Strangers

by Ursula Archer

  Or no … Not a stranger. Worse than that.

  A hand caresses me, my head, my cheek. “The ambulance is almost here. They’re coming as fast as they can. Are you feeling sick? Can you breathe?”

  I try to focus on my body. The answer to both questions is yes. The silhouette above me becomes blurry; the room spins. I can breathe, but it still feels like the air I can get into my lungs is far too little.…

  “Jo!” Another shake. Then a few soft slaps on my cheek. “Please! Look at me, OK?”

  Suddenly the image becomes clearer. Erik, leaning over me. “That’s it. Just look into my eyes. I’m with you, everything’s going to be OK.”

  He wheezes. In his right hand he is holding a bundle of … fabric, which he now stuffs into the drawer of my nightstand.

  “Did you do this, Jo?” He pulls me into his arms, pressing me against him. The shirt he is wearing is soaked through, just as I am, and slowly the memory of what happened comes back. The shower. The dizziness. Vomiting.

  Erik is still holding me. The thought that I should put up a struggle pops into my mind, then goes again. Too little strength. Too little air.

  I feel his rib cage rising and falling laboriously, feel his hand entangling itself in my wet hair. His breath on my neck.

  Then he lets me go. He supports himself wearily against the bed as he straightens up, and walks over to my wardrobe with shaky steps.

  “They’ll be here any minute now. I should put some clothes on you.” Panties, a T-shirt. I’d like to be able to dress myself, but any movement I make worsens the dizziness and breathlessness, so I let him dress me, as if I were a doll.

  Then the sirens, moving closer, coming to a halt in front of the house. Erik stumbles over to the window. “The door is unlocked,” he calls out; then he sits down on the edge of the bed and reaches for my hand.

  Suddenly the room is full of people, all of them wearing respirator masks. Voices come from everywhere around me. A flurry of activity. Someone pulls Erik away from me, shines a light in my eyes, feels for my pulse.

  “Carbon monoxide.” I keep hearing the words again and again. An oxygen mask is placed over my mouth and nose, and suddenly breathing becomes a lot easier.

  I turn my head, see Erik sitting on the floor, also with a mask on his face. His eyes seek mine, he nods to me.

  They lift me onto a stretcher, place a blanket over my body, and I close my eyes.

  “Is this your house?” I hear someone say. “The boiler is really old, when was it last checked, OK, and by the way we need to take you to the hospital as well.”

  The stretcher is tilted at an angle on the way down the stairs, then there’s a gust of air as we arrive outside. I open my eyes, see the dark evening sky above me. The stars.

  I think I can finally sleep again now.

  * * *

  A huge, tubular object. Hyperbaric oxygen therapy, the doctor explains to me. “After all, you don’t want any long-term damage, do you?”

  I weakly shake my head. No. What I want is to turn back time, to the point when my life was still familiar and I didn’t have to be afraid all the time.

  Inside the chamber, tubes protrude out of the walls, running into blue masks. One of them is pulled over my face. “Just breathe,” says the doctor. Then he leaves me alone.

  I try to remember what happened. I was searching the house, then I took a shower—and collapsed. Erik must have found me and pulled me out of there, hence his wet shirt.

  Did you do that? he had asked me. Whatever he meant by that.

  After an hour, they bring me out of the tube again. I’m feeling a lot better, but they still don’t want to let me go home. “First, because the fire department is still there, and second, because we need to keep you under observation.”

  At least my insurance gets me a private room in the hospital. The oxygen mask is still my constant companion, and it’s a good excuse for staying silent. I stare at the wall and try to block out the cheerful doctor sticking electrocardiogram contacts onto my upper body. “Gas boilers are so dangerous,” she chatters away to me. “You’re lucky that your husband reacted so quickly. Just a while longer, and…”

  She leaves the sentence unfinished, but it’s clear what she means.

  My husband.

  Without a doubt Erik had pulled me out of the shower, he had rescued me—but what would have happened if I had showered half an hour earlier? Would he have been there? Had he just been waiting for an opportunity to be my knight in shining armor?

