The Red Address Book

by Sofia Lundberg

  The city hung over us like a constant shadow of the past, when everything had seemed so much better. In truth, it still hangs there today. In the furniture, the French books, the paintings. Paris is the city that captured our souls.

  When Gösta was in a good mood, I often spoke French with him. He understood only the odd word, so I tried to teach him more. He loved it.

  “We’ll go one day, Doris. You and I,” he repeated, even after he must have realized it would never happen.

  I always nodded and smiled.

  “Yes, one day, Gösta. One day.”

  27

  Jenny shovels in the baby food, stew and potatoes this time, from the colorfully labeled glass jar. Organic. The sauce smears around Tyra’s mouth, and between chews Jenny scrapes it away with the spoon. The little one chomps away noisily, reaches for the spoon, and grasps at the air. Jenny shakes her head and pushes Tyra’s hand back.

  “We need to hurry. Fast, fast. Eat quickly,” she says in a baby voice, making airplane sounds as she brings the spoon toward the girl’s mouth. Tyra opens wide for the plane, but then snaps her mouth shut and starts grabbing for the spoon and protesting loudly. In the cafeteria the people at the next table glare as the whimpering becomes a piercing scream. Jenny gives up and hands the spoon to Tyra. She immediately quiets down and hits the spoon against the plate, making the sauce splatter. The neighbors glare again. Just give up, at least she’s not crying, Jenny thinks, wiping the table with a napkin to clean up the worst of the mess.

  “Mommy will be back in a minute.” She gets up and runs over to the counter, where she buys a sandwich. Constantly glancing over to the girl in the high chair. Before she makes it back to the table, she has taken two bites of the dry bread. She pauses and allows the taste of Swedish ham to fill her mouth. A memory rears up. The sandwiches Doris used to make for her to take to school—the first real sandwiches she ever had in her lunchbox. Before that, it had always been crackers or cookies, maybe an apple or two.

  Jenny can remember exactly where she was the first time they met. She had been sitting in the corner of the red sofa, staring at the flickering TV. A blanket was tightly wrapped around her. She was four. Doris had knocked on the door, unannounced, and stepped into a home full of chaos. Jenny’s mother lay asleep on the kitchen rug, drool running from the corner of her mouth. Her skirt didn’t reach even halfway down her thighs, and her tights were torn just beneath the knee. Little Jenny had seen her fall. A trickle of dried blood revealed that she had somehow cut herself.

  Jenny shudders. The memory of fear. The memory of how she had recoiled when the strange old lady who spoke English with an accent entered the room. She had thought Doris was someone from social services who had come to take her away; her mother had often threatened Jenny with this possibility. She covered half of her face with the blanket, and her breath dampened the fabric. When Doris caught sight of Elise, she turned her on her side and phoned for an ambulance. She had stroked Elise’s forehead while they waited for help to arrive. As Elise was carried out into the cold night by two muscular paramedics, Doris sat down next to Jenny on the sofa. Her hair was damp with sweat at her temples, and her heart was beating so hard that Jenny could feel her pulse. Doris was crying, and somehow those tears made her seem less dangerous. Jenny’s teeth were chattering; she stared straight ahead, shivering. She couldn’t stop trembling. Doris gently cupped a warm hand under her chin and used the other to stroke her back. Hushed her and said there there, there there, shh for so long, her words became a melody filling the silent room. They sat like that for hours. Doris didn’t attempt to talk to her. Not then. Jenny fell asleep in her lap that evening, with Doris’s warm hand on her cheek.

  A thud tears Jenny from her thoughts. Tyra has thrown the glass jar onto the floor, and she has food all over her face and T-shirt. Jenny pulls off the girl’s top, wipes her face with the clean side, shoves the top into the changing bag, and pulls out a fresh one. Tyra has already managed to press her sticky hands to her round belly. With a pleased grin, she studies the pattern of purée and claps her hands again, making sure the mess spreads over even more of her skin.

