“The chicken is alive and it’s happy,” you said firmly. “I want it to live. All animals should live!”
And so we ate rice and potatoes for a few weeks, until, as children often do, you forgot about the animals and started eating meat again. You had a good heart even as a child, dear Jenny. You were friends with everyone. Even your mother, who let you down time and time again. Elise wasn’t there. Elise didn’t understand your needs. She didn’t have an easy life, nor did you. No one in her life had it easy.
She used to send you presents from rehab. Huge toys that we had to pick up from the post office. Play tents, doll’s houses, teddy bears bigger than you. Do you remember that? You used to look forward to the deliveries. More than you looked forward to seeing her again. We played with those toys for hours. It was just you and me then. You and me and our games. We both felt secure in that.
29
At the very bottom of the tin boxes, Jenny finds a number of letters. Thin envelopes bearing Doris’s address and American stamps. She looks at the dates and the handwriting. Immediately drops the letters. Lets them sail to the floor.
Hot jets of water in the shower warm her, but she can’t stop shaking. She sits down in the corner, curled up, with the showerhead between her knees. She can see her reflection in the polished metal. Can see her eyes—they look so tired, surrounded by crow’s feet. She should get some sleep, should lie down next to Tyra. But then, with Doris’s pink dressing gown wrapped tight around her body, she sits down and stares at the letters. Was it here that her mother wrote that she wanted to get rid of her?
Eventually, she plucks up the courage. Snatches the letters from their envelopes.
Hi, Doris, I need money. Can you send more?
One after one. The letters contain no greetings, no questions about how Doris is.
The books you sent arrived. Thanks. Schoolbooks are good, but I need money too. We need money for food and some new clothes for the little one. Thanks for understanding.
Jenny sorts the envelopes by postmark date. Puts them in order. To begin with, they are all about money. But then the tone changes.
Doris. I can’t cope, having her at home. Do you want to know how I got pregnant with her? I never told you that. I was high as a kite. The usual, heroin. I don’t even know what he looked like. Just that he came from somewhere and fucked me all night. I was black and blue. What kid would want to come into this world like that? She was high when she was born. Screamed and screamed and screamed. Please, come back and help me.
Jenny reads on.
She won’t sleep since you left. She cries herself to sleep. Every night. I’m not going to keep her. I’ll give her to the first person I see tomorrow. I’ve never wanted her.
“Hello? Hello?”
Jenny is sitting with the phone in her hand, staring at Willie’s image on the screen.
“Jenny? Jenny, is that you? Did something happen? Is Doris dead?”
“She never loved me.”
“Who? Doris? Of course she did. Of course she did, baby!”
“Mom.”
“What do you mean? What happened? What did Doris say?”
“She didn’t say anything. I found some letters. Letters in which my mom wrote that she hated me. That I was high on heroin when I was born.”
“But you knew that already, didn’t you?”
“She was raped. That’s how I was made. I wish I’d never opened the letters.”
“Did you know they were from her before you opened them?”
“I recognized the handwriting. I couldn’t help myself.” She loses control and starts to shout. “Fucking shitty childhood!”
“You’re an adult now, you have a good life. You have me. And the kids. They love their mother. And I love you, more than anything else, though I know I’ve been awful lately.”
She sniffs, rubs her eyes. Runs a hand through her hair. “Yes, I have you. And the kids.”
“And you’ve had Doris all your life. Imagine if she hadn’t been there.”
“Mom probably would’ve given me away to who knows who.”
“Doris came when your mom needed to go into rehab. I’m sure that was when she wrote those letters, while she was high. Phone calls were expensive back then. I’m sure she wrote them and put them in the mail without thinking. Doris shouldn’t have saved them. You had good times too.”
“What the hell would you know about it?”
“Don’t swear. I’m trying to comfort you. And I know. You told me.”
“What if I just made that up? To seem normal.”
“Did you?”
“Maybe, a little. I don’t remember.”