  Or would I be dead?

  I lie there, and watch the zigzagging lines that my heartbeat is projecting onto the observation monitor.

  Did you do that, Jo?

  The pain in my wrist is no longer as acute as it was this morning, but it has spread. It now goes from my knuckles to the tips of my fingers. I can remember clearly the feeling of euphoria that filled me when I hit my hand against the door of Ela’s car. It had been so painful and yet, at the same time … good.

  Something isn’t right with me; maybe I should start to face up to it. If I’d recently felt the need to inflict harm on myself, then it was also plausible I had tampered with the boiler in order to do something much worse.

  Except that I have no idea how to go about doing something like that. And I don’t remember having even been near the device. But by now I guess I shouldn’t be that surprised by gaps in my memory.

  Or maybe I should. It could be that all of this has been staged to bring me to exactly the conclusions I’m drawing now.

  But how could someone stage my newly acquired urge to self-harm?

  Maybe it had simply been an accident. A maintenance error. Something that could happen anywhere. The bad thing, though, is that this possibility seems the least likely to me.

  I close my eyes. Block out the world. Concentrate only on the oxygen streaming into my body.

  * * *

  The next morning, even before the pitiful hospital breakfast is brought to me, there’s a knock at the door and Ela comes into the room. She looks pale, shaking her head again and again, and sits down on the edge of my bed.

  “What on earth is going on with you guys?” she says as she takes my hand.” Do you realize how close it was, Jo? With carbon monoxide poisoning, two minutes can mean the difference between life and death. Sometimes even less.”

  I’m still wearing my oxygen mask. I don’t have to say anything, but I reciprocate the squeeze she gives my hand.

  “I’m so glad Erik got there in time,” she murmurs. “He did exactly the right thing.”

  She correctly interprets my questioning glance. “Yes, I talked to him, he’s here in the hospital too. He didn’t have a mask, after all, so it got him as well.” Was that a trace of accusation in her voice? “Not as badly as you, though. They’re already discharging him today.” She smiles; I guess she means for it to be encouraging. “Is there anything I can do for you?”

  Yes, as a matter of fact there is. I lift my oxygen mask for a moment. “Call the photo studio. Please. Tell them that…”

  “That you’ll be away for a while. Of course.”

  She strokes my arm, biting her lower lip. It’s clear she wants to get something off her chest, but doesn’t know how to say it.

  Eventually she comes out with it. “Have you thought about whether you might want to stay here for a while to get treatment, once you’ve made it through this part, I mean?” She tries to hold my gaze. “Not in this department, of course. In the psychiatric ward. Just to be on the safe side, you know?”

  I abruptly pull my hand away from hers and turn my head to the side. Not because I find the idea so unreasonable; on the contrary. I had the same thought during the night. But Ela’s suggestion makes it real, and makes me realize that it’s the last thing I want. To be locked away, be put on medication, confronted with a diagnosis.

  Cleared out of the way.

  “I’m sorry,” I hear Ela say. “I don’t want to push you into anything. I really don’t. But
do you remember what happened in the car yesterday? That’s just not like you.” She sighs, and I close my eyes.

  Go away, I think.

  Ela stands up, as if she heard my silent plea. “I’m just afraid that you could be a threat to yourself. Or maybe you already are. To yourself and Erik.”

  She strokes my head. I let her, lying still like I’ve fallen asleep.

  “I mean, you’re my friend. You’re important to me. Both of you are important to me. I don’t want anything to happen to either of you.”

  * * *

  Erik comes by a quarter of an hour after the doctor’s made his rounds. He pulls up a chair and doesn’t say anything for a long time, nor does he touch me. He has his elbows propped on his knees and his hands folded in front of his mouth. A waiting position.

  But if he’s hoping that I’ll be unable to bear the silence and start a conversation, then he has a long and frustrating wait ahead of him. My oxygen mask is my protective shield.