  “Oh, no, Tyra. We need to be quick, hurry, hurry.” She rubs a wet wipe over the girl’s stomach, throat, face, and hands, and then transfers her, half-naked, to the stroller. She puts the clean top to one side. Leaving a scene of chaos on the table, Jenny quickly pushes the stroller away. She needs to get back to Doris. She needs to hear everything before Doris dies. She half-runs down the corridor, barreling through the door while pushing the stroller.

  “How did you know to turn up right then?”

  Doris jolts awake and rubs her eyes. Tyra sneezes and moans loudly. Jenny wrestles her into the clean top, her eyes fixed on Doris.

  “Who was it that called you? When you saved Mom’s life, the first time I met you. How could you have known?”

  “It was . . .” She clears her throat, can’t say the words. Jenny picks up the glass of water from the bedside table and helps her drink.

  “She called,” Doris continues.

  “Mom?”

  “Yes, I hadn’t seen her in several years, not since you were a baby. She wrote sometimes, and I phoned her every now and then. It was expensive to phone in those days, and she rarely answered.”

  “But what did she say when she called? What made you travel to the United States?”

  “Darling . . .”

  “Tell me. You can tell me anything. She’s dead. I want to know the truth.”

  “She said she was going to give you away.”

  “Give me away? To who?”

  “To anyone. She said she was going to drive to one of the rich neighborhoods in New Jersey and leave you on a sidewalk. That anything would be better than a life with her.”

  “She was probably right. As I remember it, it was the drugs, not her, that ruled my life. Almost anything would be better than that.”

  “I came straightaway, caught a plane from Stockholm that same evening.”

  “What if . . .”

  “Yes, what if . . .”

  “What if she’d died right there and then? I could have had a different life.”

  “Yes, I think that’s precisely what she was trying to do. Elise didn’t want to live any longer, she couldn’t cope.”

  “It was thanks to you that she survived.”

  “It’s all about timing.” Doris squeezes Jenny’s hand gently to show her that she’s joking, right in the middle of this dark memory.

  “I’m going to play ‘what if’ all evening.”

  “What if I’d never gotten to meet you?”

  “No, I can’t imagine that, not even as a game. You had to be part of my life, Doris. I don’t know if I can cope without you.” She bursts into tears. “You saved my life!”

  “You’ll cope, Jenny. You’re strong. You always have been.”

  “I wasn’t strong that day, when you had to hold my chin to stop my teeth from chattering.”

  “You were four at the time, my love. But yes, you were strong even then. And brave. You were. You lived your first few years in complete chaos, and yet you managed to survive and become the person you are today. Can’t you see that?”

  “What am I today, though? A frumpy mother of three who doesn’t have a career.”

  “Why do you say that? Why do you see yourself as frumpy? You’re more beautiful than most people. And smarter. You know that. You’ve been a model too. And you’ve also been to college.”

  “I’ve got a face that’s like a blank page. And a tall, slim body. Is that beauty? No. That’s someone who can adapt to the changing requirements of her surroundings. Who can please. That’s all fashion is about. Plus, I never graduated. I met Willie. And became a mother.”

  “Stop putting yourself down. It’s never too late.” Doris gives her a stern look.

  “Who says it’s never too late? You said yourself that it’s easier to be young and beautiful.”

  “You are beautifu
l. You’re talented. So. That’s enough. Focus on something else. Start cultivating your talents rather than going through life thinking that you aren’t good enough. Start writing again. Work on yourself. In the end, that’s all that really matters. You’re never any more than your soul.”

  Jenny snorts. “Write. You’ve always gone on about that.”

  “When will you realize that you’re talented? You won competitions in college. Have you forgotten about that?”

  “Yeah, I might have won a few competitions. But what am I meant to write about? I have nothing to write about. Nothing. My life is flat. Perfect, maybe, in other people’s eyes, but flat. No passion. No adventures. Willie and I are like two friends who run the business that is our family. No more, no less.”

  “So come up with something, then.”

  “Come up with something?”