“Throw those letters away. It’s ancient history. It doesn’t matter now. Try to get some sleep, if you can.”
“Of course it matters! My entire life, I’ve been living in hope.”
“What do you mean?”
“That she did love me after all.”
“She did. She wasn’t herself when she wrote that stuff. And you are loved. I love you. I love you more than anything else. The kids love you. You mean so much to so many people. Never forget that. It wasn’t your fault.”
“It wasn’t my fault.”
“No, it wasn’t your fault. It’s never a child’s fault if their parents aren’t enough. It was the drugs.”
“And the rape.”
“That wasn’t your doing. You were meant to come into this world. To be the strong and beautiful person that you are. With a laugh that makes time stop whenever I hear it. And to be my wife, and our kids’ wonderful mother.”
The tears are streaming down her cheeks again. “Doris is going to die soon.”
“I know it’s hard. I’m sorry I only thought about myself when I said you should come home.”
“So you don’t think I should come home?”
“No. I miss you, I love you, I need you, but I understand now. I wish I was there to kiss you good night.”
“And hold me.”
“Yeah, and hold you. Try to get some sleep now. Things are go‑ing to get better. I love you. More than anything.”
Jenny hangs up and continues to stare at the envelopes. She doesn’t want to, shouldn’t, but she can’t help herself. She reads the words over and over again. Words from a mother who wasn’t there. Who wasn’t really a mother.
30
It isn’t the pain or the nausea. Not the grief or the longing for her family back home. It’s the memories, seemingly long forgotten, that keep bubbling up. One by one, they visit her. Everything she has repressed. They keep her awake in the quiet, dark Stockholm night. Eventually there are so many thoughts swimming in her head that she leaves Tyra and goes to sit at the kitchen table, wrapped in a blanket, her bare knees drawn up beneath her chin. Doris’s stack of paper is in front of her, the story of a life. She starts to read, searching for good memories. But she can’t focus; the letters on the page merge. She suddenly can’t understand the Swedish words.
All of her worst memories are in English. All of her worst memories are from America. Swedish stands for safety. Doris means love. She came when she was needed, stayed as long as necessary. For months, if she had to. Even when Elise was released from rehab. Doris represented normalcy, and to a child who had never experienced that, who had only caught glimpses of it from her friends’ lives, normal was the most beautiful thing a person could be. Sandwiches in a lunchbox, reminders about her gym clothes and homework, signed forms to hand back to the teacher, two braids in her long hair, clean clothes, and warm food on real plates.
Unlike life with her mother. When she went to school in worn-out shoes. She remembers one pair with an enormous hole in one sole. She dragged that foot behind her so that her friends wouldn’t see the dirt on her sock and laugh at her. Because of this, Jenny developed a particular way of walking, a loping gait that, even today, sometimes returns.
The hardest nights were those when Doris announced that Elise was coming home. Jenny became extremely anxious
. Doris always promised to stay a while longer, and she kept her word. Doris didn’t break a commitment. Wonderful, comforting Dossi.
Jenny goes back to bed and lies down against Tyra’s soft, warm baby’s body. She strokes the little girl’s pale hair and dries her own tears on the pillow. Jenny can’t breathe through her nose; it’s blocked and swollen. I need some nose drops, she thinks, getting up to go to the bathroom. She looks through Doris’s things. Finds hairspray, setting lotion, hair conditioner. Doris’s hair was always important to her, she knows that; she used to give it at least one hundred strokes with the brush every day. When Jenny first met her, Doris’s hair had still been long and thick, with just a few stray grays like silver threads among the blond. She had let it age naturally, had never dyed her hair. Now, it’s white and very thin, cut in a short style Jenny is sure she must hate. She has completely forgotten about the nose drops, and picks up the setting lotion, rollers, and conditioner. She puts them in the changing bag.
