Most of my girlfriends have had to learn to put up with me, as it happens – either by taking this into account and eating more quietly, or by accepting the fact that we simply don’t eat together. Even so, as an adult I’ve learned to control my irritation, though it’s highly uncomfortable for me, and I don’t reveal my aversion unless it becomes absolutely necessary. After all, it says a lot about you that you can’t bear to tolerate other people’s bodies, as an angry ex-girlfriend once put it.
In spite of my mind being the slightly imbalanced apparatus it has turned out to be, and in spite of the fact that every sound and abnormality and death and war and natural catastrophe and break-up – other than my own, that is – and argument with my parents and any number of other mini crises hit me square in the chest with full force, I quite quickly mustered a purely rational reaction to Mum and Dad’s news that they were getting divorced.
The morning sun shines through the window and falls on Anna’s right arm and shoulder. I’m a typical Type B personality, she told me the first time she stayed the night here, and I thought she was dead the next morning when I couldn’t rouse her before eleven. She’s fallen asleep again now with her arms outstretched like a young child; she always looks like that when she’s sleeping, as if sleep has overpowered her and she’s drifted off mid-sentence or on her way somewhere.
I glance at the digital alarm clock on the bedside table. It’s quarter past nine on Sunday 15 April 2018. This year, Dad has invited us to celebrate his birthday at the flat he bought recently, which is just an estate agent’s stone’s throw from Liv and Olaf in Sagene, closer to the grandchildren, as he put it. It’s also around a kilometre from the flat Mum’s bought in Tåsen. I look back at Anna, at her curls, her brown skin. She’s lying on her back with her mouth wide open; imagine sleeping like that, so exposed and defenceless. I can only ever fall asleep lying on my stomach with my right arm under my chest, and I wake at the slightest movement or sound. Anna can drift off into a deep sleep wherever and whenever she likes.
She’ll like Ellen, I think to myself. And Liv, as long as she loosens up, they’ll both like each other. I pick up my phone to send Liv a message, I want to make sure that she understands the significance of Anna joining us, the importance of her having a nice time, but I don’t know how to get that across in words. Liv will see right through me and my desperation. Looking forward to seeing you both this evening, girls, I write in a message, sending it to both Ellen and Liv, knowing at the very least that I’ve laid good foundations. When I was young, I always referred to them as the girls, one entity, and it’s become a kind of nickname that Mum, Dad and I all use. Have you seen the girls? Dad often asks.
When I was seven, Liv was seventeen and Ellen was fifteen, and their lives seemed so mysterious to me: their arguments with Mum and Dad, the slamming of doors, chewing gum and perms, the scent of perfume and nail polish emanating from their bedrooms, Madonna and soft, coded knocks on walls, beyond my grasp, indecipherable. The reverence I felt when I was permitted to enter one of their rooms, to sit on their beds and watch Liv doing her homework, or when Ellen was granted permission to practise putting mascara and lipstick on me. I just need to know what it smells like on, she said, spraying both sides of my neck with perfume. There, go out and come back in again, she said, pushing me out into the hallway and closing the door.
There’s still something about them that feels beyond my grasp, something about the bond they share. From my mid-twenties and right up until Mum and Dad’s divorce, I felt that our relationship was gradually settling, and that I was becoming a more balanced and natural member of our little party, that we were three adults, all equally connected to one another. Since the divorce, it’s become clearer that Ellen and Liv have a special bond that I don’t share with either of them, that it’s the two of them plus me.
It first hit me that evening in Italy when I found them in the kitchen after dinner and Mum and Dad’s announcement. Ellen was standing there with her face buried in her hands, and Liv was reassuring her, arms wrapped around her, stroking her hair and murmuring to her. I stood in the doorway and observed them, their bond, feeling disconnected somehow, almost like an outsider. Håkon, Liv said when she caught sight of me, come here, come on, she said, giving a wry smile and beckoning with the arm that was no longer embracing Ellen. I chuckled softly. No, it’s OK, I said, and headed to bed.
