Mia is still sitting unnaturally still in her chair, but I can see fine droplets of sweat beading up on her forehead and starting to trickle down at her temples, and an almost invisible twitch at the corner of her mouth reveals how tense she is. Patrik looks at her in disgust.
“You should be ashamed of yourself.” He spits the words out as if they taste bad.
“Okay, Patrik, why do you think Mia was . . . under the influence of something?”
Patrik gives me a skeptical look, as if he seriously doubts my intelligence, and toys with the snuff tin that’s resting on his knee.
“I found them, the pills, I mean. They were in the kitchen, Serax, a whole pack. You know what that is, right? Benzos, the worst of the illegal drugs. I know exactly what this is about. I’ve seen this before. I’m not planning on letting this affect my family.”
Patrik turns to Mia and suddenly gets up, stands there facing me and her, menacing, like a giant monolith in a field.
“I’m going to protect my kids. Do you hear me? Even if that means you have to move out. I’m going to protect them.” He spits the words out and tiny, invisible drops of saliva hit my cheek.
Mia still hasn’t moved, but I can see big, heavy tears running down her cheeks. A thin strand of snot dangles from her nose. It gets longer and longer, but she still sits there quietly with her head down, as if she were waiting for a blow, or had just been hit by one.
And I think that, actually, that is exactly what just happened.
“How long have you known about this?” I ask Patrik.
“What do you mean ‘known’? You mean, how long has it been like this? Don’t say ‘How long have you known about this?’ because what I know about it isn’t the part that matters. How things really are is what matters. Quit blaming me. I’m here because I’m actually kind of a responsible parent, because I’m trying to make sure my kids are going to have a relatively safe upbringing.”
“Okay,” I say. “How long do you think this has been like this?”
Patrik sighs and exhales, standing in the middle of the room. Suddenly he flails his big fists in front of him as if the question were an irritating insect that he is trying to shoo away.
“I don’t know,” he says. “A long time. Since Lennart was born, I guess.” His voice is lower now and there’s something faltering in it, something resigned. There are months of wakeful nights and colic in it; there’s loneliness and sadness, and a hot, choked-up pain.
“It wasn’t always like this,” Patrik says almost wistfully. “Before Lennart was born, Mia used to hang out with all the other sort of chic, nouveau hippie women. They all bought their clothes from Odd Molly and used to hang out at Nytorget Square guzzling lattes all day. That was better. That was okay. And before that, when we met, we were madly in love for several years. I mean . . . we were so passionate. When I think back to that time, I still get butterflies in my stomach. And Mia was . . . Mia was amazing—outgoing, intellectual, expressive. She was interested in tons of things, was trying to become a partner at the advertising agency where she worked. But then . . . after the kids, Mia got burned out. I don’t know how to explain it . . . It’s like living with a totally different person. It’s like she’s a stranger. It’s not that I dislike her or anything, but I just don’t even know who she is anymore.”
I look at Mia, who’s still crying, her eyes fixed on the floor. I realize that I haven’t gotten to know the person Patrik is describing either, the outgoing, talkative woman he was once in love with. For the first time I’m seriously worried about her. What if she’s so depressed that she actually needs a stronger intervention than our little counseling practice can offer her? I’ve lost patients before, and I don’t want to see that happen again.
“Mia,” I begin hesitantly, touching her shoulder very gently, which makes her jump. “Mia, what do you have to say about this?”
Mia just shakes her head. “It’s not . . . like that,” she says.
“What do you mean? What’s not like what?” I ask.
Patrik folds his tall body back into the comparatively tiny armchair and eyes Mia dubiously.
“It’s not like Patrik says,” Mia argues. “I mean, yeah, I was tired. I had fallen asleep for a while, but I definitely hadn’t taken any pills.”
“Whose pills are they then, Mia? Can you explain that?” Patrik says slowly.
“They’re mine, all right? I got them from the doctor, you know that perfectly well. I don’t sleep well. I suffer from anxiety. I don’t know what to do. That’s why I’m so tired during the day. But I wasn’t on anything yesterday, not then. I was just so . . . tired.” Mia speaks quietly, looking down at the floor the whole time, all the while rubbing her thighs.
