by Karin Fossum
Bonnie leaned against the door frame for support. She saw that there was water in the bathtub and realized that Erna must have fallen and hit her head on the edge of the bathtub.
She got down on her knees to feel for a pulse, but there was nothing beating under the thin skin. So she went into the living room and took the crocheted blanket from the sofa, went back to the bathroom, and put the blanket over the dead body. She had never seen Erna naked, so pitiful and exposed. All her energy gone. I’m going to die one day too, Bonnie thought. Someone will come into the room and find me when it’s all over. I hope to God I’m never found in this state.
In the evening, she had to explain to Simon why she had come to collect him so soon after she had dropped him off. She wanted him to know the truth about life and death. But she was careful all the same.
“You know that she’s going to be buried in the ground, don’t you?”
Yes, Simon knew that because they’d talked about death at daycare. Kaja had tried to explain that dead people weren’t there anymore. They weren’t sleeping, they weren’t dreaming, they couldn’t see, they didn’t breathe, and they would never wake up again. She said that death was another country and that anyone who was alive could only imagine it.
“The coffin is very beautiful,” Bonnie explained. “It’s got silk and velvet inside, and the person is all dressed up for their final journey.”
“Where are they going?” Simon asked.
“To eternity,” Bonnie replied.
“Where’s that?”
“We don’t know. But I think it’s very beautiful there. I think it’s a bit like a big garden full of flowers. And you get to meet all the other people who are dead.”
“But how do they know how to get there?”
“Oh, they just know,” Bonnie said. “But when we’re alive, we don’t know. It’s like a special surprise for all of us, don’t you think?”
Simon was happy with that. But after he had gone to bed that evening, Bonnie sat up thinking about her own death, which of course she knew nothing about.
29
“WHAT ARE YOU doing on the phone?” Mass asked. “You haven’t said anything.”
For English, press 5, Eddie heard as he played with the photograph that Inga Nielsen had sent him. It was an enlarged color print of his father with his arms around Inga and their son, Mads. It was taken in 1991, only a year before he died. It was obvious to Eddie that Inga Nielsen was beautiful; she was much younger than Mass, with wavy blond hair, and she was wearing a spotted summer dress. It was easy to understand why they had fallen in love. Why his father, tall and handsome as he was, had chosen this beauty over them. His mother had been reluctant to look at the picture when he held it up for her to see. His brother Mads was just a little boy, and he could tell that his father was much older in this picture than the one above his bed.
No, he didn’t have a Eurobonus card, but he continued patiently to tap his way through the menu to book a return flight to Copenhagen. This phone call may be recorded, he heard. Jesus, as if I care. And then, having waited for what seemed like forever, he finally heard a voice asking if it could help him. He had doodled all over the notebook as he waited. The doodles didn’t mean anything; they were simply an expression of his excitement and tension. This was perhaps the most important decision he had ever made in his whole life.
“I have flown before, you know,” Eddie muttered, when his mother expressed her concern.
“But I was with you,” Mass pointed out. “How will you find out where to go?”
“I’ll ask,” he said curtly. “Everyone at the airport will be in uniform.”
“I mean to get to the cemetery,” she said. “Copenhagen is a big city.”
“I’ll take a taxi,” he replied. “It’s not that difficult, is it? Stop going on.”
Mass wanted to cry. Her son, whom she loved so much, was going out into the big, wide world, alone, to find a father who had deserted him. And then showered all his love on a second son.
The flight was at ten past seven in the morning and his mother drove him to the airport express train. She stood on the platform and watched the train pull out with a sense of foreboding and an uneasy heart. Eddie. Dear Eddie. He had a backpack on his back that contained the few things he needed, and as the train whizzed him out to the airport, he sat and thought. It didn’t bother him in the slightest that his mother didn’t want him to go.
When he got to the airport, he went to the check-in desk with his reference number. He didn’t dare use the automatic check-in, in case he got it wrong. He was given his boarding pass, went through security, and then had to take off his heavy boots and go through again. He went straight to the gate, where he sat and waited patiently. Dad, he thought, I’m only a few hours away. He boarded the plane, found his place by the window, and collapsed into the narrow seat. The person before must have been a real skinny malinky, so he had to adjust the seat belt. He concentrated on the safety demonstration, keeping his eyes on the flight attendant. He picked up on the oxygen masks, the life jackets and whistle, and the four emergency exits. He would have to struggle out through the doors if they crash-landed. He would crawl down the aisle, over the other passengers if necessary. The plane might explode in a ball of flames. And all that his mother would be given was the remains of some scorched bones. Eventually he relaxed and settled in. The pilot wanted to get home in one piece too; he probably had children waiting for him. So he had to land them all safely.
When he got to Kastrup, he didn’t know where to go. He followed the other passengers to the baggage claim, but he didn’t need to wait for anything since he had his bag on his back. So he headed straight for the exit and found a taxi.