While Liv and Ellen both kept a demonstrative distance after we returned from Italy, like a united front, I sought Mum and Dad out equally. On the day that Dad was due to move out, I helped him carry his things to his car, finding myself hit with such a wave of emotion over the whole process that it was as if he’d cleared the entire house of fixtures and fittings. He roamed around aimlessly, seemingly unsure of how to bid farewell to both Mum and the house. Mum, for her part, sat at her desk in the living room in silence with her back to Dad and me as we walked back and forth behind her. Only the flame-red, hectic flush at the nape of her neck exposed her. Everything that had been so simple and straightforward up until this point, the way they talked about what had happened, the planning, their absolute agreement when it came to the separation, it all dissolved in a bewildered farewell.
Looking forward to seeing you too and excited to meet your new ‘friend’, Liv replied on behalf of the two of them, and I smile and lie back down next to Anna, taking care not to wake her, warmed to the bone by the sun at my back and Anna against my stomach.
Dad’s flat is spacious and bright. He’s arranged the living room almost exactly the same way as the old living room at home in Tåsen, with one chair in the corner, the large writing desk pushed up against the wall and the bookshelf on the opposite side of the room. Everything he picked up when he and Mum sold the house has been positioned just as it used to be.
Anna touches the small of my back as we step into the living room, helping to subdue the pain of seeing the familiar furniture in its new environment. Liv is standing in the kitchen preparing food when we arrive, and she comes into the living room at the sound of our voices, casting a quick, appraising glance in Anna’s direction in a way only she can before smiling and greeting us both, pulling me in for a hug. I’m strangely nervous; it’s an irritating, troubling experience, and I pull myself together, freeing myself from Anna’s grip and entrusting her to Liv. I make my way over to Olaf, who’s reading a newspaper in Dad’s brown armchair. It still manages to look naked without Mum’s corresponding chair to the right of the small table. Olaf gets up and gives me a hug.
‘It’s been a while,’ he says. ‘But I see now that there’s a reason for that,’ he continues, nodding in Anna’s direction.
‘No, no, she’s just a friend,’ I reply. ‘It’s nothing serious.’
‘Of course,’ Olaf says, laughing.
Olaf is the only one in the family who’s ever shown a genuine interest in discussing my theories with me, who’s listened with curiosity and scepticism and taken me seriously, rather than writing them off as justification for my actions or a way of excusing my choices. But it’s a little bit like what Liv says about sorting the recycling, he’s said, one person making a little bit of effort now and then doesn’t make much difference if the goal is to change the world. I’m not trying to change the world, Olaf, my goal is to think for myself rather than letting others dictate how I live my life, I’ve told him. In contrast to Liv, Ellen and most other people I’ve ever discussed this with, he didn’t view this as an indirect criticism. By the same token, I wasn’t able to write off his objections as jealousy; an open relationship is the very last thing Olaf would wish for, so concerned is he with stability and security. His loyalty to Liv knows no bounds.
During the autumn after Mum and Dad’s divorce came through, Olaf would often pop in to see me on his way to or from the gym or work, despite the fact that I don’t live that close to either his office or the gym. Initially there seemed to be no reason for his visits, he just wanted to say hello, as he put it, or would use the excuse that h
e hoped to borrow a book or ask me to help him with some editing software that he used to have a handle on but could no longer quite remember how to use. Olaf, I said on the third occasion he turned up unannounced and perched himself restlessly on the edge of the kitchen worktop, what’s going on? Nothing’s going on, he said, then started to cry, laughing at himself through his tears, yet unable to stop them. Clearly not, I replied, smiling, as unsure as ever how to offer any comfort, yet overcome with sympathy all the same.
