by Linda Olsson
‘Ah, what a day. Let’s go to the beach,’ James said, standing on the steps leading down into the garden, his eyes on the sky.
Then, the words that would change everything. My words.
‘All right.’
Just the two. There are so many others I could have chosen. I could have said, ‘No, let’s take the ferry to Waiheke and go bicycling.’ Or ‘Let’s walk down to Cox’s Bay.’ Or ‘Let’s walk into town, go to the art gallery, have lunch.’ Or just ‘No, I don’t really feel like the beach.’ I could have said, ‘I think I am pregnant.’
Instead, all I said was, ‘All right.’
While I showered, James started to prepare lunch. Bread, eggs, olives, tomatoes. Mussels, cheese. Beer and water. I stood in the doorway watching him putting everything together. I watched his hands and felt an urge to hold them, to put them on my body. He grinned and stuck an olive in his mouth.
On the way, we stopped at a petrol station to fill the car and get some ice for the chilly-bin. Traffic was light as we drove west. We had decided on Karekare and as we turned off the main road onto the meandering steep drive down to the beach I was again struck by the view. Lush green bush, reminiscent of a tropical forest yet distinctly different. It looked new. Raw, recently created, but at the same time prehistoric and untainted by humans. I felt as if I could still see the structure, the overall shape of the land, before it was inhabited.
At the bottom of the road there were small houses with defiant flowerbeds of petunias and geraniums. There seemed to be no connection between these quaint dwellings and the stark landscape. Even on such a cheerful, bright, early summer day Karekare was haunting, awe-inspiring, and to me the small houses seemed out of place, as if they had been conceived with an entirely different, safe, ordinary environment in mind. This seemed a place to admire more than love, I thought. It inspired a spiritual reaction, an acute awareness of human insignificance.
We parked and unpacked and, with our arms full, waded across the stream and onto the black sand, already warm under our feet. The beach was almost empty, with a group of lifesavers assembled around a four-wheel-drive bike and an inflatable rescue boat. The flags were up.
The sea crashed onto the sand and a fine gauze of sea spray softened the view over the shimmering expanse beyond. We spread our mats and James opened the beach umbrella and secured it in the sand. We sat for a while, looking out over the sea. Seagulls screamed high overhead. And this is the next point where my words might have changed everything.
‘Feel like a little swim?’ he said.
I could have said, ‘Okay, for once I think I will.’ Or ‘Yes, but I’ll only go in to my knees.’ Or I could have said, ‘James, I think I am pregnant.’ Instead, I said, ‘You know I don’t really like swimming here. You go; I’ll stay here and read.’
He pulled on his wetsuit and again sat for a moment beside me. I was on my stomach, my book open in front of me. I was rereading The Werewolf by Axel Sandemose. I had been thinking of interweaving the story with the narrative of my own book. I was reading carefully, focusing on structure, a pencil in my hand.
‘It’s perfect,’ James said, squinting as he looked out over the sea. I half turned, leaning on my elbow to follow his gaze, but then lay down again. ‘We’ll eat when I’m back,’ he said, and I felt him bending over and pressing his lips onto a spot at the nape of my neck. I smiled to myself, but I didn’t turn. I didn’t see him pick up the board and wander across the sand down to the water. I didn’t see him wade into the water, drift seawards, catch the first wave.
You told me, Astrid, that it is impossible to say what it is that makes you know that summer has peaked. That one day, when the sun is as high in the sky as the day before, the water as warm, the grass as green, you just know.
I lay on my blanket and read, then rested my head on my arms and dozed off. But as abruptly as if I’d been doused in icy water, I woke. I knew. It wasn’t the stretch of time that had passed. Nor were there any alarms, any screams. The sky was still blue, the seagulls still circled high above. A woman played with a dog on the flat mirror of wet sand along the edge of the water. But I knew.
I stood and with my hands shielding my eyes I looked out over the sea. There was a small cluster of swimmers well inside the flags, and a few a little further off. A couple of young boys were chasing a frisbee. But there were no surfers.
