In Every Moment We Are Still Alive

by Tom Malmquist

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  When I’m tidying up around the desk I notice something under the bookshelf, it casts a glint of reflected light from the table lamp. I reach inside and pull out a statuette of an owl. It looks like a tourist souvenir. Five centimetres high, two and a half centimetres wide, heavy, most likely made of iron or lead. The talons grip onto a branch inscribed with the letters AΘE. I have a vague sense that Karin used it as a paperweight, but I haven’t seen it for years, and I’ve never held it in my hand. Its eyes are disproportionally large. I can’t remember if Karin bought it at a flea market or if she got it as a present while on holiday on Aegina with her parents and brother when she was a child. I search on the Internet and find images of similar owls. AΘE seems to be an abbreviation of AΘENAION and means something along the lines of: of the Athenians. The owl is also found on antique Greek coins. It’s Athena’s owl. Or Minerva’s, as she was known in Latin. It embodies the goddess herself, with eyes that shine in the darkness. There’s a raft of folders and scattered untitled documents in Karin’s laptop. I search the hard drive. Search words: Athena, Minerva, owl, wings, night vision, hunters, battle, wisdom, Hegel. There’s nothing to explain the statuette.

  Livia sleeps beside me in the bed. She drank one hundred millilitres of formula before she fell asleep. I’m worried that she’ll throw up and choke on the vomit. I hold off with my Lergigan tablets until Mum comes, she’s late. New search term: Livia. Maybe somewhere Karin has written about the name and why she chose it. Nothing, anywhere. On the other hand, I do find a stand-alone diary item when I search on the word pregnant:

  One week before Christmas 2010. Friday. A tough week. Had a miscarriage the night between Monday and Tuesday. Was in week six, so early, but more upset about it than expected. Maybe all the changes. Had known about it for probably a week, but had already had masses of symptoms, so I really felt pregnant. Felt nauseous every day. Tom and I were at the A&E when it happened, the rest of the week has been mainly hard work. Stayed home from work Thursday to Friday, mostly I just watched TV series. Actually had panic attacks on Wednesday. Haven’t slept at night, plus, was so physically tired that I could hardly walk. Still just HAD to go to H&M to get myself a top. So typical me. When I was on Mariatorget I got so tired that I called Tom in tears. He came to get me. He has been a fantastic support. I think I’ve taken up all the room for grieving. He’s written a poem about the miscarriage, or maybe something for some novel. The text was right there by his computer, just where I walk past, it was difficult avoiding it. Should I be ashamed about reading it? He calls the blood in my pants the waste product of a possible different future. That was good, but it made me so angry.

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  The welfare officer calls me on Tuesdays at 14:00 and says: Hi, Tom, this is Liselotte, is this a bad time? At Karolinska I used to see her a couple of times a week in a little conference room at Neonatal. She felt familiar right away, her soft posture reminiscent of Karin, and her silvery pageboy hairstyle and rotund figure just like my mother’s. It was easy confiding in her. The telephone calls are a recent development. After that time in Karolinska I just could not breathe in the smell of hospital any more but at the same time I didn’t want to stop having those conversations.

