The son turns left through the trees. He remembers the spring day he was in Paris with two friends. His phone buzzed. It was the father. The message consisted of three letters: SOS. The son got up from the restaurant table and called him from the pavement outside. The father answered. His voice was deeper than usual. He was coughing and couldn’t stop. After a few minutes, his underling took the phone. The father was seriously ill, he had been bedbound for weeks, they suspected lung cancer, they suspected TB, he had coughed up a lot of blood that morning, he can’t get up, he’s weak, he’s pale, he’s got a strong sense that there’s something growing in his lungs, we’re going to try to get a new x-ray as soon as possible, but the most important thing right now is that you come down here. Your dad needs you. Come as soon as you can. The son had already started making his way back to the hotel. He explained to his friends, and to the girl at reception, that his father was seriously ill. That he needed to leave for the airport right away. He landed in the other country at midnight, with a strange feeling of elation in his chest. The underling, who was several years older and had gone bald since he last saw him, came to pick him up at the airport. They hugged. The underling limped as he walked towards the car; he explained that he had been in a car accident, he had been driving along the coast road when a tractor up ahead lost its load, he had driven into a couple of hay bales and swerved off the road, this was eight months ago but he was almost back to normal. Now it was just the limp and the pain in his hip. They jumped into the car and took one of the avenues towards the centre. At the top of every lamppost, an endless line of identical portraits of the president, his pious smile against a purple background, the man who had brought stability to the country and freedom to its women and economic opportunity to all those who didn’t fear the future, the man who understood that all change had to be gradual, the man who guaranteed that the country wouldn’t be thrown into a religious chaos that was hostile to the future (according to some members of the family). The man who stood for terror and religious oppression and mass arrests and anti-democracy, the man who was the West’s lackey, who had betrayed Palestine; a corrupt, power-hungry idiot with an even worse wife (according to other members of the family). The son looked up at the banners. Do you know why he’s always in front of a purple background? the son asked. The underling looked up at the president. Is he? he said. I’ve never thought about it. I don’t even notice the pictures any more. They turned left onto the main road and then right onto the small street behind the big market, where the father lived. He was flat out on the sofa, he was drenched in cold sweat, he couldn’t get up, he smiled through tiny eyes and whispered that the son had to help him get home. Home to Sweden. When can you travel? the son asked. I can’t travel, the father whispered. I’m too weak. I’m going to die. The son ran to the nearest internet café. He ordered a coffee, went online and started searching for possible routes while making a call to an acquaintance of an acquaintance who worked for the foreign office. He asked how you went about bringing home a terminally ill Swedish citizen and was given the number for an emergency service. The cost of an air ambulance was several hundred thousand, so he spoke to his insurance company: as long as the person in question is registered at the right address, he has up to forty-five days’ travel cover. He’s been away for four and a half months, said the son. Then I’m afraid he isn’t covered by the home insurance policy, said the insurance company. He hung up, he kept researching travel options, there were no chartered solutions, no scheduled flights, the only way to get back as quickly as possible was to book one flight to Barcelona and then another from Barcelona to Stockholm. The website refused to allow the booking because the timings were too tight to make it from one terminal to the next, but the son booked each leg separately. It had to work, he thought. We don’t have any other option, we need to get out of here, we need to get home, he needs proper treatment, we’ll manage the journey together. He ran back to the apartment, the father was barely conscious, he told him he had booked flights home, he had ordered a wheelchair service, we’ll be flying home via Barcelona and everything will be fine, I’ll be with you the whole time. How much? the father asked. That doesn’t matter, said the son. I’ll pay for the flights. Thank you, the father said, patting his son. But I’m not going to be able to travel. You have to, said the son. They spent the rest of the day preparing for the journey. The underling went off to his rehabilitation centre and borrowed a kind of walking frame that the father could use to get from the door to the car. The son made up food bags and spoke to the medical care line and his mother, who wished him luck, and his sister, who gave him the number of a friend who worked for Médecins sans Frontières. The son phoned the doctor, he told her about the symptoms, about the tests the father had undergone, about the chest x-ray that hadn’t shown anything. The sister’s friend was quiet. Then she cleared her throat. He’s had a chest x-ray, did you say? Two, said the son. And he’s seen doctors there? Absolutely. Several of them. But they can’t find anything. They’re cowboys. Healthcare here is a joke. Who says that? the doctor asked. He does, said the son. Is he on antidepressants? the doctor asked. Has he stopped taking his medication? Since when does depression paralyse you and make you cough up blood? asked the son. My advice is that you take him straight to the emergency mental health centre when you get home, said the doctor.