“Amagerbrogade 33,” Eddie said and leaned forward between the seats.
He got his wallet out of his bag and had his Visa card at the ready.
“You got someone there?” the driver asked.
“My father,” Eddie explained as he sat back in his seat. The driver steered a steady course through the Copenhagen traffic. He had a ring of silver hair around the back of his head, and his crown shone like a globe. Eddie was almost there, for real. The sexton was going to meet him at the main entrance. When they found each other, they shook hands. It had started to rain, so they would get wet.
“So,” Povel Koch said, “let’s go and find your father. As I told you, he’s in a very nice place. You might find that his grave is a little overgrown, but you said yourself on the phone that his family had moved away.”
The sexton was heavy and waddled through the maze of beautifully kept graves. It was an enormous cemetery and Eddie was astounded that the sexton could find his way anywhere, even if he did have a map. His heart started to pound inside his wet jacket, and he felt very proud of himself as he followed behind. Tracker Tore could eat dirt.
And then all at once he was standing there alone in the rain. The sexton left him in peace, and he stared at the name, Anders Kristoffer Malthe. Peace be with you.
Eddie noticed immediately that his father’s gravestone stood out. The other stones were black or gray, whereas his was white. It stood there gleaming among all the other dark stones, as if it were calling out to him. The stonemason had carved a wreath under the arched top of the stone. Now that Eddie was finally standing in front of his father’s grave, after endless years of frustration, anger, and longing, the emotions overwhelmed him. He was furious and happy and proud, but he was still bitter. There was nothing growing on the grave since it was March, and Eddie suddenly realized that he should have brought flowers. Think of traveling all this way and forgetting the most essential thing. He bowed his head in shame and looked around at the other graves. Many of them did not have flowers either. He wandered a little but made sure he didn’t stray too far, for fear of not being able to find his way back. When he had been walking around for a while, he spotted a gravestone with an angel on it and a bunch of fresh flowers on the ground in front. There was a candle beside the flowe
rs that had been extinguished by the rain. He read the name on the gravestone, Martin. He only lived to be four years old, which was probably why he had such fresh flowers. Presumably his mother came to the grave every day. He picked up the flowers and inspected them; they were white and blue. He took the candle too and said to the grave: “You’ll get new ones tomorrow.”
He went back to his father’s grave and laid the flowers on the ground. He stood in front of the white gravestone for a long time, with so many thoughts in his head. It felt good to be there, but there was a certain sadness too. As he prepared to leave, he pressed his hand against the stone, and the rain trickled down under his collar and made him shiver.
You shouldn’t have come. Mom is raging.
For the rest of the day, he wandered around Copenhagen.
He went into a café and had some chicken for lunch. A little later, he sat down somewhere else for a Coke and some cake. He went into some stores, looking for things from New York and thinking about his brother Mads. I’m going to find you too, he thought, now that I’ve started. By the time he was on the flight home again at eight, he felt deeply satisfied. He had done what he’d set out to do. It had been an important project, and he had not let anything stop him—not the authorities or his mother’s doubt. He was served coffee and a roll. The sky was dark, and his mother would be waiting for him at the station. He would give her a detailed report, though he would omit the fact that he had stolen the flowers from four-year-old Martin.
Mass was there waiting and gave him a big hug, relieved to have him home again in one piece. She hoped he would calm down now and be himself again. When she thought about it, it was only right and reasonable that he’d gone. I clipped his wings, but they’ve grown out again. She had bought some cinnamon rolls for him and Eddie munched away happily. She had also been to the shopping center and bought him a new sweatshirt. It was black, but it said something different: Survival of the Fittest, with a picture of a Rottweiler baring its teeth. He liked it a lot. He told her about the rain in Copenhagen and the friendly sexton. The enormous double wrought-iron gate at the entrance, the beautiful white stone with a wreath on it. About the chicken and cakes he’d eaten and all the people in the rain. Later that night, he finally put the photograph of the Malthe family up on the wall and slept more soundly than he had in a long time.
Mass sat under the reading light. It warmed the top of her head. She had a constant ache in her back now and had found more bruises. Her right wrist was sore as well. What on earth was the matter with her? She leaned her head back and closed her eyes. There could be no doubt anymore. Something was seriously wrong with her body.
Shiba was no longer as fat as a stuffed sausage but instead was a weak, skin-and-bones bag of a dog feeling a lot of pain. She was riddled with cancer, so there was no hope. Mass could sit in the corner with her for ages, stroking her head and back while mumbling words of affection. She drew in the smell of her, buried her face in her fur, rubbed her big paws. Eddie watched them from the living room. He knew where it was all leading and could tell that his mother was putting it off for as long as she could. One day, he went into the kitchen, leaned against the windowsill, and said: “Enough is enough. She can hardly walk. And there’s no dignity in shitting on a newspaper.”
Mass looked at her son. “I know. But I can’t face it. It’ll be so empty without her. No one waiting for me in the morning.”