  So how have you been since last time, Tom? asks Liselotte. Okay, I answer. And how are things with Livia? Fine, she’s lying here next to me prattling away. That’s lovely to hear. She’s started smiling, she clutches at my finger, and she can direct her head, she looks right into me. That’s lovely, fantastic. Karin is going to miss so much, Livia was a black-and-white ultrasound photo, Karin only knew her as something that moved inside her. Tom, eventually it will feel a little easier, naturally you’ll never stop grieving for Karin, but the intervals between the really hard days will grow longer. Liselotte waits for me to answer and then, when I don’t, she says: Are you thinking about something? I went to get a new ID card yesterday after my old one expired. Right, a new ID, yeah. I walked to the offices of the Tax Department, it’s probably a couple of kilometres from Lundagatan to Södermalms allé. If I can just ask, did you bring Livia? No, Mum was taking care of her, I still get stressed about taking her out in the pram. What are you worried about, if you don’t mind my asking? One day I will obviously have to take her out in the pram, I just don’t want to pass on my own fears to her. Okay, and what do you mean by not wanting to pass on your fears to Livia? Is it okay if I first tell you about the Tax Department? Yes, of course. I showed them the receipt for my payment, and then I was pointed to a photo booth, there was only space for one clerk and a small desk with an adjustable camera, she measured me, I was a hundred and seventy-eight, in my old ID I was a hundred and seventy-six, she didn’t believe me so I showed her my old ID, she took my measurement again, I was a hundred and seventy-eight. That’s pretty strange, isn’t it? Karin and I were the same height, she was a hundred and seventy-six as well, it became a thing for us, a physical togetherness, I don’t know, it feels weird. They must have made a mistake when they measured you earlier, don’t you think? I’ve been a hundred and seventy-six centimetres tall since I was eighteen, everyone can’t have been mistaken all those times, I identify with being a hundred and seventy-six centimetres tall, now suddenly I’m two centimetres taller than Karin. Yeah, you know they say the only thing you can’t lie about is how tall you are. My weight’s just tumbled, seventeen kilos in a couple of weeks, I weigh fifty-nine kilos. Tom, it’s not so surprising that you’ve lost your appetite. I think the woman at the Tax Department was afraid of me, I say, interrupting Liselotte. Okay, what makes you think that? I felt vulnerable when she started taking the photos and people were walking past, looking in, I wanted her to close the door, all the other photo booths had their doors closed, she didn’t want to, she was looking at me as if she thought I’d rob her if we closed the door. Did you ask her why you couldn’t close the door? She said they never close the doors. Did you not point out that the other photo booths had their doors closed? She ignored that. She didn’t answer? No, ‘look into the circle’ was all she said, then she pointed the camera. That was a bit strange, wasn’t it? I didn’t recognise myself in the photos, I asked her if she could take another one, which turned out just the same, after the fourth attempt she got irritated, but it still felt wrong, I mean that’s supposed to be my identifying photo, the thing that convinces people that I am who I am, my eyes were completely blank as if everything I’d ever seen had bled out of them, it was horrible, I wanted to take another picture, she wouldn’t let me, I’ve become so servile, I just said okay, thanks, if I’d been my old self I would have asked for another photo booth and I wouldn’t have left until I was satisfied. Tom, you were here at Karolinska for almost a month, just stepping into the daily grind like this is not an easy thing, not after everything you’ve been through, and I’d like to point out, after our last conversation when you told me about all the problems you’ve been having with bureaucracy, I really had the impression that you know how to put your foot down. I’d say I’ve never been afraid of conflict, I’m rather confrontational, Karin used to call me a little terrier, my friends as well, totally unable to see how small I am. Oh, is that right, and, well, were you offended by that? No, not at all, that was just funny. Tom, a great deal is happening inside you right now. I suppose that’s it, sometimes it does feel as if I’m about to go mad, yesterday I found a statuette that was Karin’s, an owl, Minerva’s owl, it was under the bookshelf, it feels as if Karin is communicating with me, as if she wants to tell me something. You knew her so well, I can tell you, it’s quite a common thing to have that feeling, as if those you have lost are communicating with you, especially when you’re deep in the grieving process, it’s not mad at all, because in a way they are communicating. May I ask, was there something special about this particular owl? Minerva’s owl only spreads her wings once dusk has fallen. Okay, right, sorry, I must ask, is that Livia in the background? She’s trying to devour the sleeve