They left the next day. The underling and the son carried the father down the stairs. He supported himself on the walking frame and shuffled over to the front seat of the waiting car. The son loaded the luggage into the boot and though the father claimed he was about to die and would never survive the journey, they made it to the airport where the son fetched a wheelchair, and they checked in. They boarded the plane to Barcelona and, for once, the national airline was no more than ten minutes late. Will we make the plane to Stockholm? the father whispered. We might, said the son. We have to. We will. They sat at the very front of the plane, there was a wheelchair waiting for them when they disembarked in Barcelona. You’ll have to get off last, said the air hostess. No chance, said the son. He leapt up when the fasten seat belt light went out. He blocked the aisle for the rows behind. He heaved the father’s cumbersome body to his feet and held him beneath the arms as he slowly made his way off the plane. When he sat down in the waiting wheelchair, he looked like he was about to pass out, he whispered that he needed to sleep. They ran past baggage reclaim, the son pushing the wheelchair, the man responsible for the wheelchair next to them, he said that the plane to Stockholm departed from a terminal in a different part of the airport, he said there was no way they would make it in time, there was a bus that went over there but it would take fifteen minutes. The father no longer seemed conscious, his eyes were open and his dry lips were trembling, the whites of his eyes yellow, but the son refused to accept this information and as they emerged through the automatic doors the bus was waiting outside. That’s it, the man who was responsible for the wheelchair shouted, he ran ahead and waved to the driver. When the driver closed the doors, he ran out in front of the bus, held his palms together and rocked them back and forth, he looked up at the driver, he pointed to the son and the father. The driver stopped the bus, he opened the back doors, the son and the wheelchair man loaded the wheelchair onto the bus. They drove towards the other terminal, checking the time every thirty seconds. You’re not going to make it, the wheelchair man said over and over again, but there was a new vigour in his voice, as though he really wanted to test whether there might just be a chance they could make it after all. He shouted something to the bus driver and the bus pulled up outside a set of doors where there wasn’t a bus stop. They lifted the wheelchair down and ran towards the desks. With four minutes to spare, they checked in for their flight to Stockholm and ran straight to the gate, the wheelchair man was still with them, and he looked exhilarated. Boarding hadn’t yet started when they arrived, and the son squatted down next to the wheelchair, he caught his breath, he bought water, coffee and a multipack of Snickers, which
he shared with the wheelchair man. We made it, the son said. I never doubted it, said the wheelchair man. They said goodbye at the door to the plane, the father leaned on the son. Their seats were at the very back but a family with children offered to swap with them. The father slumped into his seat and fell asleep. The son reached over and fastened his seat belt. Despite his illness, despite waking at night and despite the bouts of sweating, despite the stress, the father smelled strangely good.
When they got off the plane, they took a taxi straight to the emergency mental health centre at Sankt Göran Hospital. The sister was waiting as the car pulled up in the turning circle. She hugged the father and helped him out onto the pavement. Thanks for coming, the father whispered to her. It means the world that you’re here. With tiny little steps, the father almost managed to make it into the waiting room on his own. The son followed with the luggage. They took a number and waited. After half an hour, a young man with bandaged arms and colourful pipe cleaners in his hair arrived. His mother spoke to the woman behind the counter as he stared around the room like he was from another planet. The young man was allowed in before the father. He’s just pretending, said the father, shaking his head. He’s not really ill. After an hour and a half, the father got to see a doctor. The son followed him in, the sister waited outside. The father had a coughing fit. He had another coughing fit. He spat up mucus and blood into a tissue. The doctor asked him to sit down.
The father said that he was here against his will. Psychology is for women and madmen. Freud was a Jewish paedophile who was hooked on cocaine. Jung was gay. Sure, the father had had periods when he was sad. After the divorce, for example. When he was diagnosed with diabetes. But who isn’t sad from time to time? Birds are sad. Dogs are sad. People can be sad, too. And when were you last sad? the doctor asked. Sad? I’m never sad. I don’t have time to be sad. I’ve got three children. Two children. I’ve worked all my life. I’ve got a strong mind. It’s my body that’s broken. The son was sitting on a chair diagonally behind the father. The son was crying. I can see that your son seems sad, the doctor said in her Russian accent. He thinks too much, said the father. He’s too sensitive.
As I’m sure you understand, I can’t admit you, said the doctor. But I can give you a referral for outpatient care. The father studied her with his sharp pupils. I don’t need a psychologist. I need a real doctor. I need an MRI scan. I need . . . He started coughing and couldn’t stop. I would, however, like someone to take a look at that cough, said the doctor.
The father saw an ordinary doctor who admitted him for suspected TB. He was kept under observation, they x-rayed his lungs, he was given his own room with a TV, patterned bed sheets, plastic flowers in the window. He seemed happy. When the children visited him, he said that the food was great and the nurses kind and that the doctors suspected TB or some other lung infection. And you thought I was depressed, he said with a laugh. Since when can depression paralyse a man? Some days, his cough was better, and on others he could barely get up. They transferred him to the infection ward at Huddinge in an ambulance. There was a small waiting room where you could hang up your coat, and he had a TV on wheels with an accompanying VHS player. His children who weren’t children but fully grown adults had to put on white face masks whenever they went to see him. When he moaned about the channels on offer, they brought him a whole load of borrowed video cassettes. Only films that they knew the father loved, like Face/Off and Under Siege and Hard to Kill and Above the Law. Nothing with Van Damme? the father asked. Yeah, look, here’s Hard Target. And Double Impact. The father smiled. He looked brighter. After a few weeks, the doctors announced that his suspected TB seemed to have cleared up. The children tested negative for TB. The father stopped coughing, or coughed less often in any case. A psychiatric consultant was called in, and she recommended electric shock therapy and antidepressants. He was transferred back to the mental health ward, where he shared a room with three other men who, according to the father, were ‘completely insane’. He was given electric shocks and took antidepressants and then, one sunny Tuesday, he was allowed to go home.
