “Ah, it was so silly. I overdid it and the nurse couldn’t hold me up. I have to try to stay mobile; they’ll send me to an old people’s home otherwise.”

  “An old people’s home? Who said that?”

  “The social worker. I didn’t want to say anything to you, but he comes to see me with a form every now and then. He wants me to sign it, so they can send me there voluntarily.”

  “How does that make you feel?”

  “I’d rather die.”

  “Then we’ll have to make sure you don’t go. Next time he comes to see you, call me.”

  “And what will you say then, my dear? That I can live at home? Because I can’t. Not right now. In that sense, he’s right. I’m not much good for anything at the moment. But I’m not going to give him the satisfaction of admitting that.”

  “I’ll talk to him,” Jenny says soothingly. “But how are you passing the time? Do you have anything to read? Should I send you some new books?”

  “Thanks, but I still have a few that you sent last time. I liked the Don DeLillo a lot, the one about September 11.”

  “Falling Man. I liked that one too. I’ll see if I can send you another . . . Doris! Doris! What is it?”

  Doris’s face is frozen in pain. She presses her right hand to her chest and waves the other one wildly.

  “Doris!” Jenny shouts from the small window on the screen. “Doris, what’s happening? Tell me, what’s going on?”

  There’s a faint hissing sound. Doris stares at Jenny with a look of resignation, her face losing even more color. Jenny shouts out, with all the strength she has.

  “Nurse, hello! Hello! Nurse!” Then she roars—steady sound coming straight from her mouth. Doris had turned the volume down low on the computer, so that it wouldn’t bother the other patients, but the woman in the next bed can hear that something is wrong. She peers over the edge of her bed and sees Doris, apparently asleep. The woman presses the alarm button. Jenny screams and shouts. Eventually, a nurse appears. The woman points to Doris’s bed. The nurse lifts the computer from Doris’s stomach and places it on the bedside table.

  “She’s having a heart attack!” Jenny shouts, making the nurse jump.

  “My God, you scared me!”

  “Check on Doris! She cramped up and was holding her hand to her chest. Then she fainted!”

  “What are you saying?” The nurse presses Doris’s alarm button, tries to find the pulse in her wrist. When she can’t, she starts giving mouth-to-mouth. Between breaths, the nurse shouts for help. Jenny watches it all unfold from her light-green kitchen in California. Three more staff members come running, a doctor and two nurses. The doctor turns on the defibrillator and holds the two paddles over Doris’s chest. The shock makes her body lift up and then fall back to the bed. He charges the paddles again and gives her a second shock.

  “I have a pulse!” the nurse shouts, her index and middle fingers pressed firmly against Doris’s wrist.

  “Is she alive?” Jenny shrieks. “Tell me, is she alive?”

  The doctor turns around in surprise, raises an eyebrow to the nurses. Jenny hears him mutter: “Why didn’t anyone turn the computer off?”

  He looks back down at her and nods.

  “I’m sorry you had to see that. Are you a relative?”

  Jenny nods, panting. “I’m her only relative. How is she?”

  “She’s old and she’s weak. We’ll do everything we can to keep her going for as long as possible, but the heart can’t handle all that much when you’re as old as Doris. Has she had a heart attack before?”

  Jenny shakes her head. “Not that I know of. She’s always been strong and healthy. Please help her; I can’t imagine life without her.”

  “I understand. Her heart is beating again now. We’re going to take her up to intensive care, and she’ll spend the night there. Is it OK if we disconnect you now?”

  “Can’t I go with her?”

  “I think it’s best if you have a bit of a break.” He nods toward Tyra, who is whimpering behind Jenny. She reaches down and lifts the child onto her hip. She hushes Tyra.

  “It’s fine. I want to stay with Doris for a while, if that’s OK.”

  The doctor shakes his head apologetically.

  “I’m sorry. We can’t have the computer connecte
d in intensive care. It interferes with the equipment. Stay online; one of the nurses will take your details. We’ll make sure to keep you updated on how she’s doing. Goodbye.”

  “No, wait, I need to ask . . .” But the doctor and two of the nurses vanish from Jenny’s screen.

