‘Are you going to be good now?’ Her voice sounded thick, as though she’d just woken up.
Elin sighed as the brothers jostled for space on the bench behind her.
‘We spilled it by accident, Mama, we didn’t mean to.’
‘Are you answering back to me?’
She shook her head.
‘No, I’m not, but …’
‘Quiet. Just be quiet. Not another word. Eat your food.’
‘Sorry, Mama, it wasn’t on purpose. We just spilled a bit, it was my fault the plate broke. Don’t be angry at Erik and Edvin.’
‘You’re always fighting, do you have to fight? All the time. I can’t take it any more.’ Marianne groaned loudly.
‘We don’t need any milk today. Water’s fine.’
‘I’m so horribly tired.’
‘Sorry, Mama. We’re sorry. Right Erik? Right Edvin?’
The brothers nodded. Marianne leaned over the pot, scraped a little, and put a spoonful of pasta in her mouth.
‘Do you want a plate, Mama?’ Elin got up and walked towards the cupboard but Marianne stopped her.
‘There’s no need, you eat. Just promise me you’ll stop fighting. You’ll have to drink water the rest of the month, we don’t have any more money.’
Erik and Edvin pushed the food around their plates, their forks screeching against the brown glaze.
‘Eat properly.’
‘But, Mama, they have to stir their food. The macaroni’s cold and sticky.’
‘It wouldn’t be if you hadn’t been fighting. Eat properly, I said.’
Edvin stopped eating, Erik hung his head and impaled pieces of pasta carefully and quietly with his fork. One on each spike.
‘Why do you have to be so angry?’ Erik whispered, turning his eyes to Marianne.
‘I want you to be able to eat with the king. You hear? Any child of mine should be well-behaved enough to eat with the king any day.’
‘Mama, stop. That was just something Papa said when he was drunk. We’ll never get to eat with the king. How would it even happen?’ Elin sighed and looked away.
Marianne grabbed Elin’s cutlery and threw it hard onto the table so it bounced and fell on the floor.
‘I can’t take it. I can’t take any more. You hear?’
Marianne took Elin’s plate and carried it over to the sink. She banged the pots and pans loudly as she washed up. She only got this angry when she was hungry, Elin knew that. She stopped her brothers when they reached out to get more pasta.
‘We’re finished, Mama, there’s some left for you.’
Elin glanced at her brothers sitting there at the table in despondent silence with their plates scraped clean in front of them. Edvin with thick blond curls that still hadn’t been cut, even though he was seven now and had just started school. They cascaded down over his ears and the back of his neck, like a waterfall of gold. And Erik, only a year older, but so much bigger, so much more mature. His hair had never even had a suggestion of a curl. Marianne shaved it regularly with a trimmer and the bare scalp emphasised his ears that stuck out.
‘We’re full now.’ Elin looked at them imploringly. They nodded reluctantly and slipped down onto the floor.
‘May we get down from the table?’
Elin nodded. The brothers vanished upstairs. She stayed where she was and listened to the clattering of dishes, watching the bent back leaning over the too-low sink. Suddenly the movements stopped.
‘We have it good, right? In spite of everything?’
Elin didn’t reply. Marianne didn’t turn around. Their eyes didn’t meet. The clattering resumed.
‘What would I do without you? Without your brothers? You’re my three aces.’
‘You’d be a bit less angry, maybe?’
Marianne turned around. The sun was shining in through the kitchen window, catching the grime on the lenses of her glasses. She met Elin’s gaze, swallowed hard and then walked over to the pan and scooped cold macaroni into her mouth.
‘Are you all full? Are you sure?’
Marianne squeezed her way in beside Elin on the kitchen bench and stroked her hand gently over Elin’s head.
‘You help me so much, I could never manage without you.’
‘Do we really not have any money? Not even for milk? You buy cigarettes.’ Elin mumbled the last few words with her eyes on the table.