  “Yes, make the life you want to live. And write . . .”—she pauses here, gasping for air, and then continues at a whisper—“everything down. Don’t miss this chance. Don’t waste your memories. And for God’s sake, don’t waste your talent!”

  “Did you?”

  “Yes.”

  “Do you regret it?”

  “Yes.”

  Suddenly, Doris jumps and her chin slumps against her chest. Her mouth twists, and she squeezes her eyes tight. Jenny shouts for help and a nurse comes running. She presses the alarm button and three women dressed in white are soon stooped over Doris.

  Jenny tries to peer between their shoulders. “What’s going on? Is she OK?”

  Doris’s expression is back to normal; her mouth has relaxed. But her skin has turned a shade of bluish-purple.

  “We need to take her back down to intensive care.” A nurse pushes Jenny to one side and releases the brake on the bed.

  “Can I come?”

  Another nurse, dark-haired and short, shakes her head.

  “She needs rest. We’ll keep you informed.”

  “But I want to be there if, when, if she . . .”

  “We’ll make sure you’re there. She seems stable now, but her heart is a little unsteady. It’s normal. You know, so close to the end.”

  She touches Jenny’s shoulder and then turns to join the others, who have already begun rolling the bed down the corridor. Jenny remains where she is, watching them. She can’t see Doris over the end of the wood-and-steel bed. She clenches her fists and wraps her arms around herself.

  28

  She finds the tin boxes of photographs at the very back of the wardrobe. One with a thick layer of tape wrapped around it, one without. She cuts the tape with a kitchen knife and then opens both tins and spreads out the images in an arc across the kitchen table. Mixes memories from Paris with memories from New York. There, right in the middle of the pile, she spots herself. A small, curly-haired girl dancing so that her skirt floats out around her. She smiles and puts it to one side; she’ll save it to show Willie later. One of the few pictures from her childhood. Many photographs are older. In one, Doris is leaning against a wall, with a hand on her hat. Her head is turned in profile, and she is gazing toward the Eiffel Tower. She is wearing a dark pleated skirt and what seems to be a matching blouse, with a white collar and fabric buttons. Her soft curls frame her face. Another is a close-up shot. Doris’s eyebrows are thin and sharp, painted in darkly. Her skin is powdered white and her lips glisten with lipstick. Her lashes are long and her gaze lingering, as though she is dreaming of something far away. Jenny picks up the black-and-white image and studies it more closely. Doris’s skin is completely smooth, without a single trace of wrinkles or sun damage. Her nose is dainty and straight, her eyes big, her cheeks rounded like a teenager’s. She looks so young and so unbelievably beautiful.

  Jenny scans the pictures. It’s like visiting a different era. The words Doris has written take on new weight, now that she can see how things actually looked. She picks up an image of Doris wearing strappy heels and a dress with a bell skirt and a wide lapel over the chest. A round hat, like a wool beanie, hugs her head. She is posing with one hand slightly away from her body. Her chin is raised, and her face has a determined look. Her eyes are turned away from the camera.

  It’s nothing like the fashion photography of the eighties, when Jenny herself posed for the camera. Back then, you had to pout your lips, or even part them. Your eyes had to “make love to the camera,” you were told, and plunging necklines showed off your breasts, rubbed with oil to make them glisten. Using enormous fans, the photographers tried to make it look as if a model’s hair was blowing in the wind, but the results were never particularly good: loose strands blew into your face, into your eyes, or straight up above your head. If there was one thing that infuriated stylists in the eighties, it was those fans. Jenny smiles at the memory. One day, she’ll show the kids the pictures stashed away in the attic. They’re still inside the modeling portfolio she had to carry around. The one she showed to photographers and advertising agencies whenever she was looking for work. Willie has seen the pictures, but the kids haven’t; they don’t know anything about that part of her life. It’s best if she tells them herself. So they don’t experience what she did. Doris should have told her long ago.

  The phone rings, and she throws herself at it to stop the noise from waking Tyra.

  “Hi, Willie!”

  “I’m just going to say this once, OK? Please come home!”