In silence my body began to move. My feet landed on the black sand as they picked up speed, running towards the lifeguards. I was racing, but the world around me moved in slow motion, holding me back. The first lifeguard turning to face me, then screaming to the others, their swift movements getting the rescue boat into the water and jumping on board. To me, it all took place in absolute silence and with unbearable slowness.
I ran down to the water, my eyes on the orange boat zigzagging through the breaking waves. People gathered around me but they were in another world, on the other side of a gigantic gulf that swallowed all sound. Water splashed around my feet as I ran along the beach, following the direction of the boat. A girl in a yellow lifeguard T-shirt ran beside me, her arm reaching out to catch mine. The boat was now further from shore and dipping out of view between the waves. I felt my teeth begin to chatter as I stopped and stood in ankle-deep water. The girl in the yellow T-shirt put her arm around my shoulders and we stood silently, our eyes on the thundering sea, where the boat was now an orange speck.
I felt as if all stood still, as if my own breathing had stopped. Then I saw the boat returning, still dipping in and out of view, but each time emerging a little closer. And suddenly I could sense the lack of urgency. It was no longer a rescue operation.
They carried him up to the makeshift lifeguard base and placed him on a blanket. There were no attempts at CPR or mouth to mouth. The lifeguards stood back and I fell to my knees, my hands reaching out to touch him. I licked the salt water from his eyelids. I put my ear to his chest. I whispered into his ear, the words of our entire life. I put my ear close to his mouth and listened for an answer. Above us the pitiless sun, while the world swirled incomprehensible around the stillness that was the two of us. Then the violent crashing of the victorious sea.
There was a small cut above his left eyebrow and a deep scratch along the length of his left arm. That was all. His head had fallen to the side facing me. I put my hands on his cheeks, bending down to press my own against his. I lay down beside him, stroking his hair.
Eventually, someone gently pulled me up and the girl in the yellow T-shirt wrapped a blanket around my shoulders. There were people gathered around us, their faces pale moons, some crying. They put him on a stretcher and carried him up to the clubhouse. I walked slowly and it surprised me that others were running. There was loud talk, screaming. I noted the commotion with detached surprise.
I sat on a chair in the bare lifeguard clubhouse, a cup of scalding tea on the table in front of me. Around me, there was a world to which I no longer belonged. It was if a heavy door had shut with a sigh and left me outside, alone. I could remember the morning, making love, packing, driving to the beach, but it seemed as if in another time. When I was still alive.
27
But then I want to be alone,
rocked by the flood of light
onto the peaceful rest,
where there is neither wrong nor right.
Astrid lay still, tears streaming down her face to her pillow. She made no attempt at wiping her face; her hands remained tucked underneath the pillow. Veronika stood and pulled up the blind. Outside, the sun was gently awakening the wind. The light reflected on her face and she closed her eyes.
‘The shortest night of the year. Midsummer’s night,’ she said. ‘And here is the new day.’
She turned and walked up to the bed, bent over and placed a quick kiss on Astrid’s forehead. The old woman pulled out her hand and stroked Veronika’s cheek, but she said nothing. Veronika walked across the room and as she opened the door she threw a quick glance over her shoulder, but Astrid had pulled up
the blanket and turned towards the wall. Veronika closed the door softly behind her.
On the Monday after midsummer weekend Veronika took Astrid to the rest-home where they had arranged to meet the undertaker. He had initially suggested meeting at his office in town, a good hour’s drive away. Alternatively, he had offered to come to Astrid’s house. But Astrid had insisted on meeting at the rest-home. Neutral ground, perhaps.
When Veronika drove up to Astrid’s gate, Astrid was waiting on the porch. She came down the path wearing her usual outfit: trousers and a large shirt. Yet somehow she looked serene. Her hair was brushed back from her face and her eyes were sharp and very blue as they set on Veronika’s face. ‘Thank you,’ she said, before getting into the passenger seat.
They had plenty of time and Veronika had chosen the slightly longer route, the old road that meandered through the small villages, rather than the highway. Wild flowers covered the road verge and the groves of birches rustled their fresh green heads in the air. Every little village had its own maypole, still standing in a central spot.
