Will and Testament

by Vigdis Hjorth

  Dad?

  Are you out there somewhere?

  What’s it like to be dead?

  It felt wrong for me to want to summon him, but he was just as much my dad as the others’.

  Dad died on Thursday 17 December. He would be buried after Christmas on 28 December. Two days after his death, on Saturday 19 December in the morning, Astrid emailed me asking if we could talk. I was about to put my bag in the car to leave Lars’s house in Oslo and I asked her to call me back in ten minutes when I would be in the car.

  I had been feeling relieved and as I walked down the steps from Lars’s place to clear the snow off the car on a bright and quiet December morning, I felt light. Astrid called while I was waiting for the lights to change at the Smestadkrysset junction, asking me how things were, she sounded expectant, even hopeful. To be honest, I said, disappointing her, I feel relieved. She fell silent. Perhaps she had hoped that I would be in despair, distraught because Dad had died without our being reconciled, that I now repented being so stubborn and pig-headed, that I regretted being estranged, that I would be guilt-laden now that it was too late for me to apologise to Dad. My being relieved rather than repentant made my story more credible, and if my narrative was true, then she had erred. Astrid’s position had been difficult, impossible even, and I had never wanted her to pick a side, only her acceptance that the situation was impossible. Not to have wanted me to turn up to her fiftieth birthday party and be pleasant, not to have put pressure on me, not to have acted and treated me as if I could make the impossible possible.

  ~

  Mum would like to meet with you before the funeral, she said. Mum hadn’t seen me for fifteen years and Astrid was scared that it would be too much for Mum to see me at the funeral. That Mum wouldn’t be able to bury Dad, see me for the first time in fifteen years and meet Bård, who was angry because of the cabins, all at the same time. Astrid was afraid that Mum would break down at the funeral. Astrid and Åsa and Mum wanted the funeral to be dignified. They had asked Bård to meet with them as well, but he had refused. Yet it was more important that Mum saw me because the issue with me went far deeper than the inheritance dispute with Bård. We could go for a walk, she said, they could come over to my place. I didn’t want that, it would be too intimate, we could meet at a café. Tomorrow morning, Sunday, she suggested, I agreed.

  I called Søren and asked him if he wanted to join us. He said yes, he came over to my house that same evening and saw that I wasn’t dissolved in tears because my dad had died, but that I was twitchy at the prospect of meeting Astrid and Åsa and the mum I hadn’t seen for fifteen years the following day.

  We were sitting in front of the fireplace when I got a text message from Bård, who asked what the point of the meeting was. Perhaps he was worried, Søren said, that I might falter and soften and change sides in the inheritance dispute now that Dad was dead. Mum had wanted to meet with Bård as well, but he had asked what the point of the meeting was and Åsa had replied that it was just to talk about what had happened, Dad’s death had been so dramatic, and so that Mum would see him before the funeral, she hadn’t seen him since the start of the inheritance dispute. Åsa and Astrid didn’t want Mum to dread the funeral, they were afraid that Mum might break down at it, if she didn’t meet with us before it. Bård had replied that he knew everything he needed to know and that Mum was much stronger than they thought. He was right about that, it turned out that Mum was much stronger than Åsa and Astrid thought, than Mum herself pretended to be, Mum had always played on her pseudo-fragility, possibly subconsciously or maybe she genuinely believed it. But I wouldn’t back down in the inheritance dispute when faced with the grieving family. I replied that we wouldn’t be discussing the inheritance, that I had said to Astrid that if there was any drama or the inheritance was brought up, then I would leave.

  It reeks of drama, Bård said.

  I didn’t have the energy for Mum’s drama, Mum’s tears and violent, overpowering, invasive emotions which made it impossible to know your own. I started to dread the next day and sent Astrid an email rather than a text message because I knew they were together and showing each other their phones every time they beeped, I’m sure the mobiles at Bråteveien beeped constantly, condolences ticking in and how-are-you and our-thoughts-are-with-you messages from near and far. I wrote that I hoped Mum didn’t have any great expectations of the meeting or for the future, that I was going purely because these were extraordinary circumstances and I felt sorry for Mum. I wrote that I hoped that there wouldn’t be any drama. She replied immediately that she agreed, there wouldn’t be any drama, nothing much was expected, we would deal with one issue at a time.

