I look at him, smile at him, He’s only after my money, he doesn’t care about me at all, he embarrasses me in front of everybody in the dayroom, he acts like I’m not even here, he argues with Johnny, he’s so brash and rude and I don’t like him. I really want to like him, but I don’t, I can’t make myself like him, that’s why I got so annoyed at the new assistant and at Sylvia and her family a little while ago. I’m not stupid, I know that much. I couldn’t bring myself to get angry at Odd Kåre so I tried to take it out on them instead. I couldn’t bring myself to admit that I don’t like my own son, so I tried to fool myself into believing that everybody else in here is as bad as him. But that’s not true of course. They’re not as bad as Odd Kåre. Sylvia’s son is so nice to his mother, he loves his mother and he cares about her. And Sylvia is so nice to her son, she loves him and she cares about him. But I don’t care about Odd Kåre, maybe I’ve never cared about him, maybe it’s true what people said about me, maybe I’ve never loved Odd Kåre, well, I mean what sort of a mother would do what I did, what sort of a mother would shut her eyes to such things? I pretended not to know, I wasn’t strong enough to do what I should have done and I let Johan carry on with his dirty business. I was always careful not to walk in unexpectedly when he was alone with Odd Kåre. I was always careful to give him fair warning, give him time to finish whatever he was doing. I’d be deliberately clumsy and drop things on the floor before opening the door of the room they were in. I’d pretend to have a bit of a cold and cough loudly so Johan would know where I was, and if I’d been out somewhere I always shouted hello from the hall when I came home. If I hadn’t seen it with my own eyes it hadn’t happened. I suppose that was my thinking. And what sort of a mother would think like that, what sort of a mother would fail their own child like that?
I look at Odd Kåre, and there’s a lump in my throat. Dear Odd Kåre, all the things he’s had to suffer, all he’s had to put up with. I tried to make up for that by being nice to him, I was so nice and kind and loving toward him, almost too nice and kind, I spoiled him so I did. As if that could make up for what Johan did, nothing can make up for something like that, can it? What we did to Odd Kåre, that was the biggest failure of all. And any minute now Sylvia’s going to tell her son and her daughter-in-law all about it, I know she is. What sort of a mother would fail her own son like that, that’s what she’ll say. “It’s no wonder we don’t see much of that Odd Kåre here,” she’ll say, “and it’s certainly no wonder he’s turned out the way he has,” she’ll say. “You can hardly expect him to care about his mother when his mother never cared about him,” she’ll say, I know she will, she’s going to revel in our misfortune, use our misfortune to make herself seem like such a good mother, and I’m crying inside, I need to get out of here, I don’t want to be here any longer, and yet I go on sitting here.
“You know the money you were going to leave me in your will? You wouldn’t consider giving me an advance on that, would you?” Odd Kåre asks suddenly. He asks me straight out and he looks straight at me, and I look at him for a moment and suddenly his cheeks turn pink and he twists his mouth into a grin, he knows what he’s doing and he’s trying to cover up his embarrasment by grinning, he’s embarrassed but he’s not giving up, he keeps going. He thinks he can ask anything of me, nothing can make up for what I did to him and he thinks he can ask for whatever he wants. “It would be a helluva help to us,” he says. “I mean, it’s now we need it,” he says. “Not in ten or fifteen years’ time.” And he looks straight at me, and I look at him and smile this smile of mine. I’m crying and crying inside, but I just sit here smiling, what else can I do?
“Oh,” I say. “Well, I’m sure something can be arranged,” I say. I don’t want to say it, I don’t like being pushed like this. If I’m going to give something to someone, I want to give it out of love and I want the person I give it to to know that I’m giving it out of love. But this isn’t love, this is nothing but a trade-off, and I don’t want to say yes, but I can’t stop myself, I’ve never been able to resist. I’ve always given Odd Kåre whatever he asked for, whatever he pointed at he got, and all the terrible things he did I forgave him. As if that could make up for what I did to him. Nothing can make up for something like that. I look at him, and I’m crying inside, crying and crying. “Great,” Odd Kåre says. “Thanks a lot,” he says. “We really appreciate it,” he says, looking at me and nodding, and I smile at him, but inside I’m crying and I want to get out of here, I want to get away from all of this, but instead I just sit here, I don’t go anywhere.
