East of the Sun, West of the Moon

by Carole Bellacera

  Every night at nine o'clock, Leigh poured him a glass of aquavit and after he drank it, she helped him to his feet and led him to bed. Their bed. And in her mind, she could hear her own voice screaming out defiance to the hospital bed in the other room.

  "No. You can't have him yet. Not yet!"

  Chapter 38

  Erik had no idea who had left the note. Or why. But it did serve to increase the likelihood that Dr. Oien was right and Gunny wasn't his son. It sounded like whoever had placed it under his windshield wiper had inside information. But who could it be? Someone in the family? Someone in Gunvor's family perhaps? Or ... could it be Margit's lover? He would certainly have reason to benefit if their marriage crumbled.

  Still, Erik wasn't about to condemn her on the evidence of one anonymous note. He'd wait and see how his tests turned out with this other doctor Bjorn had recommended. If the results came back showing he did have enough live sperm to impregnate Margit, the whole thing could be dropped.

  That was before he received the second note, scrawled in the same green marker.

  Ask Britta about Bjorn's extra apartment.

  * * * *

  In the pleasant sun-filled hospital dining hall, Leigh sat across from a uniform-clad Sigurd and watched her stir sugar into a mug of coffee. Leigh took a sip of weak iced tea and glanced through a window that overlooked a small courtyard. Several robed patients were gathered there to enjoy the warmth of the summer sun. How depressing to be in a hospital on a beautiful day like this! She thought of Knut back at the house with Kristin. Inside watching television or reading like he did now all the time. It had been weeks since he'd been outside.

  Leigh wished Sigurd had been able to take her lunch break away from the hospital. She felt the need to get away from all this sickness, to go to a place where people were healthy. Where life was normal. Some place like a mall or an amusement park where she could see smiles instead of sadness, laughter instead of tears.

  "Leigh! Didn't you hear what I said?"

  Leigh jerked her attention back to Sigurd. “No, I'm sorry. What?"

  "I asked you if he seemed any different today?"

  "No. The same as usual."

  Sigurd didn't need to ask. Every night after work, she came by the house to check on him. Leigh was always happy to see her. Just having her there, even for a short time, relieved some of the pressure. Knut was becoming increasingly dependent upon Leigh, and because he hated it, he was sometimes brusque and impatient. It hurt Leigh when he growled at her, yet, she understood why he did it. But knowing why didn't make it hurt any less.

  Raising the mug to her lips, Sigurd cast an assessing look at Leigh. She took a sip and then spoke, “It's not going to be long before he'll have to move into the other room."

  Her stomach lurched. “No. It's not time. He still manages to get around the house by himself.” Her hand trembled as she brushed back a stray lock of hair. “In fact, lately, I think he's been feeling better. He isn't coughing as much."

  Sigurd eyed her solemnly. “When are you going to stop fooling yourself, Leigh? Even Kristin has finally accepted reality."

  Something snapped inside Leigh. It was impossible to hold back her anger. “You mean she's given up, just like you and Knut. Well, I can't do that! And I don't understand how you can either. You say you love him, and you know what, I believe that. I don't think you ever stopped loving him. And I think he loves you, too. That doesn't bother me. In fact, I think it's pretty damn wonderful. I don't know what went wrong with your marriage, but I think it's a shame two people who love each other as much as you do wasted so many years. But you know what's even more shameful than that? It's shameful that a man we both love is wasting away right in front of our eyes every day, and we're not doing a damn thing to stop it.” Leigh ended her tirade with a long shuddering breath.

  Sigurd reached across the table and took her hand. “There is nothing we can do, Leigh. We can only let him go."

  Leigh snatched her hand away and stood up, her eyes burning. “Well, there's something I can do. I'm going back to the house right now, and I'm going to demand that Knut start chemotherapy immediately."

  * * * *

  Instead of taking the streetcar to Bygdoy Peninsula where she'd intended to tour the Viking ship museum, Leigh caught the one heading back toward the house on Kjelsaveien. She walked in the front door and slammed it behind her. Startled, Kristin looked up from the TV.