  His voice is soft when he eventually speaks. “I was so worried about you, Jo. And I’m so glad you’re getting better.”

  I force myself to look him in the eyes. Was there ever a time in my life when I had felt so torn? I should be thanking this man, should be down on my knees with gratitude, for the fact that he had risked his own life to save me. And I’d do it too, without hesitation, if it wasn’t for this other possibility. The possibility that I wouldn’t even have needed to be saved if he weren’t here in the first place. The possibility that he intentionally put me in danger, all just to extort gratitude from me.

  I decide to lift up my oxygen mask after all. “They’re saying it was the boiler?”

  Erik hesitates for a moment, then nods. “It’s not just what they’re saying. That’s what it was. And—Jo…” He buries his face in his hands, rubbing it, then looks up again.

  “I found the scarves.”

  I have no idea what he’s talking about. “The scarves?”

  “Yes. The boiler’s exhaust vent was blocked with three bunched-up scarves, the large ones that you like so much. That’s why…”

  That’s why.

  It wasn’t a technical defect. Or a maintenance error. Someone took my scarves out of the wardrobe and used them to build a little deathtrap.

  “I took them out before the firemen arrived. They were really puzzled, because the exhaust should have been vented normally. They said that accidents like this can happen without the boiler being blocked, but in those cases the carbon monoxide only gets pushed back down into the vent when it’s humid outside and the air pressure is low.”

  Erik doesn’t say any more, but I’m well aware of what he’s thinking. It wasn’t humid yesterday. And I was alone at home for hours. I would have had time to do it.

  He probably talked with Ela already. Hence her suggestion earlier.

  “It wasn’t me,” I say, and even I can hear how flat my voice is. Exhausted. Unconvincing.

  I clear my throat and try again, making an effort to sound stronger. “Believe me, Erik. I didn’t do it. I wouldn’t even know how to; I’ve got no idea about gas boilers and vents and…” I run out of air, and press the oxygen mask back down over my face, for three, four breaths. “I’m not trying to kill myself,” I say then. “Neither myself nor you.”

  He doesn’t smile. Staring at the floor, he says, “I hid the scarves; maybe that was stupid of me. But I didn’t want you to get into trouble with the police, or for them to lock you up in a psychiatric unit.” Now he looks up, and for the first time since I’ve known him, I feel the urge to take his hand. To hold it and squeeze it.

  I don’t, but when he reaches for mine, as if he can sense my thoughts, I let him.

  “I still believe that we can get over our problems,” he says. “But you have to want it, Jo. You’re making it so unbelievably difficult for me right now. I’m doing everything I can, but you have to help me. Please.”

  I don’t know why I nod. Probably because I’d like to believe what he’s saying. Because I need something to hold on to, too. Or someone.

  And maybe that’s exactly what he was after the entire time. If that’s so, he’s achieved his goal.

  14

  “You were lucky.” The ward doctor looks up from the clipboard holding my patient chart, and puts it down at the foot of the bed I’m sitting on, all dressed and ready to go. Lucky? That seems like an absolute mockery, given the chaos of the past few days.

  “All in all, your blood levels are OK. Your paperwork is being prepared as we speak, and after that you’re free to go. I’ll write you a sick note for the next two days. You should use the time to recover.”

  He gives me a firm handshake. Then I’m by myself again.

  I can go. Leave this room with its whitewashed walls that threw back my thoughts like an echo when I was staring at them, for hours on end, searching in vain for answers. .

  But I’m still reluctant about the prospect of leaving the hospital. About leaving Joanna, who’s lying in a room only a few doors down from mine.

  If I leave now, I won’t be able to protect her. From … from what, really?

  From herself? From me?

  What if it’s not Joanna who has mental problems, but me? How can I be so sure her head is the one that’s out of whack? She’s fighting the idea that something’s wrong with her just as desperately as I would be. As I am. But maybe it really was me who plugged the boiler’s vent, and I just don’t remember it? I do know where you’d have to stuff the scarves to block it, at least.