Otterøya, July 11th, 2006
The game’s up, David. I know you haven’t lost your memory. I know you remember most of what we have spent time and energy on recounting and writing down and then sending to the email address you gave in your advertisement. You see I was speaking to my grandson on the phone yesterday evening and when I told him what I was doing at the moment he said he was afraid we’d been conned. My grandson is part of an artists’ group in Trondheim and apparently there has been some discussion within the group as to whether your latest book project is morally defensible or not. I didn’t even know that you were a published author, but it turns out that you are and according to what my grandson has heard your alleged memory loss is part of a new, autobiographical book project you’re working on. Apparently writing autobiographies is all the rage at the moment and word has it that you’re trying to put a new twist on the traditional personal history by looking at your own life through the eyes of others. He wasn’t really sure about this, he said, but you definitely hadn’t lost your memory, because he had run into you on the street the day before and there had been nothing then to indicate any such thing. You had recognized him right away and stopped for a chat as you usually did when the two of you met.
Obviously I should have realized that there was something suspicious about all this. Obviously I’ve been stupid and naive. And now that I know what’s been going on I can see how incredible and how unlikely it would have been for someone to lose their memory and then put an ad in the newspaper to find out who they are. There can only be one explanation for why I didn’t immediately grasp the incredibility and unlikelihood of this situation, and that is that I find it even more incredible and unlikely that anyone could be capable of doing such a thing to their fellow human beings. It’s one thing to be so ineffably self-centered as to take it for granted that I and other people have nothing better to do than to spend their evenings writing about you. Individualism, egotism and self-promotion—these are, after all, the very hallmarks of your generation, so to some extent I can understand it. You are as much a product of your time as most people are, I suppose. But that you can exploit other people’s concern for a fellow human being as you have done, exploit their compassion and encourage them to expose themselves and others, exploit the good in them to provide you with character sketches and descriptions of all and sundry, and put it all into a book; that you could do something like that speaks of a cynicism beyond my comprehension. How do you think Paula will feel when she learns that you are planning to make public all the private, sensitive and intimate details she has been willing to share with you? Do you realize how hard and how painful it was for her simply to lend her diaries to me? True, she stapled together pages that she absolutely did not want anyone else to read, but still, she did not do it gladly, I can assure you. And then to have to see it made public. Published, in a book, and not to serve the purpose she has always believed it was meant to serve. There she was, thinking that she was helping a man in need, only to find that she has been used, sponged on, spat upon. Oh yes, you have spat upon her kindness and goodwill, that’s what you’ve done. It’s disgraceful. The idea, its execution, this whole project of yours is disgraceful and my greatest regret is that I have sent you each part of her story as I wrote it down. If only I had decided to wait until we were completely finished then you wouldn’t have heard a word from us. Then Paula could have rested easier. Granted, she would have had to liv
e with the fact that she had confided in me, but at least she wouldn’t have had to suffer what you are clearly dead set on subjecting her to. Tell me, have you completely forgotten what it was like to grow up in a community as small as that on Otterøya? Have you any idea what all this will cost Paula and probably a lot of the other people who have sent you information that was meant for you and you alone? Have you any idea how disastrous it can be for a person to have everyone made privy to their innermost and most private thoughts? To have everyone learn what they really think and feel about people close to them or whom they see every day? Friendships can be ruined by such things, relationships shattered and marriages broken, relatives become estranged, whole lives destroyed, don’t you realize that? Don’t you realize what a responsibility you are taking upon yourself if you go ahead with this? Are you really willing to do this simply in order to publish a book about yourself?
