A Modern Family

by Helga Flatland

  It also helped to spend five thousand kroner on a handbag, leaving my conscience to busy itself with something else altogether. It helped to leave Simen back at the house with my family, and it helped knowing that he’d spend his morning playing in the pool with Agnar and Hedda – the easy way out, but even so. It helped to stroll around the square in the old town, to buy meat and vegetables with Liv, it helped to talk about anything else, about dinner, about the fact that Dad was turning seventy. I used to wonder what he’d look like when he was old, back when I was a girl, Liv said. How he’d look when he was seventy, you know, because that would make him ancient. Maybe I didn’t even imagine he’d live that long, she continued. But it turns out he’s just the same as he ever was.

  I don’t agree that Dad is the same, he’s become an amplified version of himself – a caricature, in a way, as I attempted to explain to Simen before we left for Italy. Most people are like that, Simen said. They become parodies of themselves towards the end, whether they want to or not. I wonder why that is, I said, if it’s because people are getting ready to kick the bucket and feel the need to leave a lasting impression of themselves before they disappear, maybe, to make sure those of us left behind remember them more distinctly. Simen laughed, I daren’t imagine what you’ll be like when you hit seventy, he said, you’re already a caricature of yourself. But then, we all become more self-centred with age, so perhaps I won’t even notice, he added.

  Simen and I have been together for over a year now, and to this day I remain pathetically relieved whenever I hear him speak about a distant future that includes me, which depicts the two of us together. He’s the only person who’s created a fear that they might walk out on me; in previous relationships, there’s always been a part of me that’s hoped that the person I’ve been with would grow bored of things before I did; I’ve wished for less security in relationships rather than giving in to puppyish reliance and dependence. Now I’d love to feel more secure in my relationship with Simen, secure in the knowledge he’ll stay with me in spite of my body’s efforts to sabotage us, but Simen gives no guarantees.

  I was surprised when he accepted the invitation to come to Italy with my family. I’ve never quite been able to tell whether he likes them or not, he always seems nervous and uncomfortable around them, he overcompensates and becomes boastful and envious when we’re with them – particularly when Dad’s around. I’ve tried joking about it, told him there’s no need to compete with my father, if that’s what he’s trying to do, but it’s one of the few things Simen won’t laugh about, and it’s clear he’s not able to do so. Am I not allowed to touch you in front of your family? he’s asked me in the past. Most of the time he has other plans when I ask him if he wants to come for dinner at Mum and Dad’s, or to join in with any other activities that involve spending time with my family. I found it strange at first, past boyfriends have almost seemed keener than me to spend time with them, but after a while I realised that he probably felt the same way I did: I like Simen’s family, but I prefer my own.

  But now he’s here. Here with me and with them, in Italy, to celebrate Dad’s seventieth birthday. I’ve noted the changes in my body throughout the trip, felt something attach itself within me and start to grow, I’ve felt the tenderness in my breasts, the nausea, I’ve lost my craving for coffee and I’m constantly needing to pee – all symptoms that occur in the early weeks of pregnancy according to everything I’ve read. I’d felt so certain this time around; perhaps in working to convince Simen – who’s started to lose heart – I’ve managed to convince myself, too. Feel, go on, I’ve said to him, placing his hand on my breast, can you feel that it’s bigger, swollen, almost? And then I’ve placed his hand on my lower abdomen, which has murmured encouragingly over the past couple of days.

  Spending every month in wait is all-consuming. I remember almost nothing else of the past six months, nothing other than the waiting I’ve done. I know that I’ve done much more than that, that among other things I’ve written one of the most important speeches given by cabinet this year, a speech that is likely to have contributed towards the visible swing in the opinion polls in the week that followed, or that Simen and I celebrated our first Christmas together, or that we saw in the New Year in New York – where I was so touched when Simen pulled a tiny bottle of non-alcoholic champagne from his jacket pocket at midnight – that I’ve talked, visited, laughed with Mum, Dad, my brother and sister, my friends, that life has gone on as usual, but now that I think back on it, everything runs together into one, it all seems so unimportant, and all I can remember with any clarity is the waiting and the disappointment. A feeling swiftly followed by the fear that something might be wrong, the impossibility of it happening for me, the image of me sitting in a white room with Simen and a doctor in a white coat explaining to us that I’m the one with the problem – unfortunately your body is incompatible with the creation of life and is, therefore, redundant, faulty.

