“Oh, Mum,” I say, putting my head to one side and regarding her. “It was a joke,” I tell her. “Oh, I’m sure,” she says. “Hey,” I say. “Yes, yes,” she says and a moment passes and I feel the life ebbing out of me again and I take a breath and sigh, pause, then force a little smile. “Well, Mum, was it fun to see the old house again?” I ask but she doesn’t answer. “Hmm?” I say and she turns to me again and looks at me with that same indignant look on her face. “Humph!” she says. “You’ve asked me that five times since we got back,” she says. “Do you want me to say how grateful I am to you for taking me there, is that why you keep going on about it?” she says and a moment passes and I feel myself getting upset now. “No, I’ve no such hopes,” I say, it just comes out and I look at her and give a weary little smile. “What?” she says, frowning and glaring at me. and I’m about to repeat it, but I don’t, I can’t be bothered arguing with her, can’t be bothered starting anything. “Nothing,” is all I say, still smiling that weary little smile. “Anybody would think it was you, not me that was getting old, with all the questions you ask,” she says. “Yes,” I say, saying it with a little intake of breath, saying it with a little sigh, and I feel myself growing more and more fed up with her. Then Egil comes back, this time with his fingers wrapped round a cloth, those slender shopkeeper fingers, and he hands the cloth to Mum. “Here you are,” says Egil. “Thanks,” mutters Mum.
“Well,” Egil says lightly, glancing at his watch, “I’d better be on my way if I’m to drop the girls off at the bus station before I go to work. He looks at me and smiles then turns to Mum. “Right, then,” he says. “Well, thanks for coming with us today, Oddrun,” he says. “Thanks for taking me,” Mum says. “Are you quite sure you can’t take the time off, Egil?” I ask, eyeing him beseechingly. I know very well that he can’t take the time off, but I ask anyway and give him a rather strained smile. “Yes, Silje,” he says. “Oh, please,” I say. “The kids will be out and we’d have the whole evening to ourselves,” I say. “It’s been so long since we had an evening to ourselves,” I say. “We could go out. Book a table at Credo maybe and have dinner together, share a bottle of wine?” I say. “A romantic evening, just the two of us,” I say, and I hear what I’m saying and I don’t really know why I’m saying it, I don’t even feel like going out. “Silje, please,” he says and he looks at me, smiles gently at me and I smile wanly back. “No, never mind,” I say. “Some other time, eh?” he says. “Anyway, it’s not that long until we’re off to Brazil and then we’ll have a whole two weeks to spend together, just you and me.” “Yes,” I say. “And play golf,” I add. “Hey,” he says, “I promise not to overdo the golfing this time,” he says, looking at me. “Okay,” I say and a moment passes and I close my eyes and nod, then I open my eyes and give a faint smile and he tilts his head to one side and smiles back. “Hey,” he says. “Don’t go making me feel guilty,” he says. “No, of course not,” I say and we look at one another and a moment passes. “A three-course dinner at Credo,” I say, it just slips out. “Oh, come on,” I say quickly and I crease my brow and send him a coy little look. “Silje, please,” he says and he flashes me an indulgent, almost paternal smile, holds my gaze for a couple of seconds, then bends his head and plants a kiss on my forehead, “Bye-bye, then,” he says. “Bye,” I say, then Egil turns to Mum. “Bye, then, Oddrun,” he says. “Bye,” Mum says.
