In Every Moment We Are Still Alive

by Tom Malmquist

  In the middle of the night I am woken up by Livia kicking and whimpering. I get her out of the basket and put her on my stomach. She burrows her nose into my throat and falls asleep again. I start running with sweat and I worry that she’s too hot. I put her back in the basket and pull it towards the bed. I blow on her forehead and count her toes like my mother used to count my toes, and I feel her rapid exhalation. She has the same Cupid’s bow as Karin. My eyelashes. Dad’s ears. She moves her middle finger, slowly, like anemone, and she makes a suckling motion in her sleep, lying there wrapped in soft, blue blankets.

  * * *

  —

  I sweep up the fragments of the landline phone that I smashed this morning. Although it looked like an Ericofon it was just a copy. Karin had it since her student days. I try to fix it and then carry on tidying up. The wallpaper. Skirting boards. Under the bed. The chandelier. Chest of drawers. Drawers. In a box under Karin’s desk I find a pocket diary among some receipts in a carrier bag. Pink binding decorated with little drawings of brimstone butterflies, a bumblebee, in the middle a duckling carrying a parcel. The diary seems to have been bought in a toyshop. The clasp is fixed with a flimsy padlock. I break it open with a simple twist of the hand and sit down on Karin’s chair. The diary is empty apart from five pages with two dates:

  Hi Duckface, 15 March 2004.

  All the fears, all the risks feel endless. Or? You also have to dare to take a risk, isn’t that so? There are so many risks, it’s hard to know which of them are of the good sort. I’ve been feeling so good with Tom. He’s exactly the kind of man I want. I even see myself having children with him. Really! So what is it that’s disturbing the peace now? Well, a discussion came up about alcohol. Tom has no problems with it now, but his father has alcohol problems. For this reason it’s impossible to talk about it. Which has meant I can’t. For a while now I’ve been giving him the odd barb about alcohol, which has not exactly yielded decent results in terms of being able to talk about it.

  Dear little travel diary, 14 May 2004.

  Nothing is more important to me than writing down what I am thinking. Maybe that is why I write? Tom and I were at the cinema this week, we saw Tim Burton’s Big Fish. Tom liked it, I was more ambivalent. On the way home Tom got upset. He grew so small, hid in my duffel coat. He didn’t want anyone to see him crying. Tom’s father has cancer, most likely he doesn’t have much time left with him. In the film was a scene when the son said farewell to his father on his deathbed, I think the scene really hit him. I’m lying in the bath now at Tom’s place in Huddinge, I have a nasty cold and strange feelings from having stopped taking my anti-depressants yesterday. Maybe it’s just as well that it’s come at the same time, at least I have cast-iron reasons for being physically and psychologically knocked out.

  * * *

  —

  I keep Karin’s hairbrush next to me while I work on the funeral oration. I rub her hair between my fingers whenever I get stuck on the text, and I hear the neighbour’s cat in the stairwell, the whine of the kitchen fan, the whistling of the air vents, snatches of conversations as people pass under the window on Lundagatan, just as it always used to be, like any other normal day, Karin’s long hair drying naturally and hanging down her back. Söder Hospital is possibly a thousand metres from the window, I can hear the ambulance sirens. I’ve grown used to them. The first weeks in Lundagatan, when Karin and I had first moved here, we were sometimes woken by them. Livia opens her eyes, I give her the dummy, I can’t cope with having to pick her up, not right now, she spits out the dummy, I manoeuvre it back in, she doesn’t want it, she won’t stop crying, she thrashes her body and throws out her arms, her yelling intensifies, I go into another room.

  In the garage on Björkängsvägen I keep my BMX. I pump up the tyres. Tighten the spoke nuts and oil the chain. Clean the frame with a sponge and lace up my gym shoes. The air is close and my dust mite allergy is aggravated by it. I make my way along the small paths, down into a dip between two rocky knolls, passing a jogging track. Spruce, pine trees, silver birches. Overhead the high-tension cables sway from side to side. From the opening in the trees I see the mirror-smooth waters of Orlången. Beyond the inlet, on the south side, is one of Huddinge’s many housing projects. I cycle on towards the sewage plant by Lake Trehörningen. It’s thirty degrees, midday, the halfway point between two nights. I drop the bicycle behind a container and crawl in under the fence. Monitoring towers. Concrete cisterns with large, rotating blades. A couple of tanks lowered into the ground containing all the detritus from the sewers. I don’t like Trehörningen. Not any other lakes either, not small lakes, meaning the kind you get in Huddinge. Lakes are enclosed by rocks, stones, mud, roots. Only in the winter can I appreciate lakes. When everything is covered in ice and snow and I no longer know if I’m standing on water or land. I’ve always liked the sewage works and often cycle here. It calms me seeing how all the waste is turned back into water.