Sympathy is useless when you simultaneously don’t feel in a position to offer any good advice, or when your uncertainty at the right thing to do hinders the natural development of things, as was the case with Olaf – my natural impulse was to comfort him physically, to put an arm around him and hug him. I grew up in a family of huggers, we hug when we’re happy, when we’re sad, when offering our congratulations or comforting one another in more difficult times, we hug when we’re bidding one another farewell and often when we’re saying hello, and always, always, always when we’re saying sorry. At primary school I wouldn’t think twice before hugging anyone who needed a little reassurance, if anyone had ever fallen over and hurt themselves, or if they’d been teased by someone else or if I was simply making up with a friend I’d quarrelled with. It wasn’t until much too late, at high school in a new class with new friends around me, that I realised it wasn’t normal for people to go around hugging each other all the time. I remember one breaktime, one of my new friends was sitting with his face buried in his hands after he’d failed a test, and I’d put an arm around him to comfort him. Even now I can feel the deep, searing shame I’d felt when he’d pushed me away. What the hell are you doing? he’d exclaimed, wrenching himself from my grasp.
It’s nothing really, Olaf said as he sat on my kitchen worktop crying, taking deep breaths in and out and in again. Or, nothing final, anyway, but I think Liv is going to leave me, he said, looking so desperate that I felt on the verge of bursting into tears myself. Don’t be daft, Olaf, of course she’s not going to leave you, you two are solid as a rock, I said, but feeling ambivalent about the obligation to partake in any conversation that would charge me with defending and promoting a monogamous lifestyle. You can’t always be so extreme, Dad said to me once, a long time ago now, it’s one thing to be convinced yourself, but you can’t judge others for their decisions and priorities.
We’re not solid, Olaf said in my kitchen, not any more, things have changed. I can’t get through to her, I think she’s depressed to be quite honest with you, but that’s not what scares me the most, it’s the way she seems to loathe me, as if everything is my fault, Olaf continued. What’s your fault? I asked. All this stuff with your parents has left her crushed, you know that, don’t you? Olaf replied. I didn’t know that, I’d only gained a sense of the vaguest contours of Liv’s reaction to things when I’d bumped into her by chance on Carl Berners plass and hadn’t felt able to stomach engaging with the desperation in her eyes. I’d maintained a distance from both Liv and Ellen, escaping any reminder of family relationships or challenges to my own take on Mum and Dad’s separation.
Olaf continued to pop round for a chat at regular intervals throughout the autumn. Things aren’t getting any better, he said, and it’s making me irrational. I do the stupidest things, he told me one evening in early December. I’d met up with Liv and Ellen just a few days beforehand for the first time in a long while, and I’d seen Olaf’s description of the new Liv in practice. She trembled with anger and fear and despair. I couldn’t say anything, so completely blindsided was I by the sight of her falling apart in such a way. We’re siblings, she said. We have to stick together. But Liv, none of us are going anywhere, I said. We’re here, this has nothing to do with us. It has everything to do with us when you both insist on leaving everything to me, when you let me down in this way, she said loudly. I didn’t know what she was talking about, what we’d supposedly left to her; she was the one who had pulled away from us, and in truth I was the one who’d been in contact with Mum and Dad on an almost daily basis, I was the one who had talked to them and listened to them.
She got up to leave after Ellen mentioned that mum had a new partner. It was impossible to continue our conversation after that; Liv looked as if someone had died. She said goodbye and was halfway out of the café when she turned around and walked back to us. She gripped the back of the chair she’d been sitting in just a few moments earlier and stared at me. This is all wrong, Liv said loudly, her gaze unfaltering. Don’t you see? No, I don’t really, I replied, not understanding anything. Well that’s hardly surprising, you’ve never been in a proper relationship after all, neither of you have. You don’t appreciate the value of sticking together, of not giving up when you’ve made a promise, Liv said. What’s the point in marrying someone, committing to them, if you can just break that promise later on? she added. I bit my tongue to prevent myself from agreeing with what was obviously a rhetorical question. I said nothing. No, but there you have it, Liv said, in their hypocrisy they’ve taught us the importance of sticking together, isn’t that what we’ve always been told? Hm? she stated loudly, forging ahead with her monologue without waiting to hear anything Ellen or I might have to say. We don’t stop until we’ve seen things through, how many times have we heard some variation or another of the same thing from Mum and Dad? But they’ve thrown in the towel, right on the home stretch – given up on everything they’ve stood for, taught, created. It’s wrong, it’s a betrayal of us, the ones who’ve taken them at their word, listened to them, tried to actually live by the values they’ve imprinted upon us. She was tearing up by the time she reached the last part, her voice cracking, then she wiped her nose on her coat sleeve and looked at us both, shaking her head before making her way out. We sat there in silence; I don’t think either of us had seen Liv act in such a way before now. We should go after her, Ellen said eventually, but neither of us got up.