  This image graces my retinas on a regular basis, more so in the past few months, in spite of Simen’s efforts to be sympathetic – he tells me it’s going to happen, that we can’t get stressed out about it, that it’s normal to try for much longer than we have. At the same time, I can see that he’s been googling fertility issues, and last time I got my period, I saw that he’d searched pregnancy + menopause the following day. Simen is three years younger than I am. I’m thirty-eight, and it places an unspoken pressure on us, on me. We have to move quickly if we’re going to start a family, before it’s too late.

  Even so, I know that I shouldn’t get stressed about it; if there’s anything you see repeated on every forum and website going, it’s that pregnancy is far less likely to occur if the body is under stress. I’ve trawled mum forums I previously mocked, soaking up the details of every experience I can find that involves someone falling pregnant when they least expected it, it was only when I’d given up hope and started to relax that I finally fell pregnant, and so on and so forth. I feel embarrassed when I think about the plethora of advice I’ve picked up over the past year, how much of it I’ve stashed away, not to mention all of the strange positions I’ve slept in – all this even though I know that it’s nonsense. Simen has laughed at me, and I’ve told him there’s no harm in trying – but I’ve promised him that I’ll see the doctor if it doesn’t work out this time either.

  It’s Dad’s birthday and I’ve concealed the truth all day long, avoided acknowledging my thoughts, kept them at a distance, but after knocking back my first two alcoholic beverages of the holiday, two glasses of wine, my first in several months, all to Simen’s apparent indifference, I can no longer keep my anger and sorrow in check. I haven’t paid any attention to the conversation around the table, I don’t know what we’re talking about, though I’ve been half-listening to Liv’s slightly long-winded, clichéd speech for Dad – she’s finishing up now, looking at me with uncertainty, she’s struggled so much with it that I haven’t had the heart to do anything but smile approvingly, in spite of the fact that it goes against a definitive principle of mine: to give credit and praise only where they’re due. I try to pull myself together, take a few large gulps of water, look at Simen, who’s had more wine than I have and who’s in excessively good humour, glance at Mum, who seems restless more than anything, wearing the same expectant expression she always assumes when the attention is focused on others. I direct my anger towards her, she’s got no right to be so self-absorbed on today of all days, and when I hear that she has no intention of giving a speech for Dad, probably because she thinks Liv’s spent too much time focusing on him instead of her, the fury burns in my chest.

  ‘But why?’ I ask, controlling my tone in the same way I’ve taught so many politicians to do.

  Mum fixes her gaze on me, an experience I once found terrifying – condescending and corrective, bordering on contemptuous. I’ve always thought about the fact that I could never look at my own children that way, as if I truly despised them. I’m not afraid of it any more, it�
��s just a play for power, an attempt to dominate, and I know that Mum doesn’t despise me, that none of this is necessarily even about me at all.

  ‘What do you mean, why?’ she replies. ‘As I said, I’ll give a speech at home in Oslo.’

  ‘You love saying a few words on occasions like this, can’t you do both?’ I ask, using the same controlled tone. ‘Surely that’s not too much to ask when it concerns your husband of forty years?’ I add, imitating her voice, far too cheap a trick, but I don’t care any more.

  Simen laughs, as he always does when things get awkward. It’s actually a surprisingly effective mechanism more often than not, it defuses the situation for most people, but not now, not for Mum and not for me. Nor does it have any effect on Liv, who’s gone pale, no doubt furious that I’ve ruined Dad’s birthday, and for a moment I consider giving up, letting things go. But then I see Dad’s face, he looks so troubled that I let my anger take root there; it’s for his sake that I allow my anger to flourish.