  Dad doesn’t ask where I’ve been, he just holds out a box for me and says: For pros. It’s the first time in ages that he’s sat down on the floor with me. It feels embarrassing, too intimate, but I like it. I bring his present with me wherever I go. To hockey training, Konsum in the town centre, Solfagra School, IKEA in Kungens Kurva. Even when I accompany Dad abroad on one of his assignments I bring my present. To the hotels, sports arenas, conferences. I don’t have the same interview technique as Dad. I’m a laughter collector. I get so proficient at collecting laughter that no one notices I have a Dictaphone up my sleeve. I must have put together about fifty of them, which I listen to when I am on my own. At the top of the Dictaphone is a mint-green button for rewinding. If I get it into the right position, I can listen to people laughing backwards at natural speed. It sounds like they’re crying.

  * * *

  —

  At three in the afternoon I can’t think of anything to do except call Sven. Hi, Sven, it’s Tom, I say. He clears his throat and has trouble saying anything back. Sven? I go on. Are you calling on your landline? he asks. Yes, can I bother you with something? It says on my telephone here that it’s Karin calling, he says. Uh-huh, right. I haven’t had time to change that yet, it says Karin Home, he says, sounding like he’s just woken up. Did you think it was Karin calling? I ask. Sorry, it just threw me a bit, how are things with you and Livia? Not good, I answer. Not good? No. Is Livia with you? Yes, Livia’s asleep, she’s fine, but I don’t know what to do with myself, I don’t feel well, it’s just getting worse and worse. Yeah, Tom, it’s like one of your father’s friends said to us: This one’s not on the map. Lots of Dad’s friends have gone silent, I don’t know, maybe they couldn’t handle their own worries about dying, I don’t know, everything has gone so quiet. Well, would you like us to come over and pick you and Livia up? I don’t know, I answer. You can stay here on Lidingö, and we’ll give you a hand with Livia. I don’t know. In what way are you feeling bad? I miss Karin. Of course you miss Karin, dear Tom…death is abstract, it can’t be rationally understood. Yes, I know. We have a picture of you and Karin here on the mantelpiece, and now and then we forget, we think you’re on your way over for dinner, then the second we remember what’s happened, the contrasts are so exhausting. I called Karin’s mobile by accident, I say, she’s the first person I call when I’m feeling bad. He clears his throat and says: Tom, wouldn’t it be a good idea if Lillemor and I picked you both up, you can have dinner here with us? I spoke to Måns yesterday. Our Måns? asks Sven. Yeah, we must have spoken for a couple of hours, he reminds me a bit of Karin, I never thought of it before, that sense of calm, empathy, sorry, Sven, I think I should be committed. Tom, I’m not sure what you mean by ‘committed’? I mean taken into care, psychiatric care or something, I don’t know how it works, I’m not feeling well at all, I answer. You think it’s that bad? Yes, I do, I say. What I’m hearing is that you miss Karin so much. Yeah, but I can’t do this any more, I’m so tired. Tom, you’re in full command of your faculties, but deep in sorrow, it’
s better that we come and help you rather than your ending up doing something ill-conceived, don’t you think? Yes, maybe, I don’t know, maybe I have to call a friend, Hasse is good in situations like this, he’s helped me out before when I was in a bad way. That sounds wise, Hasse seems a steady young man, call Hasse, but get in touch with us so we know everything is all right, otherwise we don’t mind coming and picking you up, all you have to do is call or send us a text. Yes, thanks, but I don’t know.

  * * *

  —

  I imagine the voice at Södermalm’s city office as belonging to a woman in her sixties with red-tinted hair and compassionate eyes. She says that in her twenty years at the Social Services office she’s never experienced anything quite like this. She seems genuinely upset. It sounds as if she’s switching the telephone receiver from ear to ear while I’m talking. Surely this can’t be the first time someone has left a family behind? I burst out. No, but I’ve never actually experienced a situation where people haven’t been married or had time to sign a paternity certificate, I honestly don’t know how to deal with it. The City Court says you have to issue a summons, I say. Right. The way things are now, Social Services is sending me demands, I continue. It looks like something’s gone wrong, she says. Yes, but they say that they’re only basing their actions on information held by the Tax Department and according to them Livia is an orphan placed in foster care with me. Where is the child now? Livia is here with me. So she is with you, then? Yes, of course, she’s my child. Yes, exactly, yes, of course. I’m getting three demands every day, it’s a full-time job going through all that crap and answering it, for instance now I have to attest to the Social Security Agency that Karin is dead, apparently the death certificate wasn’t enough, I have to put it in writing how and why she died, above all they’re wondering why the infant girl Unknown Lagerlöf is living with me. It sounds as if she’s dropped the telephone, she mutters something to herself in Finnish. I have to ask if I can call you back, I have to talk to my colleagues here at the Family Law Unit, it’s Thursday today, I won’t have time before the weekend, I hope to be able to call you back at the beginning of next week, but quite honestly, I have never experienced this before. That doesn’t exactly make me feel calmer, I point out. No, of course, but I’ll prioritise this, she answers.