  Meet at the café, the funeral and then what?

  We left in plenty of time. We ate a quick breakfast and left in plenty of time. We couldn’t find a space where we had intended to park. It was Sunday but coming up to Christmas and the shops were open, cars and people everywhere. I suggested another place we could park, Søren had different ideas, we fell out, we started arguing, then we found an empty space, parked and got out. The café where we had agreed to meet was packed with families with young children, steaming coats and Christmas shopping, there were no vacant tables, would we have to wait for them outside in the cold? We waited anxiously in the chaos, hoping that someone would leave, but no one did, and anyway this wasn’t a place for sad conversations, I had picked the wrong venue. Should I call Astrid and say that I had picked the wrong venue, that the venue was packed, that we would have to find another place, or should we wait until they turned up? The pub by the river was one option, but people were probably drinking beer there already, the ice cream parlour inside the shopping centre wasn’t cosy. We stood in the chaos at the café, fretting about it. A little girl came toddling towards me, her mother hobbling behind her, bent over her daughter, her arms ready to catch her if she fell, like Mum must have walked behind me when I took my first steps, it must have been like that although it was hard to imagine now, Mum was probably a good mum back then, to begin with, intuitive and physically present, in tune with her instincts and her body, that was a long time ago, but I was still walking, I could still walk. We went outside the café and waited in the cold, Søren towering in his big quilted jacket, we discussed alternative venues in order not to have to think about what was coming, the unpleasantness awaiting us, I didn’t know what Søren was expecting, nor did I ask, we didn’t want to talk about it, just to let it happen, it was good not to be alone, it was good that Søren was an adult, Søren should always be there.

  Should I call Astrid and tell her that we had to go elsewhere even though I hadn’t found anywhere else, perhaps it would be better to go for a walk in the cold as she had initially suggested, along the river, then Astrid called, they were by the pizzeria across the bridge, we had forgotten about that, we crossed the bridge, and there they were, outside the pizzeria, three uncomfortable figures, Mum as I remembered her, only less spectacular, everyone was as I remembered to the extent that I remembered them, to the extent that I looked at them, they looked like themselves, all three of them, only less spectacular. I wasn’t spectacular either, but I had dressed with care, I had decided last night what I was going to wear and laid out my clothes on a chair, I was wearing my face for facing the world. They weren’t wearing theirs. We hugged one another. I hugged Mum first, she said: My girl, as in the old days, like some of my boyfriends had said, my girl. Then I hugged Åsa, then I hugged Astrid. Søren hugged Mum and Astrid and Åsa, and we entered the pizzeria and looked for a quiet table, who would take the lead here? Not me, I hadn’t issued the invitation. Åsa found a quiet table, they walked with Mum, one on either side, Astrid and Åsa stayed close to Mum in order to protect her and they also sat down on either side of her. Søren and I sat down opposite them, Astrid, Åsa, Mum sat on one side of the table, Søren and I on the other, who would start and how? Looking at me, Åsa asked what we wanted, I wanted coffee, no beer for me if that was what she thought, that deep down I w
as distraught, crushed and burdened with guilt because I had cut off contact with Dad, who was now dead, and thus I was in need of a beer. Åsa asked if everyone wanted coffee, everyone wanted coffee, Åsa went to the counter and ordered some coffee.