“I’ll be waiting,” Eddie said.
“But to stand there and watch him give her the injection—I can’t even bear to think about it,” she said, distraught. “I just can’t do it.”
Eddie made a big decision. Buoyed by his visit to Copenhagen, he felt that he could now do anything, and what’s more, he really wanted to help. He liked the fact that his mother needed him.
“I’ll take her to the vet,” he said firmly, “so you don’t need to. I’ll sort everything out. Just call Munthe to say that I’m coming.”
Mass thought about it for a while. “Do you think I’m a coward?” she asked.
“Of course not,” Eddie assured her. “You’ve never been a coward. You can say goodbye to Shiba here, and then I can carry her out to the car.”
“OK,” she said eventually. “Thank you. Let’s do that, then.” Now that the decision had finally been made, she picked up the phone and called Munthe. She explained that Eddie would come with Shiba, that she couldn’t face it, and that she would like it done as soon as possible.
“I’ll go and buy some smoked sausage,” she said to Eddie afterward. “So that she finishes with something nice.”
“Buy some for me too,” Eddie said. “I’m starving.”
When the day finally came, they were both up early. This was no ordinary day. Mass couldn’t bear to look her son in the eye.
Shiba had been given the first appointment of the day because Mass didn’t want to wait for too long. She had transferred three thousand kroner to Eddie’s account to pay for having the dog put down and cremated. She would go to the vet at some later point to pick up the urn, which she wanted to keep by the wood burner. It was a quarter past seven when Eddie carried the sick dog out to the car, and then it was time for Mass to say goodbye. Eddie gave her plenty of time; he sat patiently at the wheel and waited. For some reason, he was excited to be part of this. He felt that he was on an important mission. But also, Shiba’s death meant that he would no longer have to share his mother’s attention with anyone.
He drove the eighteen miles into town, parked the car, and got out. He opened the back door and lifted her down. She stood there on shaky legs and looked at him dolefully. “Come on,” he said. “You’re not getting out of it.”
She pulled herself across the parking lot to the steps. Then Eddie had to lift her up and carry her into reception, where he put her down on the floor before going to the counter.
“Malthe,” he said. “I’m here to put my dog down.”
“What’s your dog’s name?”
“Shiba.”
The veterinary nurse nodded. “Mr. Munthe is ready for you,” she said. “He’ll be right out.”
Eddie sat down. The only other person there was a young girl, with a basket on the floor in front of her. Maybe it was a cat or a rabbit. “There’s always something wrong with pets,” he whispered to the dog. “You’re expensive.”
Shiba had closed her eyes. He wondered if she had a sixth sense, if she knew what was about to happen. Generally dogs seemed to understand an awful lot. Humans know that they’re going to die, he thought, so dogs must too.
Munthe stopped in front of him. “Good morning, Eddie. So you’ve come, eh?” he said.
“Mom couldn’t face it,” he explained.
“So I understand,” Munthe said. “It’s a good thing she’s got you.”
Eddie felt pride swelling in his breast. He followed the vet into the room, pulling Shiba behind him for those final steps. Then they put her on a bench that could be raised and lowered.
“I know this is hard for you,” Munthe said in a comforting voice, “but in terms of her health and well-being, it is absolutely the best thing for all three of you.”
“I know,” Eddie replied. “I’ve told Mom hundreds of times.” He put his hand on the dog’s head, trying to catch her eye.
“Would you like some time alone with her?” Munthe asked.
“No,” Eddie said immediately. “Just do it.”
Munthe got some small ampoules and a syringe. Then he put his hand on the dog’s neck and explained the procedure to Eddie.
“First I’ll give her an injection in the neck skin here. It’s an opiate, so it will make her drowsy and calm. Once she’s had that, Shiba won’t worry about much anymore.”
“Sounds good,” Eddie said, keen to get on with it.
Munthe put the needle into her skin and emptied the syringe. He looked across at Eddie. “We have to wait for fifteen minutes now. She’ll fall into a light sleep. So I’ll leave the two of you alone now.”
Eddie leaned down over Shiba and thought about what was about to happen. He lifted her paw; it was completely floppy. He pulled her tail as he normally did, but she didn’t react. He lifted an eyelid and stared into her black pupil. She was drooling. Then he sat down again and waited for the executioner. He heard a little dog yapping out in reception, possibly a poodle or a Chihuahua; a telephone was ringing furiously but no one answered. There were people sitting out there who needed help with all kinds of things. Maybe their dog had worms or eczema, or a double set of teeth like Shiba had had when she was a puppy. When he got home, he would have to report everything to his mother—exactly what had happened because she would no doubt ask about all the details. After a while, Munthe came back. He got another syringe.
“I inject this one into her front leg,” he explained. “It’s intravenous. So it works very fast; it only takes a minute. It paralyzes her brain first, then her breathing. She won’t notice anything. She’s already out of it.”