  "Leigh! What are you doing back so soon? You were supposed to take the whole afternoon."

  Leigh stared at Knut's daughter. “I changed my mind. Where's Knut?"

  "Sleeping. He was very tired after lunch."

  Leigh strode restlessly to the window and glanced out at the quiet street. She couldn't wake him. It would have to wait. But she was determined to convince him to try chemo.

  "What is it?” Kristin said softly. “What has happened?"

  Leigh turned to look at Kristin's earnest young face. A wave of tenderness swept over her. She moved over to the sofa and sat beside the girl. “Kris...” Her hand lifted to sweep away a strand of sandy hair from the girl's smooth forehead. “Have you given up on him?"

  Kristin's green eyes dropped to her lap and her hands twisted the cotton fabric of her blue shorts. Leigh stared at her long blond lashes through her wire-rimmed glasses as they blinked quickly to hold back tears. Kristin didn't speak. Leigh reached over and squeezed her fine-boned hand.

  "It's okay,” she whispered. “You don't have to answer."

  Her silence had answered for her.

  Kristin left a short while later. And still Knut slept on. Finally, at four o'clock, Leigh heard him moving about the room. She went to his door. He stood on unsteady feet, clumsily tying the belt of his robe. The only sound in the room was his raspy breathing, a result of the congestion he'd developed lately while sleeping. He looked up and saw her. A haggard smile crossed his face.

  "Hello, englebarn. Did you have a nice afternoon?"

  "It was fine,” she said. “Knut, I want to talk. When you're ready, I'll be in the living room."

  The urgency in her voice must have been obvious. A moment later, he shuffled into the room and dropped onto the sofa. A shaft of fear coursed through Leigh's body at his weakness. It grew worse every day. Even more reason to go on with what she had to say.

  Leigh sat down in a chair opposite the sofa. He wore an expectant look as if he knew she was about to say something he didn't want to hear. She plunged in. “I want you to have chemotherapy."

  When he didn't react, she went on as if the speed of her delivery would be enough to convince him to change his mind. “You have to try it, not just for yourself, but for all of us who love you. For Kristin and Sigurd. And me. Knut, you can't just give up and die. With chemo, you might be able to prolong your life. And isn't a few months better than nothing at all? And who knows? It might even cure you. It has happened, Knut. I've read about it. And if it doesn't work, we can try something else. We can go to Mexico and you can try Laetrile. People have done that, and they've survived. And another thing. Just the other day, I was reading a book about Steve McQueen. He had lung cancer, too. They had him on this new treatment ... coffee enemas, a raw food diet. Some kind of therapy with vitamin C. And yes, he died, but it wasn't from the cancer. When they opened him up in surgery, the tumors practically fell out. They had stopped growing. The cancer didn't kill Steve McQueen, Knut. It was the blood-clotting drug they gave him as a precaution against internal bleeding. A clot formed and went to his heart. But Knut, the treatment was killing the cancer! Don't you see, there are things we can try, instead of just waiting for you to die. If the Laetrile or the diet doesn't work, we'll find something else!” Finally, she ran out of breath and stopped, waiting for some kind of reaction.

  Thoughtfully, he gazed in her direction and then slowly nodded. “Ja. If the Laetrile or the diet doesn't work, we can join one of those religions. You know, the ones that tell you all disease is in the mind. Perhaps transcendent
al meditation will make the cancer go away. But if that doesn't work, perhaps we can fly to Haiti and have a witch doctor perform voodoo on the cancer. And of course, there's always garlic I can tie around my neck..."

  Leigh stared at him. The moment of triumph she'd experienced at the beginning of his speech drained away. Was there nothing she could say that would make the slightest dent in his martyr-like armor? She jumped up from her chair.