  “OK, Herr Thieben, here’s your sick note and the letter for your doctor.”

  A rotund nurse is holding an envelope out toward me. I get up and take it from her. “Thanks,” I say, and I truly do feel thankful. Because she showed up at exactly the right moment and pulled me out of these frightening thoughts.

  “And that’s all. You can go now. Get well soon.” She gives me an encouraging smile, and a moment later she’s gone. Next patient, next smile.

  I leave the room, turn to the left, and walk to the room five doors down. I decide not to knock.

  Joanna seems to be asleep as I carefully shut the door behind me and go over to her bed. I stand there and look at her. The oxygen mask over her pale face, the tubes, the monitor next to her bed. Three jagged lines, one underneath the other. Green, blue, white. Some numbers as well. Blood pressure, oxygenation, ECG, heart rate. She looks so incredibly helpless, so fragile. I scream silently on the inside. I desperately want to take her in my arms, hold her against me. Whisper into her ear that everything’s going to be OK. That I love her more than words can say, that we’ll get through everything together. Everything.

  If only I could at least hold her hand.

  But I leave it. She needs her rest.

  Get well quick, I think. I’ll be back later. I leave the room on tiptoe. Hallway, elevator, foyer, and reception. I register them all as though they were props in this nightmare I’m stumbling through, this horror film in which I’m inadvertently playing the leading role.

  I get into a taxi and tell the driver my address. Stare out the window as we drive off in silence, leaving the hospital behind us. The concrete faces of the suburban houses gawp at me with cold indifference.

  I’ve been put on sick leave for two days, but I don’t want to sit around the house, especially not now, when things are quite clearly going off course for me at work.

  On the other hand, it would give me the chance to look after Joanna without having to invent any stories. Stories that would give Gabor, or Bernhard, even more reasons to speculate.

  “You want me to drive up there?” The driver points at our driveway.

  “Yes, please.”

  I pay, get out, and pause in front of the spot where the cockatoo had been standing until two days ago. Already it seems so long ago that our world still made sense. I realize now how we always took it for granted, never wasting a single thought on how it could all be different one day.

  I close the door beh
ind me and slump back against it. The house seems empty to me, almost like it belongs to a stranger. It was only on rare occasions that Joanna wasn’t in the house when I got back. And even then I knew it wouldn’t be long before I’d hear the door click into the lock and a cheerful “Hi, darling, I’m back.”

  Will I ever hear that again?

  Frau Schwickerath from HR explains to me over the phone that it will be fine if I bring the sick note with me when I come back to the office; it’s only two days, after all. Then she wishes me a speedy recovery.

  I make myself some coffee and sit at the kitchen table, the steaming cup in front of me. Again and again I go over the events of the past two days, desperately searching for just a hint of an explanation. But all that comes to my mind is irrational nonsense.

  After a while, my mind wanders to G.E.E. and Gabor. Not a very pleasant subject either, right now, but still I follow the train of thought. Because it’s something different, at least. What had made Gabor exclude me from this huge contract? All the projects I’ve headed over the past few years have gone well. Of course there were delays here and there, which we simply couldn’t have reckoned with during the run-up. But that’s normal, and it happens with all the larger contracts. It was certainly no reason to give me the cold shoulder all of sudden if something big was coming in.

  Maybe Bernhard has something to do with that? After all, he called Gabor from the airport and told him about what happened at our house.

  If I was you, I’d think twice about coming into the office tomorrow morning, he’d said to me, pretending to be concerned. Asshole.

  By now my coffee’s just lukewarm swill. It seems I’ve lost my sense of time as well.

  I walk into the living room, without really knowing what I intend to do in there. So I go back out into the kitchen, then the hallway. The boiler pops into my mind and I climb the stairs, my heart thumping.

  It looks like a bomb exploded in the bathroom. There are towels lying on the floor, some of Joanna’s cosmetic products scattered among them. The bottles and small tins on the shelf next to the sink have fallen over. What exactly were the firefighters up to in here?