I finished and closed the book. Ika stretched out a hand and I gave it to him. He sat fingering the closed book for a moment, then opened it and began to flick through the pages. After that first reading, the story about Lasse became his favourite. He had me read it again and again, and he never seemed to tire of it. He always seemed to listen with his full attention. At first I tried to talk to him about the story, but I quickly realised he had no interest in this. He just wanted to hear me read it. So it was impossible to know how he interpreted the story. Whether it resonated with something in his own life. All I could do was keep reading it to him.
The weeks went by. A couple of months. I heard nothing from Lola. I had no idea where she was, but I knew there were new tenants in the house. Ika never asked about his grandmother. I suppose we both had our reasons for not discussing the situation. And eventually I began to believe we would be left in peace.
Ika seemed to make some improvements at school. Each time I talked to the teacher she sounded more friendly, warmer. He still showed no particular enthusiasm for school, and he still didn’t talk about it voluntarily. His replies to my questions remained monosyllabic. But I felt that things were improving. Or at least stabilising. At home, too. We had established comfortable routines. I thought that Ika was as contented as I was. I experienced moments when I was overcome by something that resembled happiness. It was as if we were slowly growing into an unusual little family.
Our project progressed. It was still hard for me to envision what it was that we were creating, but in a strange way it was as if Ika were my eyes. I had developed some intuitive understanding of the idea in his head, and my ability to place things in the right place seemed to improve day by day. It was as if I felt our project, rather than saw it.
I had lived almost my entire life with no responsibility for anybody other than myself. I had had no sleepless nights with worries over a loved one. Never dreaded a late-night call. So the shrill sound of the phone in the middle of the night didn’t evoke any anxiety. If anything I was annoyed, assuming it must be a mistake. A wrong number.
But it was Lola.
It took me a while to recognise the voice. I kept the phone to my ear while I struggled to disentangle myself from the sheets and sit up.
‘I need him back,’ she said with no introduction.
I froze. My whole body instantly went cold and stiff. I struggled to draw my breath.
‘Why?’ I managed to say finally.
‘I just do,’ she said.
‘But …’ I started.
She cut me short. Said she needed him with her. That Child, Youth and Family had been in touch enquiring about his whereabouts. That she was at risk of losing the benefit. I asked her where she was but she didn’t respond. She just kept repeating that she needed Ika back. She wanted him the following day.
‘No,’ I whispered. ‘Don’t do this to him. He has just started to settle in here. He is making progress at school. Please, Lola, don’t do this. There must be some other solution.’
But she was adamant, and nothing I said seemed to reach her. She would come and get him the following day. And with that she hung up.
I sat with the phone in my hand, stunned.
I tried to call her mobile but got a message that it had been disconnected.
I suppose I should have realised this was likely to happen. Nothing had ever been properly arranged. I had purposely allowed not just myself, but also Ika, to develop a false sense of security. Day by day it had become easier to believe we were safe. That our arrangement had become permanent.
I sat on my bed and stared into the darkness.
Then I heard the piano. Ika was playing. I didn’t recognise the music. It was peculiar, not like anything I had heard him play before. It was a simple tune and he played slowly. Slowly, but with clarity and intensity. It was painful to hear. But I sat and listened. I didn’t weep, but I was filled with a sense of awful helplessness and utter distress over my inability to influence the course of events. And in their awfulness the feelings were only too familiar.
When he stopped playing, the house became eerily silent, as if there were no longer anybody living in it.
I walked slowly to the lounge.
Ika was sitting at the piano. The room lay in darkness and I could only just see him outlined against the pale moonlight that shone through the window behind him. I walked over and sat down beside him on the stool. He didn’t move and for a brief moment our bodies brushed against each other. He didn’t look at me.
‘Did you hear the phone?’ I asked. I kept my hands between my knees to make sure I would not try to hold him.
He nodded.
‘It was your grandmother.’