They drove up outside the home with ten minutes to spare, but the undertaker stood waiting on the front steps. He was middle-aged, completely bald, but with thick bushy eyebrows and a beard to compensate. He wore a short-sleeved, open-neck white shirt and light slacks — an informal yet somehow appropriate outfit. His handshake was firm and professional.
They sat down in the visitors’ area by reception. The nurse offered coffee, but they all declined. Once Astrid had confirmed that she wanted a church ceremony, the date was set to Friday. When the undertaker started to ask for specific instructions, Astrid raised her hand. ‘I will leave that to you,’ she said. ‘I have no interest in the ceremony at all. As long as it takes place in the village church. No cremation. A burial, simply. In the Mattson family grave.’ The undertaker took notes but made no comment. It was over in fifteen minutes.
As they were about to leave, the nurse approached, a plastic carry-bag in her hand. ‘Mr Mattson’s belongings,’ she said, and held out the bag. Astrid took a small step back, her hands on her chest, and shook her head. ‘Do what you like with it,’ she said. ‘I don’t want it.’ The nurse stiffened visibly, but said nothing. She nodded, forced a little smile and took refuge behind the reception desk. Veronika looked at the small bag, which the nurse had dropped on the floor beside her chair. It lay flat, clearly not containing much.
They drove back slowly, the main road this time, with the car windows open. It was midday and the sun sat high in the sky. The road lay empty before them, shimmering in the heat.
‘Let’s go swimming in the lake when we get back,’ Veronika said with a quick look at Astrid. The old woman returned her gaze, eyebrows raised in surprise.
‘Swimming?’ she said, and turned her head away, looking out over the passing landscape. Her hair blew around her head and she had her arm resting on the window frame.
‘Yes,’ she said after a while, without turning her head. ‘Let’s do that. Let’s go to the lake.’
They stopped at their houses to collect towels and Veronika made a couple of sandwiches while Astrid filled her blue thermos with coffee.
There were no other cars parked at the end of the narrow road down by the lake, just two bicycles, one a child’s. When they walked onto the sand reef it looked completely deserted, but then they saw a woman and a little boy down by the water on the far side. They spread their blanket and sat down, out of sight of the other two swimmers. They could see no sign of human life anywhere and there were no buildings visible along the shores. The lake was still and the dark forest across the expanse was reflected on the surface. The water lapped softly onto the red sand. Veronika took off her shorts and T-shirt to expose a green one-piece swimsuit. Astrid sat fully dressed, in trousers and a white shirt, but barefoot, her legs stretched out in front of her. From her bag she produced a faded cotton sunhat, which she pulled over her hair. That done, she sat with her hands resting on her lap, gazing out over the still water.
‘Are you coming in?’ Veronika asked as she stood up. Astrid just shook her head, her eyes fixed on a point in the distance across the lake. Veronika waded into the water, treading cautiously over a stretch of pebbles before reaching soft sand a little further out. In knee-deep water she turned and waved to Astrid, who made no gesture in return. The warm water was golden brown, coloured by the mineral-rich soil. She could see her feet through the water, distorted and yellowy. She walked on through the slowly rising water. When it reached her waist, she began to swim. She turned and floated on her back, carried by water that felt silken against her skin. Above, the sky domed, infinite and bright blue. She turned and dived, and when she emerged the water on her lips tasted of metal.
When she walked up to the blanket where Astrid sat immobile she shook her hair and water sprayed lightly over the old woman. ‘You should go in — it’s wonderful!’
Astrid said nothing, looking out over the water. But when Veronika sat down, the old woman looked at her, a hint of a smile in her eyes. ‘I have no swimsuit,’ she said. ‘And I can’t swim.’
Veronika lay down on the blanket and closed her eyes to the sun. ‘It’s my birthday next week. Perhaps we should make a trip to the city and do some shopping. We could get you a swimsuit. And then we could have lunch at a little place I have heard about on the way back. Celebrate a little.’ She pulled herself up onto her elbows. ‘Would you come with me and help me celebrate my birthday?’