  ‘That’s enough, Ellen,’ Mum hisses. ‘What’s wrong with you?’

  ‘What’s wrong with me?’ I repeat loudly. ‘What’s wrong with you?’

  Mum stares at me, looking as if she’s about to say something before eventually depositing the plates she’s collected on the table, where they land with a clatter.

  Olaf and Simen jump. Liv looks as if she’s about to burst into tears. Håkon is his usual silent self, staring at the table.

  ‘If it’s a speech you want, you could always do one yourself, isn’t that what you do for a living?’ Mum replies insistently.

  Then it’s almost as if she realises there are several of us around the table and she looks at the others, her expression softening, and adds:

  ‘I just don’t want to use up all my ideas in a speech that I want Sverre’s friends and colleagues to hear in Oslo, and which you’ve all no doubt heard before.’

  The way Mum has suddenly started referring to Dad by his name is just as significant as if I had started calling her Torill instead of Mum. I roll my eyes to show her how transparent and feeble I find her rhetoric.

  ‘It’s funny that you don’t think Dad can bear to hear you say nice things twice, unless there’s actually something else going on here,’ I say.

  Mum says nothing, staring hard at me with an expression that suggests I’m challenging destiny by disputing her preoccupation with herself, and in a way, it makes me even angrier to know that she’s being granted the attention she craved all along.

  ‘You’ve been acting strangely ever since we got here,’ I say, unable to stop myself. ‘What’s going on?’

  I don’t actually know how Mum’s been acting, I’ve barely paid any attention to her at all until now. The same can be said for the others, I’ve been so absorbed by my own hopes and expectations. But I imagine that I’m right, and that’s good enough for me.

  ‘I think I’d best let Sverre answer that one,’ Mum says, suddenly calm, turning to look at Dad. ‘Do you want to tell them what’s wrong, Sverre?’

  ‘We’ve decided to get a divorce,’ Dad says, almost interrupting her in full flow, as if he’s been impatiently waiting for an opportunity to speak the words aloud.

  Everyone falls silent. Simen looks at me, sitting across the table from me for once, and as my eyes meet his, I reflect on the fact that it ought to have been me making a big announcement over dinner. I’m pregnant. We’re having a baby. Yes, thank you. No, we didn’t want to say anything until we knew for certain, no, it’s not been easy. But happy birthday, Dad, you’re going to be a grandfather again.

  ‘It’s not as dramatic as it sounds,’ Mum says; she’s sitting down again, and I feel the fury still surging towards her, towards Dad, towards the deep injustice of the situation, who do they think they are?

  ‘It’s not dramatic that you’re getting divorced?’ I say.

  ‘We’ve tried everything, Ellen, you should know that, but we haven’t managed to come up with a solution.’

  You’ve got no idea about trying, I want to scream at her, even though I know that’s not the case. I look at Dad, waiting to see something in his expression at any moment that might suggest he’s joking, or that it’s not all that serious, that they’ll still be living together, at least. But he doesn’t say that. Quite the opposite, in fact:

  ‘There’s nothing left for us in this marriage. No future.’

  ‘Did you know about this?’ I ask Liv. She looks just as she did as a child when she was afraid she’d done something wrong, her eyes wide, worried, her mouth half-open; there are a thousand versions of the same expression in her repertoire, so much inside her constantly seeking forgiveness without ever having done anything to require it.

  Liv shakes her head in despair, undoubtedly wondering which of us she should save first.

  ‘No,’ she says. Nothing more.

  ‘We didn’t realise it ourselves until recently,’ Mum says. ‘We’ve quite simply grown apart.’

  ‘Things haven’t been working between us for many years now,’ Dad says, and I wonder what exactly needs to work in a marriage when you’re seventy years old, other than being able to look back and see that you’ve created something, something that Mum and Dad can both do with a certain degree of satisfaction in most areas of their lives. ‘We’ve been over this several times.’