I saw Liv a few days later, over at hers for Sunday dinner. I’d prepared an apology. I wanted to tell her that I understood where she was coming from, which I did, in spite of my robust standpoint on the divorce. She was right that Mum and Dad had always taught us to see things through, to keep at things, not to change tack. You have to stand up for what you say, has been one of Dad’s mantras in life.
But the fact that Mum and Dad are choosing to break their own rules needn’t affect our point of origin or relationship, I wanted to tell her. Either way, you’ve got us, we’ll stick together, our relationship is strong and true – regardless of what’s going on around us. Even though my sympathy for Liv was almost overwhelming – my stomach churned for days after we met in Tøyen – there was also a part of me that was pleased to be able to assume the role I did in relation to her. Comforting and secure. Liv has always been the one to take control of challenging or chaotic situations before anyone has a chance to think or react to anything. She’s consoled Ellen and me and come to our rescue all through our lives, and I can’t even count how many times she might have gone to the door of the biggest boy in my class to reclaim the Pogs he’d cheated me out of, or positioned herself as a physical shield between Ellen and a gaggle of girls she’d found herself clashing with at school – in spite of the fact that Liv has always been more afraid and much more cautious a person than Ellen. She’s been unafraid and uncompromising in her attempt to protect us, her family. Whenever she’s needed someone to support her in adulthood, she’s always turned to Ellen. I was pleased to have the chance to give something back, to be the one to offer security and support, a kind of older brother.
Nonetheless, I never got the chance to say everything I’d mulled over and prepared, because the mood at her house that Sunday was very different than I had imagined it might be, as if the conversation, the confrontation, the desperation within her, had never existed. She overcompensated for things, of course, but all the same, it became impossible to pick up on something that she had clearly decided to make out had never occurred.
What ki
nd of stupid things? I asked Olaf when he told me about his irrational actions a week after our Sunday dinner. All of a sudden, my guard was up, my fists clenched inside the pockets of my jogging bottoms, instinctively ready to protect Liv in the most primitive way. It’s mortifying, really, I can’t even bring myself to say it, he replied. Come on, now you have to tell me, I said, doing my best to smile. Olaf fell silent. Don’t think I’m OK with the idea of you betraying Liv, I told him when he remained silent. And you’ve misunderstood me if you think I’m in favour of infidelity, quite the contrary, actually – if a person has been stupid enough to commit to getting married then they should keep that promise or end things properly, I continued, standing up without thinking, ready for a fight.
Come on, hit me with it, I said. It’s not what you think, Olaf said, I haven’t been unfaithful. No? I replied. I just felt so desperate after feeling so taken for granted, like she no longer appreciates anything we have or ever did have, you don’t know what it’s like to feel so invisible yet so despised at the same time – I’ve only ever been visible when there’s been something she’s wanted to blame me for, Olaf said slowly. Sure, I’ve heard this before, but what have you done? I asked him impatiently. I lied about having fallen in love with someone else, Olaf eventually muttered, and I’ve never seen anyone look as physically uncomfortable as Olaf when he spoke those words on my sofa, he shrank several sizes, wringing his hands, tapping his feet restlessly, his face flushed and sweaty.
A Modern Family Page 21