Astrid busied herself pouring coffee into two plastic mugs. She said nothing. Only when she had closed the thermos and handed Veronika her mug, did she look up.
‘I would like that very much. After the funeral,’ she said. ‘We’ll go after the funeral. And I will buy a swimsuit.’ She lifted her cup, stuck a piece of sugar in her mouth and smiled, her lips tightly closed. ‘And then we will celebrate.’
‘The funeral,’ Veronika said slowly. She sat up and looked at Astrid. ‘Are you frightened?’ she asked. The old woman sat as before, her legs stretched out in front of her and her eyes on the distant surface of the lake. She shook her head slowly.
‘No,’ she said. ‘I am not frightened. And I am not sad. Not any more. It is all over. The ceremony will just be the final gesture. Closure.’ Astrid had set her mug on the sand. ‘I know now that it was myself I was afraid to face. As I stood by my husband’s bed and watched his last breaths, it was as simple as blowing out a candle.’ She paused, her eyes on the lake. ‘There was nothing more to be afraid of.’ Then she turned and looked at Veronika. ‘Because it was never about him. It was about me.’
Veronika lay with her eyes closed, her fingers digging into the sand.
‘Someone told me that there is comfort in a funeral,’ she said. ‘That the ritual provides an opportunity for the grieving to come to terms with the loss. That is not how it was for me.’ She sat up and stretched out her legs beside the old woman’s, her eyes vacant, although set on the same blue hills beyond the lake.
‘For me, there was no comfort to be had.’
28
Oh, how can I quiet my heart,
That is tossed from north to south?
Veronika
She walked slowly, like someone walking a tightrope over a fathomless gulf. I stood as she approached down the long hospital corridor, and the linoleum was cool and soft against my soles. I was still barefoot, dressed in my swimsuit and with a blanket over my shoulders. My legs were covered in a fine dust of dried salt. I was cold — so cold it felt as if I would never be warm again. As she came closer I could sense that she didn’t see me. Her face was very pale and her eyes empty. A woman I vaguely recognised followed. She didn’t touch Erica, but stayed close behind. A nurse came out to receive them and Erica’s eyes met mine for a second, but there was no sign of recognition and she said nothing. I began to lift my hands, but let them fall again as she turned to the nurse, who took her elbow and led her into the room. I sat down on the bench again.
In the afternoon
, when I came back to the house, I pulled on his red bathrobe and lay down on the bed. I turned and buried my face in his pillow, where his smell still lingered.
He was buried on the Wednesday. Erica’s friend came around the Monday before. I heard the knocking, but it took me several minutes to understand the implication. The sound seemed as meaningless as everything else that might be happening in the world beyond the twilight where I lay. Irrelevant and requiring no response. Eventually, she used the key that Erica had given her. Her name was Carolyn. She made tea and sat on the bed and talked to me. She told me about the arrangements that Erica was making and asked me if I had any objections. I looked at her kind face, but I was unable to make any connection with her words. I pulled the bathrobe close, still unable to get warm.
When I think about it now, I wish there had been more time. I feel that grief has its own organic processing time, which cannot be compressed without consequences. Given time to take its course, perhaps the healing is more complete. As it was, the twilight never lifted. Inside my house, time had another dimension and there was neither day nor night, just a continuous stretch of twilight.
On the day of the funeral I walked up the aisle behind Erica and James’s father, who had flown in from London, but I was somewhere else, somewhere where the light didn’t reach. They were holding hands, a couple united in their grief. I saw them, I registered everything, yet it seemed to have nothing to do with me.
There were friends from school, friends from university, from work. There were relatives. They all seemed to belong, seemed to have a place in the fabric that had been James’s life. I walked along the pews filled with people who were almost all unknown to me. There was a man about James’s age whose face turned to me as I passed. He was crying and wiping his tears with the back of his hand. I had never seen him before and had no idea of his relationship with James. And he would never know the James that had been mine. Yet we were both grieving for the loss of the same man. I felt my steps get softer and softer, as if I were no longer touching the floor. And I was still so very cold.