of my jumper, chewing away at it. Liselotte laughs. Just think, isn’t it amazing, she’s developing her senses, obviously she recognises your smell, she says. Or taste, I’d like to have her with me at night, but I’m not quite ready. Why is that, then? I’m taking sleeping tablets and Lergigan. Oh yes, of course, but Tom, you need your sleep, and there’s no hurry, you should take the time you need. Thanks, Liselotte, I needed to hear that. Tom, there’s no need to thank me. Am I servile? She coughs, or laughs. Excuse me, she says, adding: It was nice of you to thank me. This morning I read my diary, I write a diary, have I told you that? Yes, you have. Okay, this morning I read through what I wrote this week, last Wednesday I was obsessing about how I’m going to be older than Karin, she was born towards the end of the summer of ‘seventy-six, I was born in spring ‘seventy-eight, page after page about how on 23 October 2013 I’ll become older than Karin. Ah yes, well Tom, there’s a before and an after. I often think about when Karin was ill last time. What in particular do you think about? Or I don’t know, maybe think is wrong, it’s more like images popping up, I don’t analyse them, her light blue dress for instance, she wore it at the rehabilitation home. Was that after her operation? Yeah, exactly, that dress often came to mind when she was at the Thoracic Clinic. Why do you think that was, if you could make yourself analyse it? She woke up that time, she survived. Yes, and then she wore that blue dress. Light blue. Yes, that’s right. Or to be exact, cerulean blue. Is that a light blue shade? Yes, like the sky. Are you interested in colours? When I had the four-year-old check-up I didn’t pass the colour test, my mother said I had a highly developed sense of colour as a child, I painted a lot, her theory was that I didn’t, like other children, see red as one colour but as many different colours, or blue, or green, she meant that I didn’t understand the difference between colour and shade, but she’s my mother, she almost always defended me, now I lost what I was trying to say, what were we talking about? Oh, now I’m insecure about it myself, no wait, that’s right, we were talking about the dress. That’s right. Do you associate Karin with that dress? she asks. Not always, she was wearing it when I thought about her at Karolinska, she was pretty in it, it was made of a soft velour fabric, it was more like a nightie, she often slept in it, but at the rehabilitation home she wore it the whole time, I just thought of something else, can I tell you? Yes, of course you can, you can bring up anything and tell me about it. When Karin got the fever it was early in the morning, she had gone to bed early the night before, at eight, I was up working. Can I just ask, when was this? It was in March. Uh-huh, you mean this year, then I’m with you. It’s only six weeks ago. Well, you know, Tom, it really is only six weeks ago, okay, you said you were up working? Yes, I went to bed late as usual, Karin had left me a note on the kitchen table, she often did that. You’ve told me about that, how you often wrote each other notes, yes. She had drawn herself as a heart with big eyes and long, curled eyelashes, and inside the heart she had drawn another small heart. Uh-huh, I see. The little heart was the child in her belly. Yes, I see, yes. In a speech bubble she’d written that she loved me infinitely with a lot of exclamation marks, now that I tell you about it, it sounds silly. Not at all, Tom. Well, it was silly, but that’s what was nice about it. I see what you mean, yes. I brought that note with me to the bedroom, but I didn’t get across the threshold, I sort of got stuck there. Liselotte waits quite a long time for me to continue, and then she says: Right, so, you stood there looking at Karin and Livia while they were sleeping? There was no Livia then, we called her Scrunchie or Little Lizard. Liselotte laughs. She apologises. Oh don’t worry, it is funny, isn’t it, we used to laugh about it as well, that’s what she was to us. You said you didn’t get across the threshold. Yes, I just stood there, Karin had put in her orange earplugs, she’d propped up her back and belly with cushions…Tom? I felt so strongly that we had a then, a now, and a future. I was at my happiest in 2008. Sorry if I interrupt, when you stood there on the threshold, that was the evening when Karin had the first signs of her illness, so to speak, or am I misunderstanding you now? Was that when you went into Söder Hospital? No, that was a few days later, she threw up and had cold shivers that night, we thought it was the flu, I think I called Söder Hospital twenty times that week, they said it was flu, we just had to wait it out, in actual fact they were afraid of admitting Karin to the Maternity Ward, they were worried she might infect the other pregnant women. How could they know it was flu? They couldn’t know, I suppose I was worried it might be something serious so I just swallowed their line of reasoning without questioning it, and, in fact, the symptoms were like normal flu, high temperature, vomiting, coughing, and