‘No. Not this month. My cigarettes will be gone soon, I can’t afford to buy any more. I got the car fixed, we need it. You’ll have to eat what we’ve got in the larder, there are a few tins in there. And there’s water in the tap, drink that if you’re hungry.’
‘Ring Grandma, then. Ask for help.’ Elin looked at her pleadingly.
‘Not in a million years.’ She shook her head. ‘What help could she offer? They’re as poor as us. I’m not going to complain.’
Elin stood up and dug down into the pocket of her skintight jeans. She pulled out two bottle tops, a yellow pencil stump, two dirty one krona coins and two fifty öre coins.
‘I have this.’ She piled them up one by one in front of Marianne.
‘That will buy us a litre. Go down to the shop tomorrow if you want. Thank you. You’ll get four krona in return once I have the money. I promise.’
Elin sneaked out of the house into the cool dusk. Marianne stayed at the kitchen table, a fresh cigarette in her hand.
Elin counted the drops that fell from the drainpipe. They filtered slowly through the pine needles that were clogging it up. There was a muted plop as they landed in the blue plastic barrel Marianne had dragged home from some neighbouring farm. It had contained a pesticide called Resistance. Resistance. Elin liked that word and what it stood for. She wished there was a little Resistance left in it that she could borrow when necessary. She cast an invisible spell on the barrel, hissing:
‘Resist now. Come on, resist it all. All the bad stuff.’
There, behind the corner of the house, she had her secret place. At the back where no one was interested in going, where the junipers grew right up against the house and where the pine needles were sharp against her feet when she went barefoot. She’d hidden there for half her life now, since she was five years old. When she needed to be left alone. Or when someone was angry with her. When Papa was slurring. When Mama was crying.
She’d made a chair with some branches from the forest and it was always there waiting for her, leaning against the wall. There, she could sit and think; she could hear her thoughts so much better when she was alone. The plastic roof and guttering sheltered her head from the rain, but only if she sat close to the wall. She tilted her head back, closed her eyes and let the drops soak into her worn jeans. They grew speckled with dark spots and the chill spread across her thighs like a blanket of ice. She stayed like that, her legs out in the ever-heavier downpour, letting them get wetter and wetter, colder and colder. The drops falling into the barrel pattered faster and faster. She focused on the sound, counting and keeping the figures in order. It was harder at school. The sounds were never pure there, not like here. At school there were always other noises to disturb her: shouts, talking, rustling, bodily noises. Elin’s brain registered it all, heard it all. The figures in her head merged into one, she lost the thread and couldn’t concentrate. She’s hopeless, she’d heard Miss say to Marianne at parents’ evening. Hopeless at mathematics. Hopeless at writing neatly so Miss could read what she’d written. Hopeless at most things. And what’s more, the daughter of a criminal. They talked about it, all the children in the school, and the teachers too, when they thought she couldn’t hear. They whispered as she passed. She didn’t even know what the word meant.
The only one who always defended her was Fredrik. He was the strongest, smartest boy in school. He’d take her by the arm and pull her along with him, telling off the others for being mean. Once she’d asked him what that word meant, but he’d just laughed and told her to think about something else instead. Something that made her happy.
She th
ought it must have something to do with them coming to take him away, the police, and him not living at home any more. She missed him every day. He never thought she was hopeless, he didn’t see the point of being good at school. She used to help him in the workshop, and she was always good at that. He said so anyway.
But now she probably wouldn’t get to help him any more. Ever.
It felt good to sit behind the house. There, where the only thing you could hear was the muted drip-drop of the rain on the water in the barrel and the murmur of the wind as it rummaged about in the tops of the pines. There, where she could hear her own thoughts.
She needed the time. The silent time. To think. To understand. Mostly she thought about how things must be in jail, where Papa lived. She thought about how sounds must sound there. If he was completely alone with his thoughts behind the bars that protected the world from him. If there were bars, or just normal doors. Maybe they were impermeable, made of thick iron. The kind that no bombs in the whole world could break down. Doors that stood firm even when the world around them was collapsing.