  We’ve cried and cried, Mum said, we’re all cried out, said Mum as if to apologise for them not crying now, they didn’t look tearful, they looked agitated and slightly manic. We drank our coffee and they told us what had happened from beginning to end, talking over each another, they were utterly consumed by it, from beginning to end. It had been so dramatic, they said, none of them had ever experienced something quite that dramatic before. Åsa asked if we had ever been at the scene of an accident. Åsa had once been the first person at the scene of an accident, a car crash, the driver had died from his injuries, there had been blood everywhere, that was when she realised she was squeamish and no good with blood, but she had directed the traffic, someone had to do that, there was a job for her too, everyone had a role to play. The plumbers were due at eight o’clock and Dad had got up when the plumbers rang the doorbell and gone downstairs to let them in, but he must have fallen on the stairs, tripped and fallen or had a dizzy spell and fallen or suffered a heart attack and then fallen, no one could be sure how Dad had fallen, but when he fell, he banged his head against the concrete wall, and it wasn’t until Mum thought it odd that she couldn’t hear plumbing noises, voices, Dad’s voice, that she got up and found Dad on the landing, bleeding and lying in a contorted position with his head and neck twisted unnaturally backwards, and she ran down to the plumbers who had rung the bell again, wearing nothing but her underwear, she said, and they all giggled and Mum repeated that they were all cried out, as if to apologise for the laughter, they had cried and laughed and cried again, Mum said. Søren and I hadn’t cried, hadn’t laughed, Søren and I were outsiders, Søren and I weren’t in the same place as them although we were drinking coffee in the same pizzeria.

  Mum had screamed to the plumbers, two very young men, that she thought her husband had died, and the young plumbers raced up the stairs and put Dad in the recovery position and started mouth-to-mouth resuscitation, two very young men, it had probably been tough for two such young plumbers to find themselves at the scene of an accident, but they had been great, Mum said, and Mum had managed to call Åsa, who was fortunately taking her car to work that day, and she turned around immediately and reached Bråteveien before the ambulance. The plumbers managed to restart Dad’s heart, the plumbers carried on for twenty minutes and got Dad’s heart beating before the ambulance arrived. The ambulance arrived and drove off with Mum and Dad and Astrid and Åsa, and the plumbers had stayed behind to do their plumbing, they had been great, Åsa said, they would send them flowers as a thank-you once they had the energy, there was so much to do. The plumbers had been fantastic and stayed behind to fix the hot water tank. Dad had announced, Mum said, a long time ago that he was never leaving Bråteveien, that he would be carried out of Bråteveien with his boots on, and that was what had happened, Dad was carried out of Bråteveien with his boots on, or rather with his slippers on. Dad fell while he was on the go, Astrid said, yes, Mum said, that was well put, Astrid, Dad fell while he was still on the go. Typical Dad, that’s just like him, Åsa said, he died as he had lived, Astrid said, always in a hurry. Yes, Åsa smiled and was about to add something, but Mum interrupted Åsa and asked me if I had any wishes for the funeral. Wishes for the funeral? No, I had no wishes for the funeral. Mum told us the kind of music she wanted at the funeral, Dad had been very fond of a song they played on the radio, Dad used to listen to the radio when he sat in his armchair reading journals, all kinds of difficult journals, Mum said, looking at me, I want you to know that, Bergljot, that Dad read all kinds of difficult journals. I said nothing, I didn’t know what to say. They hoped that it would be a good funeral, Astrid said, one of their neighbours from their cabins on Hvaler was going to play the violin, it would be in good taste, there might also be a singer. It seemed as if everything that needed doing, anything they could think of, all the decisions that they had to make jointly, agitated them, this state of emergency in which they lived made them quiver. The undertakers would handle most things, Mum said, food and beverages and so on, Mum said, but no function room, they didn’t want to hire a function room, she said, looking at me, they wanted to have the reception in Bråteveien, they had lots of room in Bråteveien, there was no point in hiring a function room when they had Bråteveien and Dad had loved Bråteveien, he had always loved Bråteveien. Did I have any thoughts about the death notice, Mum asked, I shook my head, I hadn’t even thought about it. The Norwegian health service was amazing, Åsa said. Pay your taxes with joy, she said. There had been two doctors with Dad all the time. Or perhaps not all the time. They looked at one another and agreed that two doctors had been with Dad pretty much all the time, they nodded in unison, most of the time two doctors had been with Dad, and Aunt Unni had been there and Aunt Sidsel had been there, and both of them had been great and asked the doctors complicated medical questions. All sorts of tests were carried out, but the blood supply to Dad’s brain had stopped for twenty minutes and he never regained consciousness, every detail repeated over and over, they were utterly consumed by it. And no wonder, it had been dramatic, that’s how you process dramatic events by retelling them over and over. Astrid took a clementine out of her pocket, peeled it, popped a segment into her mouth and passed the rest of the clementine to Søren, who was at a loss before he realised that he was meant to take a segment and pass it on to me. Søren took a segment and passed the clementine to me who took a segment and passed the clementine to Mum who took a segment and passed the clementine to Åsa, just like the chair of the Association of Norwegian Magazine Publishers had done when we were in tricky negotiations with our publishers, peeled an orange and passed it round the table so that everyone could take a segment, an old African custom intended to lower the conflict level; when people shared food and ate from the same thing, their mood would soften. When the decision to stop the ventilation had been taken, they had gone to say goodbye to Dad. Åsa had said to Dad that they were disconnecting the ventilator for his own sake because the alternative was undignified for him, a man like Dad, paralysed and possibly unable to speak, dependent on a ventilator, he was always on the go. Åsa was great, Astrid said, but Mum said Astrid had been great because she had sat with Dad until the end and had seen how the life ebbed out of Dad, how the pulse stopped beating in his neck, how serene Dad’s face was when he died. In contrast to the day before when his face was distorted by alarming and uncontrollable twitches, Astrid’s daughter hadn’t felt able to visit Dad that day because he looked so alien, all bloodied and bruised. Mum had been great, Astrid said, so calm in spite of everything, so composed in spite of everything, for her, Astrid said with a smile to Mum and Åsa smiled, and Mum smiled and looked gratefully at her daughters; they admitted, they said and laughed in unison, that it had taken a fair number of sleeping pills and quite a lot of red wine. Aunt Unni had been great, Astrid said, so calm and composed as well, Aunt Unni had spoken to the doctors about medical matters, and Aunt Sidsel had been great and asked the doctors complicated medical questions, and the doctors had been impressed, they thought, with Aunt Unni and Aunt Sidsel, and Dad’s brain had showed no sign of Alzheimer’s they wanted me to know, and Åsa had been great, Mum said, in one way or another they were letting me know that I should repent my estrangement and my absence because if it hadn’t been for that then I, too, would have been able to take part in this momentous experience and Søren could have taken part in this momentous experience as well, as it was he had to sit there and hear what he had missed out on because he had a mother like me.