  * * *

  —

  Mum is standing on a stool, a pair of kitchen scissors in her hand. She has just pruned Karin’s butterfly bush. Two short, almost denuded twigs stick up. What are you doing? I ask. It was looking so awful, there were almost no leaves left, she answers. It always looks like that after the winter, I say. You have to prune these, she answers. God, Mum. It was wilted, Tom. I stand on the sofa and unhook the hanging flower pot. You’ve ruined it, I say. Tom, you’re being silly now. God, I understand you want to help, but with certain things you could just ask, I say, sitting down on the sofa with the flower pot, looking at the withered leaves. Karin watered it every day, it flowered last summer, I add. Mum sits down next to me. She has a large grip holding her hair in place behind her neck, it’s so tight that it looks painful. I think you and Livia should come with us to the summer house, she says. No, I don’t want to be stuck out there, I answer. Tom, we can help you with her, a bit of fresh air, I can make up the bed in the guest hut, Dad would like it as well. I replace the flower pot on its hook and take Livia back to my bed. The flimsy umbilical cord hat is a little too big, it keeps sliding down over her eyes. Mum follows me inside and stands at the foot of the double bed. Tom, I won’t be able to afford the summer house once Dad is no longer around, my pension won’t be enough, I won’t even be able to keep up payments on the flat. Mum, not now, sorry, I can’t take it. She scrutinises me and after a while she asks: Do you think about the future? I suppose I do, but not right now. Is Hasse picking you up? No, David, he’s coming at nine, I want to be there in good time before everyone shows up. How many will there be? she asks. A hundred? I guess. Oh my darling, she says and strokes my shoulder. She tightens her lips before she asks: You haven’t started taking drugs, have you? Mum, please. Your uncle killed himself with drugs. He stayed on his own rotting in a rathole, I say. I just get worried, who knows what people are capable of when life turns against them? I’ve become a father, Mum. Yes, Tom, you have, but you don’t have to be strong. Shit, everyone says that, what the hell does it mean? I ask and stand by the bookshelf. I’ll stay here and help you, you need to take your tablet, she says. I can sleep without them now. It’s Karin’s funeral tomorrow. What the hell do you think, you think I’m going to hand my child over for adoption? Tom, no one thinks that, she says, and comes closer. She looks at me. I suppose if one had known life would end up like this, it would have been better to turn around in the doorway, she says. Mum, I never even went abroad with her, she really wanted to go abroad with me so much. Mum places her hand over my neck. She presses her cheek hard against my forehead. Dear child, she says.

  * * *

  —

  Livia lies next to me in bed, surrounded by high pillows and teddies. I adjust the reading lamp. Karin avoided pink. She found the colour inane everywhere except on geraniums. For this reason, I have a hard time believing that she bought the little pink diary as an adult, but I’m not ruling it out. I fiddle with the broken clasp to get it out of its fixture. The padlock can’t be mended. I look at the keyhole, about three millimetres high and half a millimetre wide. I go over to the desk and pull out the drawer, then empty the contents of the tin mug. The key that I found on the spice shelf belongs to the diary. Livia looks at me with her little luminous eyes. Hi there, are you awake? I say and put my hand on her forehead. It’s warm but not hot, she’s snotty. I fetch a spray bottle of saline solution from the bathroom. A squirt in each nostril, she cries, sneezes, and tries to lie on her side. I put my telephone next to her and put on ‘I Drew My Ship’ with Shirley Collins, repeat play. I adjust the volume and put my nose close to Livia’s hair. She calms down, she listens. Collins was apparently about thirty years old when she recorded the ballad. A warm, wistful voice accompanied by slow picking on the banjo.