then she was pregnant of course, she had an iron deficiency, PGP, she was tired. Sure, sure. It was only the day before we went in to Maternity that she started having breathing difficulties, it went really fast, every hour her breathing got worse, in the end I was certain she had come down with pneumonia, but still they didn’t want us in the Maternity Ward, they probably thought we were being paranoid about it, typical first-time parents, I was in despair, at the same time I didn’t want to worry Karin, I tried to keep calm, I demanded that the midwives talk to Karin on the phone so they could hear her breathing. And when they heard her they got it? she asks. No, not right away, they wanted to talk to the doctors first and they asked to get back to us, for a while I thought we’d have to go to A&E, but Karin was in the late stages of her pregnancy, we wanted to get to Maternity, we were so worried about Scrunchie. Tom, it’s useful for me to hear it in context, and I now understand much better why you’re standing there on the threshold looking at Karin, who’s asleep, you’re waiting for your first child, I’m thinking that it’s a bit symbolic with that threshold as well, if you see what I mean? Yes, I do, absolutely. Maybe you think of it in a different way, but I’m thinking that the threshold is like a dividing line between what is and what’s been, would you agree with that? Yes, sure, that’s how it feels when I look back on it, but I didn’t feel it when I was standing there. No, obviously, you didn’t know then. Your thoughts of a shared future were at the forefront at that point. Well, Tom, you said it earlier, a then, a now, and a future, could I ask, in what way were your thoughts of the future the strongest? At that moment, you mean? Yes, she answers. I don’t know, we often talked about growing old together, it made us feel calm when we were worrying about our finances, and something else, somewhere far ahead of us we imagined a glassed-in veranda with a view of the sea, in our fantasies that scene varied, usually we just saw ourselves sitting next to each other with novels in our hands and grown-up grandchildren on their way to visit us from Stockholm, no demands, nothing to be achieved, peace. Well, Tom, do you think you might say you felt secure when you looked at Karin there among all those cushions? Yes, ironically enough. Yes, of course you did, if I could just go back a little in our conversation, before I interrupted you, you said you were at your happiest in 2008. That’s right. What did you mean there? I can’t remember what I was going to say about it. I shouldn’t interrupt like that, I’m sorry, but if I could ask anyway, why do you think you were at your happiest in 2008? It was just a year that I like going back to. It can be like that, yes. Karin had been given a clean bill of health, we both felt young, or, actually I don’t really know, we also moved to Lundagatan in 2008. Uh-huh, so it was your first flat you got together? Yes, exactly. This may be a difficult question, but was 2008 also the happiest time to you before Karin got sick this last time? Good question, I don’t know, I think so, we’d been through so much, in 2008 we were probably as relaxed as you can be in a relationship, we trusted each other, Karin was there for me during my father’s illness, I was there for her while she was ill, when I think back on 2008 I mainly just remember our quiet walks around Zinkensdamm. Uh-huh, right. We used to go past Konsum, there are a couple of elms there where Ringvägen and Hornsgatan cross, they’re as tall as the houses, probably hundreds of years old, Karin liked to sit beneath them on the benches, elms flower in early June, it was Kari
n who taught me that their seeds are known as winged samara, drifts of them lie on the pavements, or they fly about in the wind, it’s like it’s raining helicopter fruit, it patters like rain, Karin missed it in the winters, she liked talking about it in the mornings while we were having breakfast, and whenever she felt the winter glooms I might say: Think about the winged samara.

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  I stand in front of the mirror with the corroded quicksilver glass, Livia in my arms. David’s wife has helped me with her funeral dress: antique-white tights and a butter-yellow cardigan from NK department store. I didn’t dare venture out alone to buy my own clothes. Alex offered to go with me. He met me by the stairs on Hötorget. H&M’s black suit and white tie: 1,797 kronor. Black leather shoes with extra insoles from Nilson: 909 kronor. A black waistcoat, handkerchief, and a white tie from MQ: 947 kronor. Before, I used to borrow my ties from my father, I can count the occasions on my fingers. This is the first tie that I have bought myself. On the underground between Hötorget and T-Centralen I take it out of the bag. Why does it have to be white? I ask. It’s just what close family usually wear, answers Alex. I know, but why? Why do I have to wear a black suit? It’s international, white tie is a Swedish tradition. Anyway, you’ll look like a million dollars in that tie, he said.