“Let me take it,” he said, reaching out. She let go of the box before he was ready. He tried to parry the weight to the right but was unsuccessful. The box slipped out of his hands and onto the floor, landing on his foot.
His face turned red, and it looked like he was going to begin screaming any moment.
Vilma looked at him and said: “Daddy?”
“Mmm-hmm?”
“Is now the right time to say that ugly word?”
* * *
The sky was clear blue and the air was chilly when she arrived at the summerhouse in Arkösund. The wind blew the peony she was holding in her hand as she slowly approached the funeral gathering.
After exchanging glances with some of the funeral guests, she saw her father in a dark suit and tie. Elin brushed off the lapel of his jacket—not because anything was there, just a gesture. A thoughtful gesture. Then she saw the officiant with his long beard, clasped hands and distant gaze.
Father pulled his sleeve over his watch.
Were they going to begin now? she thought. What were they waiting for?
Elin stopped brushing and Father coughed. Two quick coughs and then a tremble in his chin.
Jana wondered if she would see him upset, see him cry again.
She walked slowly through the grass, looking at the urn that stood at the far end of a table and the wreaths of flowers that had been laid around it, and sat in the chair next to her father.
The seat was cold.
She shivered and, just as the officiant cleared his throat to begin, thought that she should have dressed more warmly.
Mother was now going to her final resting place. It was time to say farewell.
“When a loved one passes away, we often try to find a comparison in nature, where everything is mortal. We make ourselves conscious that death is a natural element of the eternal circle of life. Therefore I would like to say to you who are gathered here today, fear not...”
She closed her eyes and thought that she had never feared death. Death was the final end point and the dissolution of existence. It was nothing. It was just the end.
She had met death so many times. She’d both escaped it and caused it.
When the violinist began to play, she opened her eyes, stood and picked up the urn.
CHAPTER
THIRTY-FOUR
IT WAS TIME to drive on board the ferry from Nynäshamn, Sweden, to Gdansk, Poland. Behavioral scientist Christoffer Bohm from Mjölby let his car window roll up and looked at the bearded man waving the cars onto the boat. He was wearing blue pants and a yellow vest. Christoffer was directed to a space in the row on the right, behind a Volkswagen bus. He released the brake and let his Volvo roll forward to the indicated space.
“Can we meet in the duty-free shop in a bit?” he said to his partner, Sanna, as he turned off the engine. “I just want to make sure the car is properly locked.”
“Oh, just say it, dear,” she said, looking at him with an amused gaze. “You want to rest for a bit?”
“Yes, it’s a little tiring to drive three hours in a row,” he said, yawning.
“I can drive when we get there, if you want.”
“No, I’ll drive. But I’d rather nap than walk around staring at things in the tax-free shop.”
She smiled at him and stroked his cheek before picking up her purse and stepping out of the car.
“See you up there,” she said, closing the door.
When she was out of sight, Christoffer reclined his seat and leaned back. He closed his eyes and heard the thuds as smaller cars rolled over the edge onto the car deck. He heard car doors slamming shut and the echo of voices as passengers left their vehicles. The silence between sounds and movements increased, and finally they stopped.
“Hello?”
He awoke from a knocking on the window. When he looked up, he saw the bearded man standing outside his car door.
“You can’t stay on the car deck during the trip,” he called through the window, pointing to a sign. “You have to leave your car.”
“Okay, okay.”
Christoffer nodded and let out a grunting sound as he stretched his body in the seat.
The ferry was rocking from the waves as he stepped out of the car and began walking toward the steel wall, toward what seemed to be the doorway to a stairwell. He was surrounded by cars. He couldn’t even see all of them in the darkness, much less count them, but there must have been hundreds.
Right near the door to the stairwell, he noticed a movement inside a Mercedes. He stopped, looked into the car and saw something move under a blanket. Suddenly, he was looking into a face, a man with dark eyes and a hardened expression.
Christoffer stared at him—not because the man was lying in the backseat of his car while the ferry was in transit, but because he seemed familiar.
Christoffer began walking again, faster this time. By the time he arrived at the door, his pulse had increased. He ran quickly up the stairs, looking behind him the whole time as if he were afraid the man was following him.
Breathless, he stepped onto the upper deck and crossed between the people there. Some were laughing, others were already bored. Some were angry, or upset or clearly in love. Every possible emotion was represented.
His hand trembled slightly as he pulled his cell phone from his pocket. The signal was poor, but he dialed the police anyway.
“Hi, my name is Christoffer Bohm, and I’m calling in because I think I just saw a wanted criminal, I think his name is Danilo...”
* * *
The elevator doors opened with a clattering sound. She hadn’t thought about the sound previously, but she also didn’t use the elevator very often. She took off her black hat, stroked her hand over her hair to straighten it and walked stiffly out of the elevator.
