‘Promise?’
‘I promise.’
‘She’s never coming back?’
‘No, she’s gone forever.’
Elin put her hand in her pocket and touched the book that was inside. The one she’d read all the way through under the covers by torchlight. The one she’d wanted so much to thank Aina for.
NOW
NEW YORK, 2017
There are bags in the hall. Not one, several. A box too. And the owl, the white one. The statue they bought together, long ago when they were travelling in Asia. Elin tiptoes carefully between the objects. The lights are off and she doesn’t turn them on; the light from outside finds its way in through the big windows and illuminates the walls in broad strips. She jumps at the voice from the darkness.
‘Where have you been?’
Sam’s dark figure is suddenly visible, sitting in the armchair. Straight-backed, thin-lipped. She sinks down onto the sofa, smiles at him. She wants to kiss him, but he looks so serious.
‘You’re awake? It went on longer than planned, as per usual. Everyone always wants everything from me. It takes time, it took time today too. But it turned out well, want to see?’
Sam shakes his head.
‘Don’t you get it?’
Elin reaches out, tries to hug him, but he pushes her arms away.
‘This isn’t working any more. I can’t take any more,’ he says.
She shakes her head, baffled.
‘What can’t you take? I don’t understand.’
He says nothing, and they sit quietly for a while. The sound of sirens can be heard from the street. In the end, Sam holds out a key on a keyring, swinging back and forth from his index finger.
‘What are you doing? What’s that?’ Elin asks, smiling uncertainly.
‘I’ve rented an apartment. I’m thinking of living there for a while.’
Elin’s smile falls. ‘Where? Why? What are you doing?’ Her breath is coming in rasps and her chest feels heavier and heavier. Soon it feels almost like she’s buried under lead, suffocating.
‘We can’t live like this any more. Since Alice moved out everything feels lifeless, like the apartment is a ghost town. You’re never here. Like you said yesterday, I’m probably better off alone.’
‘That’s not what I said. I didn’t say that, I didn’t mean that.’
Elin feels lost. She moves closer to Sam, curling up next to him on the sofa.
‘I’ve had a lot on recently, that’s all, big jobs. It will get better. I’m here now.’
Sam shakes his head.
‘It won’t get better. It’s never going to get better.’
He pulls the key off his finger and closes his hand around it.
‘Please,’ Elin begs him. She starts to rock back and forth, her arms folded tight across her chest.
‘Now you don’t have Alice to live for, you live for your work,’ he says. ‘You’re never here with me, and when you are here, you’re not present. And lately it’s been feeling like you’re hiding something, like you’re a stranger.’
‘Why do you say that?’
‘Because that’s how it is. Eighteen years, Elin, eighteen years and I know nothing about you.’
‘What do you mean? You know everything.’
‘I know nothing. You’re always smiling, but you’re never happy. It’s impossible to understand you. You never listen to me. You never ask me anything, never tell me anything. I’ve never even seen a picture of you as a child.’
‘They disappeared in Paris, you know that. Don’t go. I can tell you more. What do you want to know?’
‘It’s too late.’
‘Don’t go.’ Elin reaches her hand out, but he doesn’t take it, just shakes his head.
‘Sometimes I wonder if you even know who you are,’ he says.
‘Don’t say that. Why would you say that?’
‘You orchestrate. Everything. Everything has to be perfect. You create fictions every day, every second. Not reality. It’s as though all this is a backdrop in one of your shoots, as though we, me, and Alice, are just props in something you’re trying to create.’
Sam stands up, straightening his trousers, which have become hitched and wrinkled by however many hours he’s spent in the chair.
‘Are you leaving me?’ she asks. She sinks down onto the floor in front of him, sobbing. Her breath still feels constricted, she can hardly draw air into her lungs. She puts her hands on his feet but he pulls them away, shiny brown leather slipping from under her hands.
‘I’ve hardly ever heard you say you love me,’ he replies.
‘I do.’
‘Say it then.’
‘I do. I promise. Don’t go.’