And Egil turns away. His back is covered in stray blond hairs, he sticks a hand into his suit trouser pocket, jingles his car keys as he walks out of the door and Mum and I sit there, staring into space, and the fridge hums and hums, and I pick up my cup and and drink the rest of my coffee, then set the cup down on the table. “He works a lot,” Mum says. “We both work a lot, Mum,” I say, giving her my weary little smile. “Yes, I suppose you do,” she says. “I worked till half-past ten last night,” I say. “Yes, well,” Mum says, “I don’t know why, but there it is,” she says. “You’re rolling in money, but you can hardly ever afford to take a break. I don’t know what you want with it all,” she says, “all the stuff you buy,” she says. “No,” I say, and I look at her, still with that weary smile on my face. I can see that my smile irritates her. “I don’t know how you can get any pleasure out of it all,” she says. “It’s not as if you’ve time to spend any of it anyway,” she says. “No,” I say, saying it with a little intake of breath, saying it with a faint sigh, keeping the smile on my face. I can see that she’s getting more and more irritated and I realize I get a little kick out of the fact that she’s irritated. I’m so sick of listening to her harping on about this, it’ll do her good to see that I don’t care. “And yet you always want more,” she goes on. “You’re never content,” she says. “No, you know what, we never are,” I say. “And the kids are becoming exactly the same,” she says. “Don’t start complaining about the kids, Mum,” I say, smiling that weary smile. “I’m not,” she says. “It’s not their fault they’re spoiled.” “No, it’s my fault, of course,” I say. “That’s not what I said,” she says. “But it’s what you meant,” I say. “Well, you do have a certain responsibility for how your kids turn out, don’t you, as all parents do?” “Of course,” I say. “Just as you have a certain responsibility for the fact that I’ve turned out the way I have,” and I hear what I’m saying and how much anger there is in what I say and I search inside myself, to check whether I really have so much anger inside me, but I feel more tired and indifferent than angry and I smile wearily at her. “Oh, no,” Mum says. “It’s your father who’s most to blame for that,” she says and I hear what she’s saying and I know she’s saying it to provoke me, because she knows I hate to hear her criticizing Dad. “Yeah, yeah, if you say so,” is all I say and I smile that weary smile and I close my eyes then open them again and I picture how calm I look as I do this and I can see that Mum is getting more and more irritated.
“It was beyond belief the way he spoiled you,” she says. “Yeah, right,” I say. “It’s Dad’s fault that my life is such a mess,” I say and for a second or two there is total silence and I feel myself getting more and more upset and I close my eyes, I draw breath and let it out again with a little sigh. Then I open my eyes and look at Mum again. “Why are you like this, Mum?” I ask in a slightly exasperated voice. “Here we are, Egil and I, trying to be nice to you, taking you to Namsos to see the old house again,” I say, “and then you carry on like this,” I say and I hear what I’m saying and I really can’t be bothered bringing this up right now, but I do it anyway, it just comes out, all unbidden and there’s nothing for it but to let it come. “Are you trying to make me feel guilty now?” she asks, smirking at me and I look at her and sigh, then I pause for a moment. “No, I’m not that ambitious,” I say, with a sad little laugh. “No, because I don’t have a conscience, do I,” she says, and she gives that smirk and I realize that I can’t take this, not right now, and I raise my eyebrows, look down at the table and sigh again. “Humph,” I say, then I look up at her again. “Let’s stop this now, Mum,” I say. “By all means, let’s stop,” she says. “Oh, Mum, please,” I say, putting my head to one side and eyeing her imploringly, and a moment passes and I picture how weary I look when I do that. “What?” Mum says. “I was only saying that we’ll stop it,” she says and gives that little smirk of hers and I give my weary smile and nod at her. “Good!” I say. “I fancy some more coffee,” I say. “Shall I go and get us some more?” I ask. “No, thanks, I’ve had enough,” she says. “Okay,” I say.
And then there’s silence and Mum looks at me, smirks at me. “But there’s nothing to stop you getting a cup for yourself,” she says. “No, no,” I say, “I don’t need any more, either.” “No, you don’t need any more. But you fancied some more,” she says. “Yes, I know, but it doesn’t matter,” I say and Mum smirks at me and shakes her head. “Sometimes you look and act as if it was you that nailed Christ to the cross,” she says. “Do you realize that?” she says and a moment passes and I feel myself growing more and more
sick of her, it’s like she’s sucking all the strength out of me and I’m growing tireder and tireder and I give her that weary smile again. “No, I didn’t realize that,” is all I say. “You look so burdened with guilt it’s just not true,” she says. “Is that so,” I say, still smiling. “Have you any other holes to pick in me while you’re at it, because if you have I’d be grateful if you’d just tell me,” I say. “Because then, you see, I’ll know exactly what I ought to work on,” I say. “Well, well, it’s good to know you’ve still got a bit of spirit, Silje,” she says. “So there is a little bit of you left,” she says, smirking at me, and there’s a moment’s pause and I’m getting more and more sick of this and I look at her and sigh.