She wondered how it felt when Papa got angry and punched the door with his fists. If it hurt, if it got holes in it, like at home.
Sunday was visiting day, she’d read that in a letter Marianne had been sent. So every Sunday she waited for them to take the trip to the boat. For it to take them to the mainland, and the prison there on the other side of the sea. For the guards to take out their great big rattling bunches of keys and unlock the heavy metal door and let Papa out into the open. So she could run into his arms and feel the warmth of his big hands as he stroked her back and whispered Hello there, Number One with a voice that was gravelly from too many cigarettes.
She waited in vain.
They never went. Marianne had had enough, that’s what she told anyone who asked. She said she didn’t miss him, not in the slightest. One time, when a neighbour asked, she even said it would be good if he was left to rot there in jail so she wouldn’t have to see him again. That filled Elin’s head with terrible images, ones that refused to go away. She saw his body grow green with mould, slowly decomposing into a pool on a cold grey concrete floor.
It was lucky she had her magic place. She’d sit there, day after day, in the company of the drips, the wind, the sun, the clouds, the trees, and the ants that bit her feet. She often wondered what he’d done that was so awful they had to lock him up. If he actually was a bad person.
Drip, drop, drip, drop. Four hundred and seven, four hundred and eight, four hundred and nine. She counted and thought. Time slowed down a little. Maybe that’s how it was for Papa, there in jail. She wondered what he did with all that time. If he too was counting the drops falling from the roof.
NOW
NEW YORK, 2017
The cold, white liquid feels harsh in combination with the wine she drank before. She clicks her tongue against her palate. The inside of her mouth is coated with a sticky layer. The restaurant’s milk is so fatty, so different. Not at all like the fresh milk she remembers and longs for. She pushes the half-full tumbler to one side and takes hold of the base of the wine glass, sliding it towards herself without picking it up. In front of her lies the envelope, with the star chart folded back inside. She runs her palm over it and the hand-written address.
Inhales. Exhales.
He’s there in the lines of the pen, his fingers have formed the letters that make up her name. He hasn’t forgotten her. She breathes more and more rapidly. Her heart beats within the red dress. She’s suddenly cold, goosebumps puckering on her skin.
‘We’re closing soon.’ The waiter’s there again, demanding her attention. He nods to the bottle, which is still more than half full.
‘Come on. This is New York. And you know me. Let me sit here a while, I don’t want to go home yet,’ she mumbles. She downs the contents of her glass in two great gulps and fills it again. The hand holding the bottle shakes and she spills a few red drops on the white paper table cloth. The liquid spreads, soaks in. She follows the pattern with her eyes.
‘Tough day at work, I’m guessing?’ The waiter sniggers quietly and clears plates from the next table.
She nods and turns the envelope over, and is faced with the name she hasn’t spoken for so many years, hardly even in her thoughts. Fredrik Grinde. Fredrik. She says the name again and again, feels her bottom lip move against her teeth.
‘OK, you can stay while I close up if you want. I’m not going to throw you out. But just because it’s you.’
The waiter disappears behind the bar. He changes the music. A solitary saxophone is accompanied by the clattering of dishes from the kitchen. The ceiling lights are switched on and the restaurant fills with glaring light. Elin hides her face in her hands. A tear falls to the table and lands on the red stain, which spreads even further.
Her phone vibrates against her leg and she pulls it out of the pocket of her dress. Yet another message. It’s from Sam, just two words.
Good night.
They promised each other that when they got married: that they would always say good night, would never go to sleep without making up. She’s broken that promise many times. Never him. It’s never him that lets her down, it’s always her. It’s always her job eating up all the time.
She breaks the promise this time too. It would be so easy to reply. Night night. And yet she doesn’t. She swipes his words away and goes instead to the search engine, occupied with thoughts of another. She types in Fredrik’s first name, almost expects to find his freckly face and his smile, just as she remembers it. But the screen just fills with other suit-clad men who share his name.