Doris shouldn’t have to die ugly. She has always been the most beautiful person on earth. Jenny scans her makeup. Finds eye shadow, a rusty-red blush, and some powder. Lipstick. She immediately feels more invigorated, and starts looking through the dresses in the wardrobe. Doris can’t die in a white hospital gown, which keeps slipping open to reveal her wrinkled skin. But the sack-like everyday dresses in the wardrobe won’t do either. There are too many dark-colored items competing for space on the hangers, and not enough color. She’ll have to buy a new dress. A modern, happy one. Yellow or green or pink. Pretty and comfortable.
Dress.
She writes the word on a note and places it on top of the changing bag.
It’s four in the morning when she finally climbs back into bed. The streetlamps send narrow beams of light through the cracks between the blind and the window. She closes her eyes, transported back to the New York of her youth. It’s no longer Tyra next to her, keeping her sad company. It’s Doris. Hushing her and loving her. Stroking her hair when she’s afraid. Making her feel safe and getting her to doze off. She quietly hums the tune Doris always sang to her.
Summertime, and the livin’ is easy. Fish are jumpin’ and the cotton is high . . .
Unloved. She sighs deeply.
No. Loved. Doris was there. Doris is the one who matters. She hums on, now more quietly, and drifts off, exhausted, to sleep.
The Red Address Book
A. ANDERSSON, ELISE
Every time she came home from rehab, her cheeks were rosy and her hair was neat, with a new style and color. She came loaded with gifts, toys, clothes, and teddy bears, but you never even looked at her. You hid behind my legs, held my thighs tight. She couldn’t get through to you then, and she never would. The distance between you two just grew. As you got older, you had a door you could close and friends you wanted to play with. But she did try, and I hope you remember the good times. When she cooked a three-course meal in the middle of the week and invited your closest friends over for dinner. Or when she sat up all night sewing your Halloween costume, an orange crab with stuffed claws. You were so proud as you walked around the neighborhood with your little bucket of candy, though you could barely walk. The costume was so heavy, you lost your balance and fell several times. Imagine if I had a picture of that, or a film; I’m sure your kids would like to see it.
Elise was unlike anyone else in my family. Not like my mother, not like your grandmother Agnes. Maybe her fragility came from her father’s mother. Kristina was anxious by nature. I never quite understood that side of Elise. I told her to pull herself together. I often got angry with her. Particularly when she was carried away with one of her stupid ideas, like turning to prostitution to make more money, or giving you up for adoption. She said these things only to get more money or get me to stay. And it usually worked, because I stayed. Of course I did. For your sake. Do you remember that summer when she decided to shave off her hair, to liberate herself? She did it, despite our protests. During another period she walked around the house naked, so that you would grow up a free soul. Yes, my word, she had plenty of strange ideas!
But then she might suddenly meet a man, and she would entirely adapt herself to him. If he was a musician, she would become obsessed with music; if he was a lawyer, she would suddenly start dressing smartly, wearing tailored dresses. She believed in God, she was a Buddhist, or an atheist, or whatever else felt right at the moment.
Do you remember everything I’m telling you, Jenny? You were there; you saw it all. We didn’t know her. Not you. Not me. She probably didn’t even know herself.
31
“Look what I have.” Jenny gives Doris a loving smile and starts to pull things out of the changing bag. “Are you ready for your beauty treatment?”
Doris gently shakes her head. “You’re a madwoman,” she whispers.
“My great-aunt’s not going to die with a flat head of hair,” Jenny jokes, but she bites her lip when she sees the panic in Doris’s eyes. “Sorry, I didn’t mean . . . no . . . that was a stupid joke. Really stupid.”
“Is it really flat? I haven’t seen a mirror since I fell.”
Jenny laughs when she realizes that the panic in Doris’s eyes has nothing to do with death.
“No, not completely flat . . . but it could be better. Let me work my magic.”
She gently combs the thin, white strands. A few fall out and get caught in the red teeth of the comb.
“Does it hurt?”
Doris shakes her head. “It’s nice, keep going.”