  They were meeting with the undertakers tomorrow, Monday, it was all happening so quickly. They would celebrate Christmas, they said, with a big party in Bråteveien, they had decided that, they weren’t the kind of family that was knocked out by something like that, they would throw a party to celebrate
Dad, even in death. It would be a big party and everyone was invited, Aunt Unni and Aunt Sidsel, as well as Astrid and Åsa and their children. And the night before Christmas Eve would be celebrated as usual, and surely my children would be coming to Bråteveien as usual? Søren nodded in a subdued manner, he always went to the gathering on the twenty-third, as did Ebba. Tale and her children will be coming as well, won’t they, Mum asked, how old is her youngest, little Anna, and what does Emma want for Christmas, she asked, after all, she’s almost five years old now. While we, Søren and I, knew that Tale and her family wouldn’t be going to Bråteveien on the twenty-third, and that after those two days on Hvaler in the summer when Mum had asked if she took good care of her daughter, Tale was refusing to play happy families any longer, although I had asked her to carry on because the pressure on me was reduced when my children played along. Tale was an adult now and made her own decisions, and she had considered writing to Mum and Dad to tell them that she didn’t want to see them again, but had dropped the idea when I advised her against it because Mum and Dad would simply assume that she was joining the inheritance dispute, that she wanted a cabin on Hvaler, and then Dad had died. Tale felt the need to state her position, Tale wanted to take a stance because it was because of people who didn’t, who didn’t put their foot down, who didn’t have the courage of their convictions, but tagged along without a word of protest that the world was going to hell in a handcart, because people swallowed camels in order to please others, to avoid the unpleasantness that would follow when you took a stance, that was why the world was going to hell, she refused to play along any more, but Dad had just died and now wasn’t the right time to ram home a point of principle, so what was the right thing to do?