  Jenny is taken aback by the sudden outburst. She goes to the kitchen, shuts the bedroom door behind her, leaving a slight gap so she can hear Tyra in case she needs her.

  “What’s going on?”

  “Jenny, I’ll lose my job if this continues.”

  “Continues? If what continues? Tell me what’s going on.”

  “Chaos. Chaos is what’s going on.”

  “Have the boys been fighting?”

  “That’s putting it mildly. They fight constantly. I can’t do my job and take care of them and look after the house. It just doesn’t work. I don’t know how you manage!”

  “Calm down! Please, calm down, it’s not that bad. We can fix this, you just need to get some help.”

  “How long does she have left?”

  Jenny feels something break inside; now she is the one who can’t do this anymore.

  “How long? Wait, just let me ask the grim reaper, he’s standing right here breathing down my neck. How the hell should I know? But thanks for finally asking how she’s doing. Not well, is the answer. She doesn’t have long. And I’m not having much fun here either, in case you’re interested. I love her. She’s the only grandmother I ever had. No, more than that; she’s like my mother. She saved my life once, and I’m not going to let her die alone. The fact you can even ask me something like that . . .”

  Willie doesn’t say anything for quite some time. When he does speak again, his voice sounds embarrassed, apologetic.

  “I’m sorry, baby. Sorry. I went way too far. But I’m completely desperate over here. I’m serious, how do you make it through the day? It’s awful.”

  “I make it through because I love you all. It’s no simpler or more complicated than that.”

  She can practically hear him smiling. Waits for him to say something.

  “What was the name of that girl we used as a babysitter recently?”

  “The one who lives on Parkway Drive? Sophie.”

  “Do you think she could help out, make lunch for the boys, be here in the afternoon when they get home from school?”

  “Maybe. Call her and ask. I can send you her number.”

  “Thanks. Have I told you that you do a fantastic job?”

  “No. It’s actually the first time you’ve ever said that.”

  “Sorry. I’m incredibly selfish.”

  “Incredibly.”

  “But you like me anyway?”

  She pauses for a second, holds back her answer.

  “Yeah. Sometimes. You have your good sides.”

  “I miss you.”

  “I don’t miss you. Not
when you’re being like this. You have to realize that it’s important for me to be here. And that it’s difficult enough as it is.”

  “Sorry. I really mean that.”

  “OK.”

  “Sorry, sorry, sorry.”

  “I’ll think about it. How did it go with Allan?”

  “What? Who?”

  “Allan Smith. Two l’s. You were going to check with Stan. No, don’t tell me you forgot! We have to find him!”

  “Shit! It’s been so chaotic here, Jenny, I completely forgot.”

  “How could you forget? It’s so important! So important for me and for Doris.”

  “Sorry again! I’m a terrible person. I’ll call him right now. Right now! I love you, speak soon!”

  The Red Address Book

  A. ANDERSSON, ELISE

  A little red dress with a full skirt. Light curls that frizzed at the temples. Arms waving in the air. You always did love to dance, Jenny. Round and round my legs. I tried to catch you, and you laughed. Then I grabbed one hand, pulled you close, and we laughed together. I blew raspberries on your stomach. Your warm, soft stomach . . . You pulled on my ears, kneaded my earlobes between your finger and thumb. It hurt when you did that, but I never wanted to tell you to stop. Didn’t want to push you away, now that you had come so close.

  Those moments we had, they were the best of my life. I never got to experience the joys of motherhood. Maybe it was just as well. But I had you. I got to be part of your life. I got to give you unconditional love. I got to be there when your mother wasn’t enough. I’m so happy about that. That I was able to help you. To me, it was a gift, and even today, I’m ashamed that I occasionally felt relieved when she disappeared. I got to pack your lunchbox, take you to school, kiss you goodbye. I got to help you with your homework. I got to take you to the zoo, sing about all the animals, and eat ice cream.

  You never wanted to eat meat after our visits to the zoo. You would sit there in your chair, pressing your lips together whenever I tried to give you ham or chicken or fish.