“Oh, Mum,” I say, trying to sound sincere. “Please stop,” I say, but she doesn’t stop. “You haven’t shown nearly enough spirit over the past few years,” she says, smirking at me. “Oh, that’s good, coming from you,” I say and a sad little laugh escapes me. “If there’s anybody who’s tried to teach me what nice girls should and should not do it’s you,” I say. “Hah,” she says, “I allowed you more freedom than most parents give their daughters,” she says. “After Dad died, yes,” I say. “You couldn’t be so strict with me once you’d made up your mind to realize yourself and live life to the full,” I say. “I’m talking about when I was younger,” I say. “Yes, well it was up to me to keep you in check, I had to be a bit strict, what with the father you had,” she says. “It was beyond belief the way he spoiled you,” she says and I hear what she’s saying, now she’s trying to get at me by criticizing Dad again, and in my mind I see my dad, dear sweet Dad, and I realize how sick of her I am, I realize how weary I am and how weary I must look, I picture my drawn face and tired eyes, and picturing this makes me feel even more weary. “You know what, Mum,” I say. “It’s no fun coming to see you when you’re like this,” I say. “It doesn’t matter what I do, all I get from you is a smirk or some negative comment,” I say. “Nothing I do ever pleases you,” I say and I hear what I’m saying and I hear how much hurt there is in my words and it’s as if my words bring out an ache in me, an ache that seems to wake me up. I look straight at Mum, a couple of moments pass and I’m feeling more and more awake. It’s as if I’m actually seeing her now, seeing how mean she can be. It’s as if I’m only now fully awake.
“I’m doing the best I can, Mum,” I say. “I’m sure you are,” she says and I hear what she’s saying and I feel my mouth fall open as I hear her say it and I just sit there looking at her, because I don’t know how she can say such a thing and I don’t know how she can be so mean to me and I don’t quite know what to say, don’t quite know what to do. Moments pass and there’s silence, then suddenly she starts to cry and it shocks me to see this, I can’t really remember ever seeing Mum cry before, but now suddenly she’s sitting there crying, strong, tough Mum, and I feel a flicker of unease.
There’s silence and this feeling of unease grows inside me, I feel cold all over and I don’t really know what to do, don’t really know what to say, but I get up and go over to her and I lift my hand to stroke her hair, but I don’t do it, I can’t remember ever touching her in that way before and I can’t bring myself to do it. I lower my hand and lay it on her shoulder instead and I feel a wave of revulsion wash over me as I do this, I can’t just stand here like this, so I pat her shoulder lightly, once, then again, then I take my hand away.
“Don’t cry, Mum,” I say, swallowing, and then I just stand there, not knowing what to do, not knowing what to say. Then: “I don’t want to be like this Silje,” Mum says and I hear what she’s saying, but I’ve never heard Mum talk like this before, this is serious and the feeling of unease grows and grows. “I get so sick of myself,” she says, and she cries and shakes her head, and her slack cheeks quiver slightly when she shakes her head and the dark bags under her eyes quiver slightly when she shakes her head, I stare at her and there’s silence. I take a breath and let it out again, lift one hand and run it through her hair.
“You spend too much time alone, Mum,” I say, then I walk hesitantly back to the couch, sit back down on the couch and eye her as affectionately as I possibly can. “You ought to get out more often and meet people,” I say and a couple of moments pass, then Mum wipes away her tears and she stops crying and I look at her, relieved that she’s stopped crying. “Oh, and who would I meet?” she asks, and I hear what she’s saying and I feel even more relieved when I hear her pick up this new strand I’ve introduced. “I don’t know anybody any more,” she says. “They’re all gone,” she’s says. “I’m the only one left,” she says.
“Oh, I’m sure you could make new friends,” I say, giving her a rather tentative smile. “At my age?” she says with a sad little laugh. “Just you wait till you get old and you’ll find out,” she says tartly. I look at her, conscious of feeling relieved that she’s back to normal, and I give her a slightly more affectionate smile. “Tell you what, Mum,” I say, trying to sound more cheerful. “There’s live jazz at one of the cafés in the old town every Wednesday afternoon,” I say. “Why don’t I pick you up tomorrow and take you down there?” I say. “No,” she says, narrowing her eyes and shaking her head. “Why not?” I say. “You’d really enjoy it, I’m sure you would,” I say. “Humph,” she says. “No, Silje,” she says, “I don’t feel like it,” she says, looking crosser and crosser, and I look at her, and I’m conscious of feeling happy and relieved that she’s back to normal. “But you can’t just sit at home alone all the time,” I say. “That’s why you’re feeling so low,” I say. “Stop it, Silje,” she snaps. “Yes, but Mum,” I say, then I pause and she glances off to one side and down at the floor, looking cross and troubled. “Know what?” I say. “When we were in Namsos today, so many good memories came flooding back,” I say. “I know those days are over and that things can never be the way they were,” I say, “but I wish you could call up just a little bit of the person you were when we lived there.”