I don’t know if what you are doing is illegal. Probably not. These days anything goes, it seems. But it is most definitely immoral and all I can do now is to appeal to the little in the way of conscience that you may have and beg you not to complete this utterly narcissistic project of yours and not to use the information we have sent you. If, on the other hand, you decide to continue, I will of course contact the press and television stations and inform them of the suffering you are inflicting on other people. You may well be too cold and cynical to care about that, but by contacting the media I can at least prevent more people from making the same mistake as us.
I hope to hear from you as soon as you have read this. Now I have to drive up to the care home to inform Paula and all the others of my discovery. This is not something I am looking forward to.
Otterøy care home, July 4th, 2006. Into battle
I LOOK AT ODD KÅRE. I want to get out of here, I can’t stay here any longer, but I just sit here. “What’s wrong, Ma?” Odd Kåre asks. “Nothing,” I say, smiling at him. “It’s just that you’ve gone a bit funny,” Odd Kåre says. “Oh, I’ve always been a bit funny,” I say and I try to give a little laugh, and I hear how sad my laugh sounds, it’s a bitter, painful laugh, a laugh that falls aching from my lips, but Odd Kåre doesn’t catch the note of pain, he’s not made that way, Odd Kåre, he’s not sensitive enough to catch that sort of thing. “Oh, Christ, you’re right there,” he says, laughing back at me, a loud, happy laugh, he’s happy because he’s managed to scrounge my money off me, he’s delighted that he’s managed to talk me into giving him an advance on the money he’s got coming to him.
I look at him, and I don’t like him, I do so want to like him, but I can’t. What sort of a mother am I when I can’t bring myself to like my son? I suppose it was true what people said about me back then, I don’t suppose I’ve ever really loved Odd Kåre, or at least not the way other mothers love their children, well, what sort of a mother would do what I did? I shut my eyes and let Johan carry on with his dirty business, for years he was left to carry on with his dirty business, for years I failed Odd Kåre. I thought I could make up for it by being nice and kind. All the terrible things Odd Kåre got up to I let him get away with and everything he pointed to I let him have, as if it did any good, all it did was make matters worse, that’s why he’s turned out the way he has, that’s what turned him into the sort of person who can come here and scrounge money off me. He doesn’t care about me at all, he’s only interested in my money, and I’ve only got myself to thank for that. I’ve got the son I deserve, it’s my own fault that I’ve got a son I can’t like, I do so want to like him, but I can’t, he’s so hard to like, he’s greedy and brash and rude and I’m crying inside, crying and crying, and I want to get out of here, I want to get away, but I don’t go anywhere, I just sit here, and Odd Kåre and Johnny are looking at me and it’s very quiet, and now I have to say something, I don’t know what to say, but I have to say something, and I look at Johnny and give him a faint smile.
“So, how’s school, Johnny?” I ask. It just slips out. I’m asking exactly the same thing as I asked him only minutes ago, asking the very question that started that awful argument. They sat there arguing for a good few minutes all because Johnny has dropped out of school, and yet here I am asking him how he’s getting on at school.
Johnny gazes at me in surprise and Odd Kåre gazes at me in surprise, they exchange a quick glance and then they turn to me again and I look at them and smile. I’m just about to apologize, I’m just about to sigh and say, “Oh no, of course, I just asked you that,” but I don’t. I don’t know why not, but I just sit there looking at them, still smiling, and they just sit and look at me, and Odd Kåre’s brow furrows slightly.