He turns his back on her and she hears him push the button to call the lift, hears him load bag after bag into it. He stands for a moment in the doorway, the owl underneath his arm, as though he’s waiting for her. But she can’t look at him any longer, so she looks outside instead. Out at the buildings, the roofs, the water tanks. Out at all the windows behind which other families are loving and fighting.
There’s a scraping sound as the lift doors close. She hears the sound of the lift fade and disappear. Then silence again. Silence and darkness.
Elin cries out and runs over to the lift, where something’s lying on the floor. It’s a black notebook. Elin picks it up and opens it. No words, no sketches. Just smooth, untouched white paper. She calls the lift back and goes down, but the street is already empty. He’s climbed into a car, vanished. Where to? She doesn’t know, she didn’t ask. She calls him. The phone rings but no one answers. She tries again, and again. At last she hears his voice.
‘Yes.’
‘You forgot something, a book. You have to come back,’ she says firmly.
‘No. It’s for you. I left it.’
‘Why?’ she whispers.
‘Don’t you get it? It’s empty, just like you. I think you need to listen to yourself.’
The hardness in his voice wounds her, and she forces herself to swallow the lump that’s formed in her throat. She can’t find anything else to say, there’s nothing there. They hang up. She’s holding the book tightly, pressed to her chest. Everything begins to spin around her, and she sways and grabs hold of a newspaper stand to steady herself.
The notebook is beside her on the bed, on Sam’s side. She can’t sleep. In the end she gets up, opens it and glues the printed image of the blue door onto the middle of the first page. Now there’s something in it, a part of her, a start. She puts the book under a pillow. The bed is empty, but it still smells of Sam. She flips the duvet so ‘his’ side covers her, takes his pillow and hugs it tight. It’s four in the morning; in four hours she’s due at the studio again. She doesn’t want to go, can’t stomach it. She closes her eyes and tries to press back the tears, but she can’t stop them any more than she can stop her thoughts.
She gets out the book again and reaches for a pen, trying to think of something other than Sam. Single words come to her. She writes them down, in beautifully-formed cursive script.
Barefoot. Gravel. Deluge. Horizon.
Then she puts the book down, closes her eyes and waits for peace. Breathing deeply, she feels Sam’s presence in the scents surrounding her.
Some time passes, but her thoughts won’t go away and neither will the tears. She writes more words.
Star. Night. Stunted pine. Water fight. She smiles through the tears, at the memory of hands scooping up cascades of water. At the memory of friendship and love in a past life when Fredrik was always at her side, there for her when no one else was.
The clock strikes five. Only three hours left. She closes her eyes, thinks of the sea. Sees the tops of the waves foaming as they crash in towards land. Feels the sensation of standing in them and being caught off-balance by their power. She counts the waves. One, two, three, four. The roar of the street becomes ocean sounds in her ears. She sinks slowly into an unsettled torpor. She kicks her legs, twists and t
urns.
The wardrobe gapes empty on Sam’s side. All his suits are gone, all his shirts. Only a few t-shirts remain: one red, a few black. She turns her face away. Her own dresses hang in perfect colour order. Black, navy, light blue, grey, red. No other colours, just the ones she likes best. She reaches for a black dress but changes her mind and hangs it back again. Swaps it for a grey, A-line one she bought in Paris the last time they were there. Not that one either. She drops it on the floor, the hanger bouncing and landing a little way off.
Eighteen years. Alice was born straight away, she’s always been with them. Those years in Paris, when they were first in love, it’s those years that have kept them going. She remembers it so clearly, the laughter of those first months, the late nights, all the parties they were invited to, with beautiful, successful people. The relief of no longer being alone and lost. And then the nausea and the joy over what their love had given them. From the first moment, she was determined to be the perfect wife, the perfect mother.
It’s always been the three of them. Elin, Sam, and Alice. Not any more. Now she’s the only one left. Maybe Sam is right, maybe she’s been so obsessed with being perfect she’s lost the ability to be real.