  "You're nothing but a coward, Knut Aabel!” Angry tears spilled down her face. “You're afraid to fight for your life, aren't you? Why don't you just admit it?” She strode to the window and looked out at the quiet street where normal people were going about their normal lives. It had clouded up and the first drops of summer rain splattered against the glass. She whirled to face him again. “You know something? I don't know of anyone in your situation who wouldn't at least try to fight this disease. Look at Deanna! Did she give up when they told her she had cancer? Hell, no! She had the surgery, she had radiation treatments. And look at her now! Churning out one book after another. She's cured, Knut, because she didn't give up! My God! Even Bob wouldn't give up if this had happened to him. And we both know what a wimp he is. Why are you giving up? Why?"

  Knut shook his head, but didn't answer for a moment. Finally, in a soft controlled voice, he spoke, “In Norse mythology, there's a story about three goddesses who spin the threads of life for the mortals below. No one knows how long their thread will be. You either get a nice long one or you may get a short one. My thread is running out, Leigh. I know it, and I accept it. That's what you must do, as well. You must accept it. If you can't do it for yourself, do it for me.” He held out his hand to her in a silent plea.

  Leigh had never seen a more vulnerable look on a human face. She moved to him and gathered him into her arms. “I love you, Knut,” she sobbed. “I don't want you to die.” As she held him, she was aware of the sharpness of his bones through his thin pajamas. So much weight-loss in so few weeks. Already, with his gaunt cheekbones and the dark shadows under his eyes, he bore only a fleeting resemblance to the man she'd known back in Georgetown. He's dying. The thought ran through her mind and for the first time since she'd received the bad news, she really believed it. Slowly, she pulled away from him and with the back of her hand, wiped the tears away.

  "I'll go start dinner."

  * * * *

  After that episode, she should have been prepared for what was to come that night, but when it happened, it was like being hit in the stomach with a cannonball.

  It was just after nine o'clock and she was assisting Knut on his walk to the bedroom. They'd just reached the threshold when he stopped and placed one trembling hand on the door frame. He shook his bowed head and said one word.

  "No."

  He looked up at her slowly, and in his eyes Leigh saw the torment of a ravaged soul. She bit her lower lip and then wordlessly, took his arm and led him down the hallway to that other bedroom where the hospital bed waited. Still silent, she pulled back the covers. When he was in bed, she tucked the blanket around him and bent down to kiss him on the forehead. His eyes had already closed, but his hand squeezed hers weakly. Quietly, she moved away from him and left the room.

  In the kitchen, she went to the phone and dialed Sigurd's number. She spoke to her for a moment in a calm measured voice. After she hung up, she moved to the stove and put on a kettle for tea. Sigurd would probably like a cup after she was finished hooking up Knut's I.V.

  While waiting for the water to boil, Leigh wandered restlessly around the small house, but avoided the hallway that led to the bedrooms. In the living room, she stopped in front of a print on the wall above the fireplace. Although she'd noticed it before, she'd never really paid much attention to it. Now, she studied it as if it were suddenly important she burn it into her memory. It was of a group of people in a room that contained a half-obscured bed and a chair facing away from the viewer, preventing the occupant from being seen. In the foreground, a woman sat with her head bowed, her hands clasped and another woman stood behind her, an expression of despair on her white oval face. Leigh's eyes dropped to the title at the bottom of the print. A chill swept through her body and settled in the pit of her stomach.

  The painting was by Edvard Munch and it was titled “Chamber of Death."

  * * * *

  Britta Gjerde lived in a small flat near Oslo University, not far from where Erik had lived before he married Margit. Nostalgic memories of his college days surrounded him as he walked along the quiet street along the campus. Life had been so simple then. “So fucking uncomplicated,” he whispered to himself. Not like now.

  With each step, Erik grew angrier with himself for following up on this anonymous tip. What could Bjorn's extra flat possibly have to do with Margit? Yet, if he didn't believe there was a connection, he wouldn't be on his way to see Britta.

  He'd gone in for the tests with the new urologist yesterday, so within a few days, a week at the most, that question would be answered. As for the rest ... well, perhaps there wouldn't be a need for other questions. Meanwhile, like an ass, he was chasing around town because of some sly bastard who enjoyed leaving cryptic notes on car windows. If he had any brains at all, he'd turn around right now and go home.

  But he didn't.