“As if you’ve any idea who I was,” she says. “As if you know anything at all about what life was like for me back then,” she says, and I stare at her, what’s she on about now? “He could be a proper tyrant sometimes, Silje,” she says. “Tyrannical in a kind way, but a tyrant all the same,” she says, and I hear what she’s saying and for a moment I just sit there looking at her and that feeling of unease is back – I mean, what is all this? “If you only knew,” she says. “You’ve no idea what it was like,” she says. “You’ve no idea what it was like to have no say whatsoever in your own life. You’ve no idea what … he was a … you think he was such a saint, but he … you’ve no idea,” she says, and I hear what she’s saying and unease washes over me and again I go cold all over and I stare at her. This isn’t something she’s blurting out simply because she’s angry and bitter, this is serious, she really means it, but she’s never talked about Dad like this before, and in my mind I see my dad, my dear, sweet dad. “I haven’t missed him,” she says, “not for one second,” then she pauses and she looks straight at me and I look at her and I swallow once, then once more, I can’t take this, it’s too much, and I look at the floor, then up at her again and I try to smile and stay calm.
“Mum,” I say, saying it softly and almost imploringly, and I close my eyes, then I open them again and give her a faint smile, but she won’t let up. “God, how I hated that man,” she says and I hear what she’s saying and my heart beats a little faster, my pulse races a little faster and the unease grows inside me, because I can’t bear to hear this. “Mum!” I say. “That’s enough,” I say, and I blink, blink as steadily as I can, and smile that faint smile. “Enough?” she says. “You’re the one who started going on about how things were back then,” she says, “so you’ll just have to put up with hearing my version, too.” “No, Mum,” I say, “I don’t have to,” I say. “If you’d known a bit more about what it was like to be married to him you might have understood me a bit better, too,” she says. “Mum,” I say and my heart is beating faste
r and faster and my pulse is racing faster and faster, but I keep that faint smile on my face and I blink as steadily as I can. “Mum,” I say again, “I’d really rather be spared the intimate details of your marriage,” I say and I smile steadily at her. “I’m your daughter, his and yours.” “But don’t you understand that I need to give you a more nuanced view of your father and me?” she says, never taking her eyes off me. She’s demanding a response from me, but my heart is beating faster and faster and I avoid her gaze, I look this way and that. You don’t understand that …” she says. “Yeah, well go talk to somebody else about these nuances of yours,” I cry, my face twisting into a sneer, and I look her straight in the eye, almost starting at the force of my own aggression. “If it’s that important to you,” I mutter crossly, and I glance sidelong at the floor and there’s silence. “Don’t be silly, Silje,” she says. “I don’t care what other people think or say about me,” she says. “But you, you’re my daughter,” she says and her voice is brittle again, suddenly she’s close to tears again and I look at her and swallow and now I’m close to tears as well. “And it hurts to know that you see me the way you do,” she says. “It hurts, because it’s … unfair!” she says. “You’ve no idea what it was like to be me, all those years,” she says, and then she pauses and I can tell that she’s crying, and I also feel close to tears, but I will not cry, I can’t get into this with her, I won’t have it, can’t handle it. “Do you know how he used to control me?” she asks. “Don’t you hear what I’m saying,” I cry, a cry that bursts out of me all unbidden, and my voice is both frantic and furious and I stare straight at her and a moment passes. And she looks at me, saying nothing and there’s such sadness in her eyes. I feel a wave of guilt wash over me and I gaze at the floor and I raise my hand, run my hand through my hair, then I look at her and sigh. “Sorry, Mum,” I say. “But,” I say, then I pause and I run my hand through my hair again. “I’m here for you, no matter what,” I say and I hear what I’m saying and I hear that what I’m saying is true. “But I won’t listen to you bad-mouthing Dad,” I add. “I’m his daughter, too,” I say, then I pause, regard her tenderly, try to smile at her. “Mum,” I say, “why don’t we … let’s stop this, both of us,” I say, a note of reconciliation in my voice, and a moment passes, then she sniggers at me. “Yes, why don’t we do that,” she says and suddenly she’s smirking again, and it’s a sad smirk. “Let’s talk about something nice instead,” she says. “The weather or something,” she says. “Mum, please,” I say, eyeing her imploringly, and she looks at me, feigning astonishment. “What?” she says. “Isn’t that what you want?” she says. “Easy and uncomplicated,” she says. “The minute things get a bit difficult you shy away. Over the years that’s how you’ve become,” she says and she looks at me and smirks and I look at the floor and a sigh escapes me and I realize how weary I am, I realize how sick of this I am, and the fridge hums.
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