  16

  The roar of waves crashing in on the beach is drowned out by the constant stream of cars on the road. The house has a pretty view, but they hadn’t given much thought to the traffic when they moved in. No one ever sits on their white porch, looking out to sea.

  Not until today.

  When Willie gets home from work, Jenny is the first thing he sees. She is sitting, with Tyra on her lap, on the hammock that they strung up many years earlier, back when they were head over heels in love and always wanted to be close. It swings slowly, the chains creaking gently against the hooks.

  “Why are you sitting out here, in all the fumes? It’s not good for the baby.” He smiles at them, but Jenny’s face is serious.

  “Do you have to call her a baby? She’s almost two.”

  “She’s one and a half and has just started to walk.”

  “She’s twenty months, two weeks, and three days. Almost two.”

  “OK, OK. I’ll call her Tyra then.” Willie shrugs and opens the door.

  “I’m thinking about going to Sweden.”

  The door swings shut with a thud. Tyra whimpers.

  “Huh? Sweden? What’s going on?”

  “Doris had a heart attack today. She’s dying.”

  “A heart attack? I thought she’d broken her leg.”

  “It’s bad. I have to be with her now. I can’t let her die alone. I’ll be gone as long as . . . she needs me.”

  “How’s that going to work? Who’s going to take care of the kids? We can’t manage without you.”

  “What? Is that all you have to say?”

  “I’m sorry about Doris, I really am. I know she means the world to you. But I just don’t know how we’ll manage.”

  “I can take Tyra with me. The boys are at school during the day. You’ll cope.”

  Willie takes a deep breath and looks away. Jenny places a hand on his shoulder.

  “It’ll be fine.”

  “I know she’s important to you, but is she more important than your own family? I’ve got a job to go to, a job that supports this whole family. I can’t be here when the boys get home from school. So who’s going to be here for them?”

  “There has to be a way. We’ll just have to pay someone. She’s dying, don’t you get that?”

  Jenny pulls herself upright and lets Tyra sit at the other end of the hammock. Willie leans against the wall and gently strokes Jenny’s cheek with one hand.

  “I’m sorry. I’m just stressed. What exactly do you know?”

  “We were talking today. Everything was normal to begin with. She was normal. She’d had a fall and there was a bandage on her cheek, but she was joking about it. You know what Doris is like. But then she suddenly started clutching her chest; she couldn’t breathe. It was like on TV, like some episode of Grey’s Anatomy. I screamed, so loud, with everything I had. Eventually they came running with one of those machines with electric paddles.”

  Willie sits down next to her and takes her hand. “So it was really a heart attack?”

  “Yeah. The doctor said she’s starting to get weak. The broken bone and the operation must have taken it out of her. They had to do an angioplasty, the nurse told me afterward.”

  “She could live for a long time yet, love; you don’t know. What are you going to do over there? Just sit around, waiting for her to die? I don’t think that would be good for you.”

  He strokes her hand, but Jenny pulls back, pushes him away.

  “You don’t think it would be good? For me? You’re only thinking of yourself! It’s more comfortable for you if I stay; that’s what this is about. But you know what? She’s all I have left, my only connection to Sweden. My last link to my mom and my grandma.”

  Willie almost manages to hide his sigh. “I know today must have been hard, but you can at least wait to see how she’s doing? She might recover.”

  He pulls her close, and her body relaxes. She leans her head against his chest and breathes in his familiar, reassuring scent. His shirt is damp and she undoes a couple of buttons and pushes the fabric to one side so that her cheek is against his bare skin.

  “Why do we never sit out here anymore?” she whispers, closing her eyes as the sea breeze blows on her face. A heavy truck thunders past, and they laugh.

  “That’s why,” Willie whispers, kissing her head.

  17

  “Good morning, Doris.” The nurse leans over the bed and smiles gently, sympathetically.

  “Where am I? Am I dead?”

  “You’re alive. You’re in intensive care. You had a bit of heart trouble yesterday, a small heart attack.”

  “I thought I was dead.”

  “No, no, you aren’t dead yet. Your heart is stable again. The doctor managed to clear the blockage. Do you remember going in for an operation?”

  Doris nods weakly, uncertainly.

  “How are you feeling?”

  She smacks her tongue against the roof of her mouth.

  “A bit thirsty.”