  He looks at me. I wonder if he’s referring to the conversation we had when we were out skiing earlier in the winter, when he told me that Mum wanted him to retire completely, but that Dad wanted to carry on working two days a week for as long as his colleagues would have him. Dad was an early adopter when it came to the possibilities offered by the internet, as he himself likes to put it, I think we were among the first people in the country to have internet in our home, all thanks to Dad’s interest in technological developments. He’s a trained mathematician and worked for a bank for many years, but as the nineties came to a close, he and a younger colleague designed an analytical tool that was bought by one of the largest international conglomerates for further development. Dad and his colleague were paid enough to start up their own company, which has since developed several analytical tools for search engine optimisation. Nowadays I get the feeling that Dad’s knowledge is a little outdated, even though he’d never admit it, at least not to anybody but himself, but he represents the company’s history. Robots can’t replace personal experience, he always says – something that Håkon disagrees with, but so far there hasn’t been a robot that has been able to fill Dad’s shoes, and he continues to work as a consultant two days a week, which together with exercise lends his days a sense of purpose. Mum ought to be generous enough to understand that, he thought. I agreed with him. So, what does she want? I asked him. That’s the thing, Dad said, I don’t know what she wants. She can’t be wanting us getting under each other’s feet at home or going on meaningless holidays willy-nilly. But what does she have to say about it? I asked him. I haven’t asked her, he said. You have to ask, I said, see how she pictures things, find out why it’s so important to her that you stop working. She’ll say it’s for the sake of the grandchildren, he said, that we should be spending more time with them, that we don’t have enough time these days to be with them as much as we’d like. I didn’t say anything else, in spite of the explicit and unreasonable notion that Mum should be allowed to define what ‘we’ think on behalf of the two of them.

  ‘Not with me you haven’t,’ Håkon says, interrupting my train of thought.

  I stare at everyone around the table in turn, Dad, Mum, Liv, Olaf, Simen, Håkon. Simen is the only one to make eye contact with me, he looks hesitant then fleetingly pulls a face, his mouth and eyebrows summing up the entire situation, and I feel the urge to laugh. I chuckle loudly, furiously. I look at Mum and Dad.

  ‘Grown apart? No future? Seriously, you’re seventy years old,’ I say.

  Nobody says a word. I look at the plates Mum set down on the table in front of her, realise that we haven’t had any dessert yet, and I turn
to her, my gaze defiant, then look at Dad, wondering how they’re planning on resolving this and salvaging the remainder of the celebrations. I’m not going to help them, I cross my arms over my chest and stomach, lean back. Liv clears her throat, obviously keen to say something, but she’s never been very gifted when it comes to conflict resolution and I shake my head at her: don’t help them out of this one.

  Eventually Agnar saves them from the situation, wandering over to the table having finished the computer game he’s been playing with his headphones on for the past hour, entirely unaware of the mood that has descended – so like Olaf – and asking if we’re going to be having any cake soon.

  ‘Yes! It’s definitely time for cake,’ Mum replies with exaggerated resolve, getting up and taking the plates into the kitchen.

  Agnar returns to his seat beside Dad, who rests an arm around the back of his chair, and he and Mum both cling to Agnar for the rest of the meal as if he were a lifebuoy.

  I wake to stomach cramps; the pain shoots down the right side of my body. I didn’t experience period pain until I was well over thirty, and at first I was convinced I’d been struck down with appendicitis. I called the out-of-hours clinic in the middle of the night and they put me on with a charming doctor who, after asking me a number of questions, was able to ascertain that I was experiencing menstrual cramps. I was so embarrassed that I wanted to hang up then and there, but he clearly had time on his hands, asking me if it was this painful every month. I told him that I’d never called an out-of-hours clinic about it before now and tried laughing it off, but he told me that it can be serious, that lots of people experience so much pain that it makes them ill. When he asked if I had children and I told him no, he informed me that women in their thirties without children often experience stronger cramps than they used to. I thanked him for his help and thought no more about it, but over the past year the pain has been yet another reminder that I’ve put things off, taken them for granted, a reminder of what an idiotic, carefree life I’ve been living, and for that the pain feels like a warranted punishment.