He didn’t respond.
‘She said she would like to have you back.’
I searched frantically for the right words.
‘Would you like to go back?’
He said nothing and I couldn’t see his face. Then I saw the trails of tears glistening on his bare chest.
I clasped my hands hard and struggled to control my voice.
‘I will think of something,’ I said. ‘I will think of something.’ I nodded to myself. Tried to reassure myself as much as him that there was something I could do. ‘Your grandmother has problems, but we will find another way of helping her solve them,’ I said. ‘We’ll talk to her tomorrow. Don’t worry, Ika. Nobody will take you away from here if you don’t want to go.’
He slid off the stool. I stretched out one hand and tried to grasp his but he was already out of reach. He left the room without a sound. I heard him return to his little den and pull the curtain closed.
I remained on the stool for while. I felt numb, unable to move or think clearly. Think at all. For the first time in my adult life I was overcome by a longing for someone to help me. Eventually I walked over to the sofa, wrapped myself in a blanket and lay down. I stared into the darkness until it gradually began to dissolve.
And I realised the new day had begun.
She is no longer a little girl. It feels as if she has become someone completely different. She is almost nine years old and she is all alone. She will have to learn to live like this. She is not sure how, but it is absolutely necessary. There is no other way. It is easier now that she is no longer Marianne. Now that she no longer has anything to lose.
Nobody has asked her anything. They have all been so nice. They look nice. They say nice things. Yet they have taken everything from her. They look over her head – at each other, not at her. Whisper behind her back. Talk about her as if they know. But they don’t know anything. And she can’t tell them because she is not that girl any more. It is empty inside her and nothing hurts. She is all new and she has nothing to tell. And she is absolutely alone.
‘It will be all right, you’ll see. You will be with your uncle. And your brother will be with a kind family who will love him and care for him.’
But they know nothing. They don’t know how Daniel likes his milk. How he likes to be stroked at the nape of the neck before he goes to sleep. He will be so frightened, and so very lonely.
But she is not afraid at all. She doesn’t mind being alone.
It feels easier now. The old Marianne was so sad. She was still hoping. Longing. This new Marianne has no hope. No, she knows there is nothing more they can take from her. Because she has nothing. And she knows nothing.
She is absolutely certain she has never seen him before. The woman with the short red hair stands by her side, a little too close, as if she wants to make it look as if they belong together. She says: ‘This is your uncle, Marianne.’ She doesn’t want to belong with this woman so she takes a small step away from her. The woman places her hand on her shoulder. Perhaps she is afraid that she will slip away. Why would she? And where would she go?
There is nowhere for her to go. And there is nobody who can help her.
On the way here in the car the woman turned towards her with the same hopelessly kind expression as all
the others. Cheerful, but so very sad.
‘It will be nice to be with someone from your own family, won’t it?’ she said, and patted her hand on the seat between them. She leaned so close that she could smell Marianne’s breath, so she turned away and looked out the window. Marianne didn’t reply. What could she say?
Because this man is not her family. She has no family. This man is a stranger and he means nothing to her. And she thinks that it looks as if he is thinking the same. But here they are standing facing each other. And she feels a little sorry for him. She doesn’t need anybody to feel sorry for her, and it doesn’t look as if he does. He doesn’t look at her properly, but at the woman, who smiles and smiles. As if she thinks this will help.
‘This is little Marianne,’ the woman says.
‘That’s no longer my name,’ she says quietly. And then again once more, a little louder.
The woman smiles an uncertain little smile but she says nothing. They stand in silence.
When she looks up at the man she can’t see anything she recognises. He doesn’t look like anybody she has ever seen. Not like her mother. And not like her grandfather.
But the woman says he is her uncle. Mother’s brother. If this is true, why has she never heard anything about him? Never seen a single photo? Perhaps it is all a lie, just to make her go along with what they have decided. Make it feel better. They don’t know there is nothing that can make her feel any better.