She runs her hand along the dresses, feeling silk, velvet, wool, and cotton under her fingertips. None of them are free from memories, each has been worn with the man she’s now missing. In the end she closes her eyes and picks one. It’s black silk, smooth and glossy. She pulls it over her head, ties the belt hard around her waist and stretches. She has an important job ahead of her. A cover. It can’t go wrong. In front of the bathroom mirror she pats her cheeks hard, trying to massage some life into her sallow skin. Her eyes won’t wake up. They’re thick and swollen. She smiles, tentatively at first, then wider and wider. Her eyes become slits. She does some yoga breathing. In through the nose, out through the mouth.
At ten to eight she is hurrying towards the studio. On the way she stops at a deli, suddenly thirsty. A concrete ramp leads her up to a glass door, its handle rectangular and shiny. She lays her hand on it and pulls, but the wind is pushing it closed and it won’t budge. She lets go again and takes a step back.
‘One, two, three, four, five,’ she murmurs, remembering the steps leading up to another door. She takes a firmer grip and pulls. The wind reminds her of the storms, of the sea and the scent of sand and seaweed. She stands, eyes closed, in front of a fridge full of drinks. She breathes in the scent of fresh bread, sensing notes of plastic, printing ink, and freshly opened packaging. Of perfume.
Her telephone rings in her pocket. It’s Joe, sounding tetchy.
‘Where are you? Everyone’s here. We’re waiting.’
‘I’ll be there in a minute. Start setting the lights up.’
‘Everything’s ready. We were here at seven, like you said. Do you remember?’
‘Seven. Yes, of course.’ She reaches for a Sprite, twists off the cap with the telephone pressed between her shoulder and her ear, and takes a large gulp.
‘Is everyone in a good mood?’
‘Middling, to be honest. You should probably hurry,’ Joe whispers.
Elin downs the whole bottle. It tastes too sour to be sugar soda, but it’s close enough to make her remember the drink she used to love. Before she leaves she takes a photo of the glass door.
THEN
HEIVIDE, GOTLAND, 1979
Elin jumped when the glass door opened with a jingling sound. There were a few metal bells suspended by a string from the hinge mechanism so that Gerd, wherever she was in the shop, would hear when someone came in. This time it was Marianne, looking tired. She went straight to the till where Gerd and Elin sat, unpacking bags of sweets.
‘Give me a Bellman scratchcard and a pack of smokes.’
Marianne nodded tersely at the till. Elin held her breath. Gerd didn’t move.
‘Wouldn’t it be better to put that money towards food? The mild cheese is marked down,’ Gerd said finally.
‘Wouldn’t it be better if you minded your own business?’ Marianne snapped back.
Elin took a few steps backwards and eyed the newspaper rack. She squatted down and flicked through a Donald Duck comic. She would read there, sitting on the cold floor of the shop, and Gerd never told her to stop. She knew how much Elin loved to read and look at the pictures. And how much she missed books now that Aina was gone and the door to her literary treasure trove was closed.
‘You never win anything. It’s just a dream, a castle in the clouds. All you ever win is pin money,’ said Gerd, choosing to ignore Marianne’s threatening tone.
‘Pin money for you, perhaps. For us every krona would work wonders. We need a little luck. Give me a scratchcard, I can decide for myself what I buy.’
The till slid open and Gerd lifted up the note drawer, rummaging through the cards. Marianne turned to Elin.
‘Come on, you can choose,’ she called.
Elin got up, stretched out her hand tentatively and felt among the scratchcards, then chose one. The scratch-off section was a novelty she’d only seen at a distance. Marianne gave her a coin.
‘You rub it off, my lucky little lass.’
Elin carefully scraped away the foil covering, every trace. They hadn’t won. Gerd nodded sadly.
‘Don’t say a thing,’ Marianne hissed.
‘There’s a lottery draw too, so keep the ticket. On the 25th.’
‘Shit.’
‘Hmm.’
‘I should have bought milk for the children instead.’
Gerd said nothing.
‘Next time, I’ll do it next time. Next month. It’ll be the 25th soon. We’ll get a little money then.’