  He knocked at the door of Britta's flat and she opened it immediately, smiling. “Hello, Erik. I'm so glad you called before coming over. I had intended to spend the afternoon in my sweats. I looked frightful."

  She looked anything but frightful right now, dressed in tight jeans and a sexy white eyelet top. Her long blond hair, usually kept in a neat chignon at the office, fell around her shoulders in a silky curtain. Erik noticed all of this in a detached sort of way. He wasn't oblivious to the sexual signals Britta sent out in his direction; he simply wasn't interested. Kayleigh had done that. With her, sex had become more than just a physical meshing of bodies, something almost spiritual. He knew now he could never go back to the old days of casual sex. Not even if he and Margit...

  What was he thinking about? Divorce? No way. Not if he was assured Gunny was his son. But if not? For the first time, Erik thought about what would happen if the second tests came back the same as the first. He'd be free of Margit. Really free.

  "Would you like something to drink?” Britta asked. “A Coca Cola or perhaps some coffee?"

  "A cup of coffee sounds good,” Erik said, and then wished he hadn't. Why not just ask her the stupid question and get the hell out? But he didn't know how to bring it up.

  Britta returned to the small living room with two cups of steaming coffee. “Milk or sugar?"

  "No. Just black."

  "Ah, like a true Norseman.” She handed him his coffee and sat down on the edge of the sofa. “Well, how was your birthday party? Were you surprised?"

  Erik looked up at her, puzzled. “About what? And how did you know Tuesday was my birthday?"

  "Margit told me about the surprise party she and Bjorn were cooking up for you. Did it work? Were you surprised?"

  I am now, Erik thought. “No one had a party for me. Margit baked a cake and we celebrated with a quiet evening at home. What's this about Bjorn and Margit planning a surprise party?"

  "Oh, yes,” Britta said. “Margit told me on the phone she had to talk to Bjorn about your birthday party. And she made it sound very hush-hush."

  "When was this?"

  She looked thoughtful. “Let's see ... it was at least a month ago. Oh, I know! It was the day you came to the office to see Bjorn. She called after Bjorn left for the hospital, saying she was returning his call about the surprise party. Oh, well, I guess the plans fell through. Too bad. I love surprises, don't you?"

  "It depends,” Erik said. His mind turned over this bit of information. The whole thing sounded odd. So, Bjorn had called Margit at the daycare center just after Erik had left his office that stormy day. For what? A surprise party that had never come off? Thinking of Bjorn reminded him why he was here at Britta's flat. He decided
to take the plunge. “Britta, what do you know about Bjorn's extra flat?"

  A wary look crossed her face. “Bjorn doesn't have an extra flat."

  But she said it too fast, and Erik knew she was lying. “Why are you protecting him?” he asked.

  Abruptly, she placed her coffee mug on the end table and stood, her face reddening. “He's my boss. What am I supposed to do?” She moved over to the hearth and touched a small figurine of a Scottish Terrier.

  "Just tell me about the extra flat, Britta."

  For a moment, she looked panicked, then gradually, her face calmed. She sighed. “I don't know much. About six years ago, he gave me a key and asked me if I could be discreet. He said he sometimes ‘uses’ a friend's flat. He didn't say what for, and I didn't ask. But of course, I guessed. I keep the key in my desk and when he needs it, he takes it. No questions asked."

  "You believe he has a mistress.” It was a statement.

  Britta shrugged. “I don't know of any other reason he would use someone's flat."

  "Do you know when he usually takes the key?"

  "Sometimes at lunchtime. Not every day, of course. Once or twice a week. And when I'm not here, he can come in and take it at any time. I don't keep my desk locked."

  "Why did he give you a key? Why risk letting you in on his secret?"

  She blushed. “He ... hoped I'd join him there sometime. And I might have done so except I knew there would be three of us. I don't get into that kind of thing."

  Erik's mouth dropped open. “I can't believe it. Bjorn?"

  She stared at him steadily. “How well do you know your brother?"

  He stood up and paced the room, his hands tunneling through his hair. He stopped and stared at her. “Could you find out who rents the flat? Who his ‘friend’ is?"