Jenny gently lifts Doris’s head so that she can reach the back, placing her hand behind the neck and slowly pulling the comb through her hair. Next, she twists it onto the rollers, one lock at a time. She needs only seven. Doris’s hair is so thin and sparse. She sprays setting lotion onto the rollers and covers Doris’s head with a red-and-white-checked tea towel. An elaborate A is embroidered on it, in a slightly lighter shade of red.
“It was my mother’s, that tea towel. Imagine the quality! I got that and some furniture from an old neighbor when I came back from England,” Doris explains.
“From England? When did you go there?”
“You’ll have to keep reading.” Doris yawns and rests her head against the pillow.
“It’s fantastic, everything you’ve written. I’ve been reading a bit every night. There’s so much I never knew.”
“I want to give you my memories. So they don’t just disappear.”
“You remember so much, so many details.”
“It’s just a case of closing your eyes and thinking back. When time is all you have, your thoughts become quite deep.”
“I wonder what I’ll remember. My life hasn’t been as exciting as yours. Nowhere near.”
“It’s never exciting when you’re in the middle of it. It’s just difficult. The nuance becomes visible only much later.”
Doris sighs. “I’m so tired,” she continues at a whisper. “I think I need to rest for a while.”
“Do you want anything?”
“Chocolate, a little bit of milk chocolate would be nice.”
Jenny sorts through the changing bag, remembering a piece she furtively ate while Tyra was sleeping, but all she can find is the empty wrapper and a few sticky crumbs. She turns back to Doris, who has fallen asleep. Jenny quickly holds a finger in front of Doris’s mouth. A faint puff of warm air. She relaxes.
“Come on, Tyra, let’s go shopping.” She lifts the girl from the stroller and lets her walk. She plays with her, tickles her stomach, and gets a bubbling laugh in return. The contrast between this new life, so full of the joy of discovery, and the old life in the hospital bed, is liberating. She can laugh with Tyra, despite the sorrow in her heart. She picks her up and swings her from side to side.
“The priest’s little crow . . .” She sings loudly, making the nurses smile as they pass by. Tyra laughs and wraps her chubby little arms around Jenny’s neck.
“Mommy!” she shrieks, burying her face in her mother’s
neck. Jenny can feel the cold nose against her skin. She accidentally elbows Tyra, who starts to shout.
“Mommy, Mommy,” she shouts, waving her arms. As though she has just dropped her most valuable possession. She wants to be back against her mother’s neck. Where it is warm and safe. Jenny quickly pulls her close, hugs her tight, and strokes her back.
“Mommy’s here, baby, Mommy’s here,” she whispers, kissing her on the head. Tyra seems to miss her even though she is right by her side. She wonders how her other two kids are, whether they also miss their mom.
With Tyra clinging to her neck, Jenny walks the last few meters to the kiosk and the chocolate.
When they get back, Jenny gently strokes Doris’s cheek with two fingers. She is still deep in sleep. Tyra hits Doris’s hand, and Jenny is about to stop her from doing so again when Doris’s eyes snap open.
“Is that you, Elise?” she whispers. She seems to have trouble focusing.
“It’s Jenny, not Elise. How are you feeling? Are you dizzy?” She turns her head to look for a nurse. “Just hold on, I’ll get someone.”
She puts Tyra into the stroller and runs out into the corridor. There’s no one there. At the nurses’ station, she spots three nurses, each holding a cup of coffee. She runs to them.
“Something’s wrong. Her eyes, they’re rolling around.”
She can hear Tyra crying loudly and runs ahead of the nurses. When she gets back to the room, she sees Doris, despite how weak she is, trying to comfort the little girl. She is struggling to sing a song, but the notes are all wrong, which makes Tyra scream louder.
“Mommy!” Tyra’s face is blotchy with tears. Jenny picks her up. Doris whispers, desperation filling her faint voice:
“I’m sorry, I tried . . .”
The Red Address Book Page 21