She smiles at her own foolishness, but still doesn’t dare to search for his full name. She searches for other things instead, calls forth pictures of the place she once left. Where she had a friend who would be hers forever. Fredrik, where have you been all these years? She holds the chart to her chest.
The waiter is standing at her table again. He lifts the bottle and looks at it. Then he holds it out to her.
‘It’s not really allowed,’ he says. ‘But take it home with you if you want. This is too expensive to throw away. You have to go now.’
Elin shakes her head, stands and backs away from him. Then she turns around and walks towards the door.
‘Hey, hello, you have to pay before leaving!’ He grabs her by the arm and pulls her back. She nods eagerly.
‘Sorry, I …’
She digs in her bag for her card.
‘Are you OK, has something happened? Is Sam OK?’
‘Yeah, I think so. It’s just … a little complicated. I probably just need some sleep.’
The waiter nods and laughs out loud.
‘We all do. Even here. Get yourself home now, tomorrow’s a new day. The sun will come out tomorrow, so you gotta hang on ’til tomorrow.’ He sings the last sentence.
Elin gives a strained smile and nods. She goes out onto the street but stops in the doorway, arrested by all the thoughts spinning in her head. She gets her phone out again. Writes a few words into the search engine, fingers trembling, presses Enter quickly.
Statute of limitations homicide Sweden.
THEN
HEIVIDE, GOTLAND, 1979
‘She was here yesterday too.’
Gerd, the cashier at the shop, got up when she saw Marianne and Elin come in through the glass door. Elin stiffened and stopped in the doorway, but Marianne carried on in.
‘Yes, and? I sent her, it’s hardly the first time she’s run in here on her own,’ Marianne muttered, taking a basket from the stack.
Gerd went over to Elin and gripped her shoulders gently.
‘Are you going to tell her or should I?’ she whispered right by her ear, with breath that smelled of coffee.
Elin shook her head and looked at her pleadingly, but Gerd ignored her.
‘Missy here tried to steal a litre of milk.’
‘Elin! She would never try to steal anything, she had money with her to pa
y for it.’
‘Well, yes, she paid for one litre. But not for the one she had hidden under her jumper.’
Elin saw Marianne’s jaw clench. She walked around the shop, choosing the products she put into the basket carefully. You could see from her lips that she was calculating the cost in her head. They moved with every sum added. Elin was still held tight in Gerd’s arms. Gerd was soft and warm and breathed heavy, slow breaths. She smelled of hairspray, and her grey curls lay in a perfectly undulating mass across her head. They both followed Marianne with their eyes. In the end she came back and set the basket on the floor. In it lay a packet of macaroni, bread, carrots and onions.
‘You brat,’ she hissed, locking eyes with Elin. ‘We may be poor, but we don’t steal. And that’s that.’
‘How are things with you folks? Is it tough now you’re on your own? Do you have money for food?’ Gerd stroked Elin’s long hair.
Marianne turned her face away.
‘She was just making mischief. Right, Elin? A good hiding’s what you need. And that’s what you’ll get.’
Elin nodded and looked awkwardly at the floor. The two women talked over her head.
‘Are you looking after the girl properly? So she doesn’t turn out like him?’
‘Like him? What do you mean?’
‘Well, a criminal. It can be passed down.’
‘Elin’s not a criminal. What are you talking about? She made a mistake, but don’t worry, she’s not a criminal.’
Gerd entered Marianne’s shopping into the cash register in silence. Marianne followed the rising total with her eyes and fingered the coins in her little purse. She took the bread away, embarrassed.
‘I just remembered, we have bread at home that needs eating first. You can take that out.’
‘If you say so,’ Gerd said with a smile, correcting the amount in the till. Marianne held out a heap of coins.
‘If it happens again, if Elin does something stupid, be sure to ring me straight away. Just so I know.’
‘Yes, I should have rung. It slipped my mind, that’s all. It was just a pint of milk. But of course, she shouldn’t be stealing.’
A Question Mark is Half a Heart Page 2