She approached her front door slowly.
She stood there for a moment, breathing and listening, before she took her keys out of her purse and unlocked the door.
She took a step into the hallway and the door swung closed behind her. She stood still and again enjoyed the silence. It was a strange feeling to be alone again.
She set down her purse, hat and keys, went into the kitchen, looked around and continued into the living room.
She leaned against the wall, feeling her shoulders sink and her body relax.
Just then, the doorbell rang. The shrill tone cut through the silence of the apartment.
She wasn’t expecting anyone, but the first thing she thought of was Danilo, that for some reason, he’d returned despite everything. That she was stuck with him in the apartment again.
She walked with limping steps to the door. A young woman with blond curls and rosy cheeks stood outside.
“Jana Berzelius?” she said.
“Yes?”
“I have some packages for you.”
Seven large boxes stood outside the door, all addressed with her name but no return address.
“Sign here, please.”
She held out a handheld computer, and Jana signed her name.
“There you go.”
“Where do you want them?”
“In the hallway is fine.”
“Okay.”
The woman carried them in, one by one, and placed them right inside the door.
“That was the last one,” she said.
“Thanks,” Jana said, closing the door after the delivery woman.
She grabbed a knife from the kitchen and began carefully cutting the brown tape. Her heart beat quickly, pounding in her chest, as she unfolded the flaps of the first box.
It held what she had hoped it would. Her journals, notes—everything detailing who she’d been as a child.
What she had been.
Danilo had kept his word.
In the last box was a sc
rap of paper, written in pen.
She stood still and looked at it, at the four words.
I’ll be in touch.
When she read those words, it was as if all strength ran out of her, and she sat slowly down on the parquet floor, holding her face with both hands. The sun shone with a crystalline gleam outside the window into the living room. Everything was quiet and still.
Then the silence was broken by the shrill doorbell again. And then a knock. Multiple knocks, as if someone were eager to come in.
She closed the flaps, got up, opened the door and looked directly into Per’s differently colored eyes.
“Hi...” he said, looking down at the floor. “I just wanted to say that...I’m sorry. The situation with your mom. Her passing. I heard it only a couple days ago, I didn’t know...”
“Things happen in life that...”
“Wait,” he said, “I’m not done yet.”
“But I don’t want to talk about it,” she said.
“Let me say what I have to say,” he said.
“Do it, then.”
“Jana...if you had just said something, I would have understood.”
“I don’t know what I’m supposed to say to that.”
“You don’t have to answer. I’ll leave you in peace, but is it okay if I still like you?”
She didn’t answer.
Per rocked from one foot to the other. He nodded slowly as if the silence were enough of an answer and then looked around as if searching for another place to go. He was going to leave. She could see it.
But instead of taking a step backward, he took a step forward, reached out his hand and touched her cheek, holding it there for a few seconds before he lowered his arm, turned around and walked away.
“Wait...” she said.
He stopped and turned around, but she didn’t meet his gaze.
“Did you want something?” he said.
“Yes,” she said.
She raised her eyes, looked at him and asked: “Do you want to come in?”
* * * * *
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
First and foremost, I want to thank the people who helped me with the story, who’ve read the text and given me their opinions, who answered my questions and helped me with factual details, who have given me their attention and above all their time. Above all, I want to thank my fantastic friends Elin Carlsson Malm, Lotta Fornander and Sofie Mikaelsson, who have dedicated many hours to discussing what should happen, what might happen and what probably would happen. Your opinions and professional expertise mean so much to me.
I want to say an especially warm thank-you to my sister and my parents. Dad, your joy and sense of humor have always inspired me. Mom, there’s no one in the world who encourages and supports me like you do. Thank you for always telling me that you’re proud of me. I love you. Enormously.
And thank you to my readers for fun meetings, wonderful conversations and many laughs. You give me all the joy in and inspiration for my writing.
As a matter of course, I should say that this story is fictional. Any similarities between the characters in the book and real persons are coincidence. Any possible mistakes that have crept into the text are mine. I may have misunderstood, forgotten to ask or invented something to fit the story better.
Finally, I would like to thank my husband, Henrik Schepp. Without you and your conviction that this would work, it never would have worked. Not with the first book, not with the second and not with the third. We are an unbeatable duo—in sickness and in health, for richer or for poorer—behind the writings of Emelie Schepp the Author. You’re the best thing in my life.
Thank you.
ISBN-13: 9781459295735
Slowly We Die
Swedish Edition © 2016 by Emelie Schepp
English Edition © 2018 by Emelie Schepp
Published by arrangement with Grand Agency
Translation by Suzanne Martin Cheadle
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This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events or locales is entirely coincidental. This edition published by arrangement with Harlequin Books S.A.
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Slowly We Die Page 36