‘You could still win.’
Elin was still holding the comic in her hand.
‘You take that home, sweetheart,’ Gerd whispered, stroking her hair.
Elin looked up at her, wide-eyed.
‘They’re going to be sent back tomorrow anyway, there’s a new issue. They’ll get one too few, and we’ll cross our fingers no one notices.’
Elin grinned and clutched the comic to her chest. Marianne shook her head.
‘You spoil those kids, Gerd.’
‘Yeah, yeah. Kids should be spoiled whenever possible. It makes the world a better place, I always say,’ Gerd announced happily.
‘Really? Sounds insufferable.’
‘Not at all. Don’t you worry. And a kinder child than Elin would be hard to find.’
Outside a powerful gust of wind made the glass door fly open and slam shut. Elin buttoned her coat as high as she could and pulled the hood up. She leant all her weight against the door, but the wind resisted. Marianne reached over Elin’s head to help.
‘Autumn’s coming, and the storms. Now we’ll have to put up with messy hair for the next six months.’ Gerd laughed as the wind caught Marianne’s hair, obscuring her face. She pushed it away with her hand.
‘Messy hair, I have that for at least twelve months of the year,’ she sighed. ‘Try having three kids, even for a week, and you’ll see.’
‘Nonsense, with all that time to spare you should be able to comb your hair. Mind you do a bit of job hunting now. Ring round. You’ll find something soon,’ said Gerd.
As she left, Elin let go of the door and let it swing towards Marianne. She held the comic as if it were made of china and smoothed the glossy pages from time to time with her hand. When she got home she’d read aloud from it so Erik and Edvin could hear.
Erik and Edvin lay either side of Elin with their legs hanging off the side of the narrow bed. Elin sat curled up against the wall. In her hand was the copy of Anne of Green Gables, and Erik and Edvin were listening attentively as she read aloud from it. This was the fourth time she’d read it, and in some way it made her feel as though Aina was still alive. She couldn’t stop; she’d read it again and again, and now her brothers would get to meet that wilful Anne too.
‘Why did they want a boy? Are boys better than girls?’ Erik asked suddenly.
Elin slammed the book shut.
‘No, of course they’re not. Aren’t you listening? But imagination probably is better than reality, I think Anne’s right about that.’
‘But I’m hungry in reality,’ Edvin moaned. ‘And you can’t imaginate that away.’
‘It’s “imagine”,’ Elin corrected him.
‘I’m hungry too,’ Erik groaned, rubbing his tummy.
Elin went down to the kitchen, but stopped in the doorway. Marianne sat motionless on a chair turned towards the window, where a tiny grey bird was sitting on a branch outside. The branch swayed as the bird burrowed its little head in under its wing and preened. Suddenly it paused, turned its head and listened to some far-off sound. One of its eyes shone in the low evening sun. After a moment it flew off from its perch, but Marianne didn’t react, just stared emptily ahead.
‘What are you doing, Mama? Are you sad?’ said Elin, going up behind her and putting a hand on her shoulder.
Marianne sprang to her feet, as though the contact had caused her pain. She turned away from Elin and walked off, head bowed, but Elin beat her to the doorway.
‘It’s almost evening. Aren’t we going to eat? What were you planning?’
Marianne shrugged. Elin opened the fridge and looked at the empty shelves. There was half a parsnip and a few carrots. The bucket of potatoes was in the pantry.
‘What do you say to baloney soup?’
She held up a few carrots. Marianne nodded and took them out of her hand.
‘Sure, but we don’t have baloney. Baloney soup without baloney.’
She started peeling the carrots under the running water. Elin fetched some mud-caked potatoes and put them in the sink.
‘That’s OK, it will be tasty anyway!’ Elin smiled and started slicing the carrots thinly.
‘We can drink hot chocolate afterwards, if we’re still hungry.’ Marianne didn’t smile back at her, but Elin laughed.
‘Thief chocolate, you mean. How much did you take, anyway?’
A Question Mark is Half a Heart Page 9