“Ma, we just told you—Johnny’s dropped out of school,” he says, sounding a bit taken aback and frowning at me, and I look at him and swallow, still smiling. “Oh, yes,” is all I say, then I pause for a moment. “That’s right, so you did,” I say with a sad little laugh, a laugh that’s somehow meant to make light of the whole thing, laugh as if I’m trying to hide how forgetful I am. I don’t know why I do this, I just do. “It’s so nice that you could come too, Johnny,” I say. “I haven’t seen you in ages,” I say. “And you look so like your dad now. With a beard, and such lovely plump cheeks,” I say. “So nice and chubby,” I say, and I give a little start as the words leave my mouth, and Odd Kåre and Johnny seem to to start as well, because yet again I’m saying exactly what I said only minutes ago, yet again I’m repeating something that started an argument between them. They stare at me, then they turn and look at one another, and now they’re wondering whether I’ve gone dotty. I can tell by their faces that they think I have. After a moment they turn to me again and I look at Johnny, still smiling, and this time he doesn’t look angry with me for saying that he’s fairly filled out. He just sits there looking a little confused, and this time Odd Kåre doesn’t try to make fun of Johnny for having filled out, no, he just sits there frowning at me.
There’s silence for a moment or two. But why am I doing this? Why am I turning into a dotty old woman before their eyes? Is it because I want attention? Is it because I want them to look at me and feel sorry for me? Or could it be because I’d like to start again? Is that why I’m asking the same questions that I asked before they started arguing and falling out? Am I trying to go back to a point before they started arguing, so we can start again and make this the sort of visit I would like it to be? I don’t know, I really don’t, but I look at Johnny and I keep going. “You’re looking fitter and healthier than you used to,” I tell Johnny. “You used to be so thin,” I say, saying exactly what I had been meaning to say before they started arguing. It’s like I’ve jumped back a few minutes and started again. I’ve rubbed out their arguing and fighting and they’re just sitting there staring at me in confusion. They think I’m going dotty and I just let them think that and I look at them and smile.
Then out of the blue I say: “Can you forgive me, Odd Kåre?” It just slips out and I give a start as it slips out, because suddenly I’ve started talking about this thing that we never talk about, and there’s silence for a moment and I look at Odd Kåre and my heart starts to beat a little harder and my pulse starts to race a little faster. “Huh?” Odd Kåre says. “Can you forgive me?” I say again, and I look at him, still smiling, and Odd Kåre looks at me, but he’s not smiling, because now he realizes what I’m talking about, I can tell by his face that he does, his face goes dead, it turns white, it stiffens, and Johnny looks at Odd Kåre and frowns.
“What’s the matter?” Johnny says, but Odd Kåre doesn’t look at Johnny, he doesn’t take his eyes off me, because now I’ve opened a door that neither of us has ever dared open before, I’ve plucked up my courage and said what I should have said long ago. Maybe that’s why I suddenly started acting dotty, maybe it was because I needed someone to say what I’d never been able to say myself. Maybe that’s why I turned myself into a dotty old woman, maybe I needed that dotty old woman to ask forgiveness for me. I don’t know, I really don’t, but here I am,
asking Odd Kåre for forgiveness.
For a moment everything is very quiet, then the little girls start playing the piano again. They’ve sat down at the piano and now they’re playing “Twinkle, Twinkle, Little Star” again. And I look at Odd Kåre and smile. Now Odd Kåre has to walk through the open door with me, he has to step into that room that we’ve never entered before. He has to do this, for his own sake and for mine he has to. This has been eating away at me all these years and I would so like to find peace of mind before I die, that’s all I want. I look at Odd Kåre and smile and the girls play “Twinkle, Twinkle, Little Star” and now Odd Kåre has to walk with me through the open door, but he won’t, he won’t come with me.
“What are you talking about?” Odd Kåre asks with what’s meant to be an astonished laugh, but what comes out isn’t an astonished laugh, it’s an angry laugh, there’s so much anger in that laugh. “Huh?” he says, looking at me, and there’s anger in his eyes too. He’s trying not to let it show, but it’s no use. “Please, Odd Kåre,” I say, still with that smile on my face, and I feel my smile sagging, feel the corners of my mouth drooping, and the girls play “Twinkle, Twinkle, Little Star” and I look at Odd Kåre. And now he has to go along with me on this, he has to come with me, but he doesn’t, he won’t.
Encircling 2 Page 38