Just then he looks down at her, and he puts his hand on her head for the first time. Very lightly, and without a word. And somehow she understands that this is all he is able to do. And it is enough. It will have to be enough.
His name is Karl-Göran, but it will take her a long time to find out. Everybody calls him KG. The woman calls him Mr Gustafsson. It feels strange to stand here in front of Mother’s brother. Where has he been all these years? She can’t remember Grandfather ever mentioning him. Nor Mother. Except for that one time, when Daniel was born. When Mother came home from the hospital with Daniel in her arms.
Mother walked into the kitchen and sat down on a chair. She looked up at Marianne where she was standing in the doorway, and beckoned her to come closer. Then she opened the blanket and they both looked at the little face inside.
But she doesn’t want to think about that now. Doesn’t want to know anything about any of that. She no longer knows how it felt. That warmth that filled Marianne completely, that she knows nothing about now. It is as if she has never felt it, never stuck her hand in there and felt the little fingers grasp one of hers. She has never been so happy that she almost had to cry. She can’t possibly understand how it felt to be that happy, and then look up at Mother and see that she is crying. Not because she is happy, but for real. And then hear Mother begin to talk. Now, she doesn’t have to know how hard it is to be so happy and so sad at the same time. She doesn’t know anything.
‘This is your brother Daniel, Marianne,’ Mother said. That doesn’t sound sad at all, does it? But when Mother said it, it sounded so sad that it swallowed all the happiness.
‘Always remember that you have a brother. And help me look after him.’
The person she is now would never understand. She would never understand what it felt like when Mother took Marianne’s hand and put it on Daniel’s small chest. How his rapid heartbeat felt under her palm.
‘Love him if you can, Marianne. And stay close to him. Keep him close to you. I didn’t, and I think my life might have been different if I had. But I allowed my brother to disappear from my life. When my mother left and took him with her, I let him go. And in the end I had nobody.’
That was all. Never again would she mention her brother. And Marianne never asked. This is not easy to understand, perhaps, but there were no more moments like that. Marianne never gave him another thought. She didn’t even know his name. Or where he was. Whether he was alive. She just stored the piece of information together with the wealth of other incomprehensible bits and pieces that never actively surfaced again. Her mother had a brother. Somehow he had disappeared.
The old Marianne only had time for her own brother.
But here he is, her uncle, right in front of her. There is nothing she can do about that. She can’t make herself not see him.
She is supposed to go with him.
He doesn’t bend down to give her a hug, or even take her hand. That’s a relief. Nor does he smile. And that’s good too, because there is certainly nothing to smile at. He lets his hand rest lightly on her head a second time, that is all.
Then they leave.
She cannot know then that she will learn to love this man. And understand that he loves her too, in his way. It will take time, like all things that are created from nothing. One day she will grieve for him when he dies. But here and now, she can’t even understand that she will ever feel anything at all.
But she follows him. This new girl, who is no longer Marianne, walks beside the tall man whom she doesn’t know at all. They don’t talk. What could they talk about when they do not know each other? They are two strangers who have been pushed together by others. So they walk side by side in silence.
They are to fly to London, because that is where he lives. She has never flown before, and abruptly she can feel her stomach knot. What if she gets sick? Vomits all over herself and others? She can’t tell him. She just can’t. For the first time since she became this new girl she feels her eyes sting with tears. But she doesn’t cry.
And flying is not like being in a car or on a ship. All goes well.
They still have nothing to tell each other. Or perhaps they have too much pent up inside, both of them. The kind of things that are impossible to share with a stranger. So they sit in silence during the entire trip.