  The phone battery is dead when I wake up. I crane my neck, put my head just in front of Livia’s mouth, she’s breathing, still snotty and warm. It’s a quarter to four in the morning. Ten hours until the ceremony. I get to my feet and plug the phone in. The lamp is glowing hot, I pull out the plug. Karin’s anaesthetists said that she was in a dreamless state during her sedation. She was knocked out with Propofol. I could still not accept that Karin was just lying there in the intensive care bed without any kind of inner life. That night, the same night that I came home from Karolinska, I started searching the Internet for dreams during anaesthesia, and I found a review of the anthology Consciousness, Awareness, and Anesthesia in an American medical journal. I immediately tried to get hold of the book but it wasn’t available anywhere in Europe. I had to order it direct from the USA, from Harvard University Press. It came by post the day before yesterday. I fumble in the darkness, seek out a torch in the chest of drawers in the hall, and fetch the book. Livia is sleeping deeply. The anthology is heavy, I have to lie on my stomach in bed to be able to read it. One of the essays, “Dreaming During Anesthesia,” is written by the Professor of Anaesthetics Kate Leslie. She refers to several large-scale studies in which between twenty-two and forty-seven percent of the respondents who had undergone anaesthesia were able to talk about their dreams directly after waking up, including those who had been on Propofol-based sedatives. Before I turn off the torch I mark the line Most of the patients dreamed of pleasant social situations.

  At Karolinska I used to talk to Karin every day, sometimes hour-long monologues about Livia and the basement passages between the wards. One such time I told her that it looked as if Livia was chewing on the milk in her feeding bottle, more or less like I used to chew my yoghurt in the mornings, which Karin always found comical—because I didn’t put anything in my yoghurt—and exactly at this point Karin coughed up phlegm into the t
ube. The nurses explained that it wasn’t an unusual reflex among patients on the respirator. Still, it did feel as if Karin had suddenly laughed. It was something I imagined, but at the same time I believed it. She was dreaming of breakfast at Lundagatan.

  A nurse come out of Room 404. She glances down at a clipboard then scans the room, which is very much like a living room. In addition to Livia and me there’s an elderly woman in a wheelchair. Only the alarm lights outside every room distinguish the ward from a rudimentary hotel. Tom? she asks. She has chestnut brown hair, she peers out from under her fringe. Thomas’s grandchild, I assume? she says and looks at Livia in my sling. Yes, Livia, I answer. She looks like you. Yes, she’s probably a combination of me and her mother, I answer. Her mouth pulls into a smile then grows serious again, she offers me her hand and says: Carina, I’m a nurse here, one of the people responsible for your father’s treatment. I’m Tom, but you already knew that, I answer. She sits on the fabric-covered sofa and looks at Livia. How old is she? she asks. Four months, or, well, she was born prematurely, so in real terms she’s only two and a half months. Ah, okay, well it’s a wonderful time, this. She puts her hands on her thighs. Have you been here before? she asks. I came as quick as I could, I’ve been on Gotland, I came this morning. Do you know Stockholm’s Nursing Home? How do you mean, do I know it? This is the Palliative Care Department, which means we treat patients with severe symptoms, and patients at the end of their lives—you know why your father is here? He’s been ill for ten years, I’ve spoken to both Mum and Dad, I took the ferry from Gotland this morning. So you know your father is gravely ill? That’s why I came home, I answer. The idea is that your father should be as well and as pain-free as possible in this last period, she says, but I interrupt her: How much time is left? She lowers her gaze and answers: It’s difficult to say. Is my mother in there now? Yes, she is with your father, she wanted to come and get you, I said I’d like to have a little talk with you first. Why? Your mother is upset. She’s my mother, you know. They’re happy you’re here, your father has spoken a lot about you. I’ve got my own views on that, but okay, thanks. He told me how you got lost in a restaurant when you were two, and when he found you, you were sitting calmly in the bar drinking juice with two Italian tourists. Is that what he said? Yes, she replies. I can tell you it’s one of the few times he was taking care of me on his own, he must have thought a two-year-old would just sit still under the table. She taps her hands across her thigh and says: As a rule, the patients here don’t have much time left. Okay, I answer. So to answer your question: A week, or a couple of days, it could also go faster. What do the doctors say? That’s our estimate, she answers. I look over at the woman in the wheelchair. She’s being fed by a nurse who mashes the potatoes with a fork and, between one forkful and the next, dabs the wrinkled mouth with a paper napkin. If you want to talk to Per Strage you’re quite welcome, he’s our senior consultant here, she says. No, no need, thanks. How is Dad now? I spoke to him yesterday, he was sounding fairly perky at that point. His head is clear, but he’s tired, sleeps a lot, from time to time he has the strength to go to the balcony in the wheelchair so he can smoke, with someone there to help, of course, he’s very weak. Does he know why he’s here? Your mother doesn’t want us to say too much, obviously he knows he’s in palliative care. Dad probably doesn’t know what palliative care means, but okay. She looks up when voices ring out in the corridor, and greets someone while kneading her left shoulder with her right hand. That’s all I had to say unless you have any questions, she says. No, thanks. If anything comes to mind, don’t hesitate to ask one of us. Okay, thanks. She smiles at Livia, then wanders off towards a kitchen.