After that, he was back in his usual bed, which was actually the son’s bed, in the flat where the son lived, which was actually the father’s. The TV was on. The sister was there. She had her son with her. What an ordeal, the father muttered. Do you know how I survived all that? Do you know what saved my life when all hope was gone? His son smiled. He knew what was coming. This was it. After years of waiting. He was about to say it. It was my love for my children that got me through, the father’s script read. My son saved me, was his obligatory line. I’m so incredibly proud of you, thanks for everything you’ve done, my darling son, that was what his father should have said, but never did. Instead, he said: I survived thanks to my incredibly strong mind. Without that, I would have gone under.
The son went to the bathroom. He heard whispering from the bedroom. When he returned, the father said he was also grateful that he had such wonderful and successful children. He said it with the reluctance of an actor who knows that the line will soon lead to his character being murdered and written out of the show. And yet the son still felt strangely happy. Not once did the father offer to pay him back for the flights, the taxi rides, the meals. Of course not. We’re family.
The son who is a father is waiting outside the café at the agreed time. He has already done a lap of the place and said hello to the staff. He could sit down at a table to wait, but he knows that if he does, there’s a risk he will have to wait an hour, and he doesn’t want this to take all day. After ten minutes, he cuts through the playground between the buildings, takes the stairs up to the first floor and collects his father, who is half asleep on the sofa in front of the TV. How’s it going? the son asks, in the voice that he hates. Not good, says the father, still flat out on the sofa. I’m tired. I’m ill. My feet hurt. My eyes are kaput. And Everton are losing.
The son picks up the free newspapers from the floor, he folds empty pizza boxes, he adjusts the blinds to let in light from the street. That’s a repeat, he says. The father doesn’t reply. Are you happy here? It’s okay, says the father. But there are too many books everywhere. There’s no room. Mum claims you used to read constantly when the two of you first met, says the son. The father doesn’t reply. Come on, let’s go, says the son. The neighbours here are no good, the father says, still on the sofa. What’s wrong with them now? asks the son. They do drugs, says the father. Are you talking about Sandro? He’s a caretaker. He’s a bit strange, but he definitely doesn’t do drugs. The woman next door has customers, says the father. Who? Klara? the son asks. The Chinese one, says the father. She’s half Thai, says the son. Men coming and going all day long, says the father. She designs lampshades, says the son. She runs her business from home. She made the green lampshade with Frida Kahlo on it, the one we’ve got in our living room. Have you seen it? It’s a long time since I was at your place, says the father. Well, it’s really nice, says the son. He bends down to pick up a couple of books from the floor. Did these fall over on their own, or what? he says. The father pretends not to hear him. We’re going now, the son says in the tone of voice that makes him feel like a personal trainer who hates his job, or a porn star trying to fake enthusiasm. The father gets up with a sigh. Pizza crumbs fall to the rug. Is it cold outside? he asks. It’s always cold outside, says the son. Why aren’t you wearing a hat? the father asks. They walk along the street, the father is slow, the son notices that he is limping. You should be wearing a hat, says the father. It’s too cold for your ears.
At the café, the father sits down at a corner table. He tells the son what he wants. The son goes over to the counter to order. He hopes that, for once, the father will try to pay, though he simultaneously hates himself for being unable to treat his father to coffee without thinking about other kinds of debt. He longs to be free but isn’t entirely sure what is holding him prisoner. The father stays sitting in his chair. The son returns with coffee,
sweet things, water. The father sighs that the tealight on the table has gone out. The coffee is too weak. The biscuits are too small. Did you bring the papers? the father asks. The son nods and takes out the plastic folder of printed transactions from online banking. Every deposit and withdrawal from the last six months. There hasn’t been much activity in the accounts. A few withdrawals for the father’s trips. A couple of health checks. Payment for his tax return. Both statements fit on one page, but the father still takes out a pen and starts going through every withdrawal and deposit, item by item. He uses the son’s phone as a calculator to check that everything adds up. It’s right, Dad, the son says. This is a serious bank. They wouldn’t survive if they took people’s money. The most trustworthy people are the best criminals, says the father. Is that a saying? the son asks. It’s my saying, says the father. What’s this? That’s the flight from last time, says the son. Six thousand three hundred? It’s always between five and six. But six thousand three hundred? That sounds like a lot. You wanted to go home at short notice last time, do you remember? Six thousand three hundred? Six thousand three hundred? The father repeats the figure over and over again. But the son is prepared, he pulls out the receipt for the last flight, he points to the figure at the bottom right and the father calms down. And you see the total amount, right? Compared to the balance, six thousand three hundred isn’t much at all, is it? The father ignores his attempts to lighten the mood.
The Family Clause Page 13