  “Would you like some water?”

  Doris manages to force a smile.

  “Apple juice, if there is any.”

  “I’ll go and get you some. You get some rest now, you’ll feel better in no time.” The nurse turns away.

  “Things aren’t looking good for the old hag.”

  She turns back. “What did you say?”

  “Things aren’t looking good for the old hag.”

  The nurse bursts out laughing, but falls silent when she sees Doris’s serious face.

  “You might not be feeling your best right now, but you’re going to be fine. It was just a small heart attack; you were lucky.”

  “I’m over ninety-six. I’ve got a limited supply of luck.”

  “Right, exactly, you’re still a long way off a hundred!” The nurse winks and squeezes Doris’s hand.

  “Death, death, death,” she mumbles quietly, once she is left alone. There is a machine by the head of the bed, and she turns and follows its numbers and lines with interest. Her pulse, bouncing up and down, the zigzag pattern of the EKG line, her oxygen levels.

  The Red Address Book

  A. ALM, AGNES DEAD

  Everything came crashing down. Right there, on the street outside the modeling agency. No job. Nowhere to live. No friends. Just a married sister a few blocks away. I remember standing there for quite some time, with my eyes fixed on the heavy traffic on the street in front of me. I couldn’t decide which way to go, right or left—but I barely need to tell you which way I really wanted to go, Jenny. Gösta had once made me promise to be true to myself, not to let circumstances take charge of my fate. But there and then, I broke that promise, as I had so many times before. I didn’t see that I had any other choice. Slowly, I started making my way back to the house I had recently left.

  Carl still wasn’t home. Agnes was sewing next to Kristina. They looked up as I stepped through the door. Agnes leapt to her feet.

  “You came back! I knew it!” She hugged me tight.

  “I’m not staying for long,” I mumbled.

  “Yes, you’re staying. You and Kristina can have the beds upstairs.” She nodded toward the stairs. “Carl and I will sleep here, on the pull-out bed.”

  I shook my head. I couldn’t agree to that.

  “We’ve already talked about it. We were hoping you would come back. There’s plenty of room for you here. You can help me with the housework.”

  She hugged me again, and I felt her stomach press against mine.

  “It’s my turn to help you now. You’ve helped me so much, and we’re going to need you here.” She took my hands and placed them on her belly. I raised an eyebrow, and my jaw dropped as the meaning of her words dawned on m
e.

  “You’re expecting? Why didn’t you say anything sooner! You’re having a baby!”

  She nodded happily. Her mouth couldn’t keep straight any longer; it curled into a smile, accompanied by a giggle.

  “Isn’t it fantastic!” she cried. “We’ll have a little baby in the house!” She held up the piece of fabric she had been embroidering. It was a pale-yellow baby blanket. I felt a jolt in my heart at the thought of the babies Allan and I had once talked of having, but I brushed that away. This was Agnes’s baby, Agnes’s moment. I beamed at her.

  I couldn’t do anything but stay. I was so looking forward to the little one’s arrival. Carl and Agnes, Kristina and me. An odd family eagerly awaiting a new life. Elise, your mother.

  Every morning, Agnes would stand in profile in the kitchen and stroke her stomach. And every morning, it was bigger. We shared her joy at being pregnant, and she let me touch her belly as much as I wanted. There was a child growing inside her, and toward the end of the pregnancy I even saw the outline of a foot when the baby kicked. I tried to grab it, but Agnes brushed away my hand and said I was tickling her.

  The days passed more quickly, now that I felt needed. I helped Agnes shop and cook; I cleaned and washed. She became less active and lost weight, her face becoming gaunt. Her stomach was like a balloon on her otherwise slender body. Over and over again, I asked her whether she really felt OK, but she brushed aside my worries and said she was just tired. She was pregnant, after all.

  “It’s going to be so nice once the baby is here, and I can be myself again.” She sighed. She did this more and more often.

  One day, when I went downstairs, she was sitting on the sofa in the kitchen, and her lips were a shade of bluish-black. Her skin was mottled, her eyes wide, her breathing strained. I can’t write more about it. It’s a moment I would rather forget. A moment so much like the last one with my father. Though this time, it wasn’t my mother who cried out: it was me.