KG has no wife but he has Brian, who is waiting at the airport when they arrive. Brian is nowhere near as tall as KG, and at first it looks as if he has no hair. But close up she can see that it’s shaved, and so short that it is just a faint shadow. He waves when he spots them, and when she looks up at KG she can see that he is smiling. It’s the first time she has seen him smile, and he looks very different. It’s as if his face was frozen before, and has now thawed. When he catches her gaze his face goes stiff again. But his cheeks are pink. She thinks that perhaps he didn’t mean for her to see that smile. So she discards it straight away. She can do things like that now. Rid herself of anything hard or uncomfortable. Lock it away.
‘There’s Brian,’ KG says.
When they get through the gate Brian opens his arms as if he means to hug KG. Then it looks like he is not sure what to do, and in the end he puts one hand on KG’s shoulder and the other gently on hers. He says something she doesn’t understand. She can tell it’s English, that’s all.
‘Brian says he hopes you feel welcome. He hopes you will be happy staying with …’ She doesn’t understand why KG looks so uncomfortable. Then he looks at Brian and slowly puts his own hand on top of Brian’s, which is still resting on KG’s shoulder. He smiles again, and everything feels a little easier.
‘Brian and I both hope you will be happy here. With us.’ Then he rests his hand on her head for a moment.
Brian squats in front of her so that they are facing each other, and stretches out his hand. He is smiling, but this is not a sad smile. This is a good smile. So she takes his outstretched hand. He pulls her towards him and lifts her up. Although she is almost nine years old, he lifts her in his arms. And she lets him. She doesn’t hug him but she doesn’t resist either. And when she looks at KG she can see that he looks happy. Relieved, it seems. As if Brian helps to make things easier for KG. She looks at them both and she can smell Brian’s perfume.
This is when it gets hard. She is scared she will burst into tears here, right at the airport, among all these people. She fights the tears, and it is very hard but it feels right. It is right that it should be hard. This is her punishment. This is how it should be. For a brief moment she had forgotten. She had smelled Brian’s pe
rfume and looked at KG and she had felt a sting of longing. She had wanted to lean against Brian’s chest and put her arms around his neck. Cry. But she mustn’t do that. It’s just not allowed. And when she tells herself this, then the tears go away. It’s good not to be Marianne any more, because she doesn’t have to feel anything. She doesn’t need to be sad, and can’t be happy either. It’s easier. Nor can she tell anything, since she knows nothing, remembers nothing. So there is no need to worry. She will not cry. And she will never tell.
Nobody asked her to tell then, when she was Marianne and would have been able to. And it’s too late now. She is someone else now and she knows nothing. And when it gets really difficult, when hard things happen, well, then that is her punishment. And this feels good. It will make her stronger. There is no need to be scared. It is just as it should be. She knows with absolute certainty that she will never share that, the most awful thing, with anybody. Not with these two, however nice they are. And she decides not to talk at all for some time. Until she can speak in English. This will make it easier. It will be like starting something new. A different life. In English. It will be like having a wall between what was before and what is starting now, and nothing can seep through this wall. In English, she will be able to live here. With KG and Brian.
Brian drives. She can see his shaved head above the neck-rest, but from the back seat she can’t see his face. Mostly he is looking straight ahead. He doesn’t turn his head, but every now and then he points at something outside and says something which KG then tells her in Swedish. She says nothing.
Time goes very slowly. Or rather not at all. It is as if they are here in the car, and it might last forever. But this is a kind of punishment too, so it doesn’t matter. The back seat is very wide and the soft leather has a strange smell. The backs of her legs stick to it and she feels a little queasy. Not as if she needs to vomit, just a little queasy.
The woman in Stockholm tried to tell her how things would be. But what did she know? And what did it matter? The doctors wanted to know what she was thinking. But she had no thoughts because she was dead. She was nothing. They asked her if she was anxious and afraid. They knew nothing, all those doctors. How could she be anxious and afraid? Why would she be, when the most awful thing had already happened? She wasn’t at all afraid. She was nobody, felt nothing, because it was all over. With their kind, sad smiles they sat watching her, their heads a little cocked, as if they expected something from her. Didn’t they understand she had nothing to give them?
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