“I didn’t taaaaake any piiiiiiilllls,” Patrik mimics her, his voice shrill. “Do you know how pathetic you are? There’s not an addict around who doesn’t claim that they’re not under the influence. You can’t trust an addict, don’t you know that? You gave up the privilege of being believed as soon as you started taking those goddamn pills. Do you get it?”
My wall clock shows that it’s getting close to three, which means that we’re going to have to wrap this up. It’s like that sometimes; you’re forced to end a session right in the middle of something painful or important. After all, at the end of the day, I’m only paid to listen to their confessions for sixty minutes at a time. So I do what I’ve done so many times before: summarize our conversation, give them a short assignment to work on for next time. Finally we set up a new appointment for the following week.
I watch Patrik and Mia leave the room—him first, moving jerkily, full of pent-up rage, her right behind, shuffling, still with her head down.
Like a dog.
His dog.
All that’s left in the room is a faint, acrid smell of sweat in the air. Everything is quiet again.
“And Anette isn’t exciting enough for you to hang out with?” Markus asks sarcastically.
Markus and I are arguing again. It’s the most wretched of pastimes, accusations being lobbed around the room like snowballs. The only goal is to hurt the other person, get a cold, hard strike right in their most sensitive spot.
Gray light sifts in through my glass doors.
Outside the ocean, raw and inhospitable. Foam and brown leaves float in the water along the shore. The temperature is approaching freezing outside and no one in their right mind would swim anymore or sit on the rocks admiring the view. Black birds root around in the puddles in the yard, looking for cold, slippery insects to sate their hunger. Naked trees unabashedly stretch their bodies into the leaden sky.
“There’s nothing wrong with Anette,” I reply. “I just don’t know if I want to spend Christmas with her.”
Lie.
There is something wrong with Markus’s sister. She’s so damn boring, she makes time stand still.
She’s a cop, like Markus. She lives in a suburb where all the houses are the same—same weathered gray wood façades, same blue trampolines in the yard, same Weber grill on the neatly manicured lawns outside the kitchen window, husband, two children, the match on the TV during dinner, the children nagging nonstop to be excused from the table so they can go play video games.
Why should I spend my Christmas with her? I don’t see the logic.
Markus is losing now, because how is he supposed to argue that I should have to hang out with Anette since I’ve been honest about how I feel about her from day one?
“That’s just so damn typical of you,” he says. That accusation doesn’t really stick, but his voice is dark and filled with rage. It fills my room like black water, oozing into the space between us, filling it with its presence.
“You’re. Not. Being. Fair.” And now I’m the one screaming. “I never promised that we would hang out like that, did I? That we’re . . . that we would be . . . together, not like that. I’m sorry. I wish I were different, but I’m just not right now.”
“Do you know how that makes me feel?”
Markus says, his voice tense now, his jaws clenched.
And I shake my head, because how should I know?
“Like a fucking prostitute,” he says.
I can’t help it, but his comment makes me burst into uncontrollable giggles. It seems ludicrous. Markus, a prostitute. Markus, my little whore. I walk over to him and hug him gently. Kiss his stubbly cheek.
“Honey. You’re many things to me, but a whore . . . ,” I say, and then giggle again.
His body is stiff in my arms. With determination he loosens my arms and looks at me without saying anything, turns around, and walks out to the front hall, where coats and shoes are all strewn about. He throws on his jacket, steps into his muddy rain boots, and disappears out the door, out into the leaden-gray, damp, chilly afternoon. I can hear footsteps as he walks away from the house through the muddy puddles. The door is still ajar. Cool, damp air seeps into my living room.
He’s gone.
Just like that.
And I’m left behind, alone.
I feel guilty now, guilt in every pore, in the air I breathe, in the sweat that covers my palms.
And filled with certainty.
He deserves someone better than me.
Excerpt from Pediatric Health Care Center Patient File
Phone conversation with the mother
The mother contacts the Pediatric Health Care Center because she’s worried about her son. She says that she has always thought he was behind and that he is having a hard time getting going in terms of his language development. He’s also clumsy, behind in his gross motor skills, and he has trouble jumping and climbing. He sometimes has tantrums both at preschool and at home, which often seem to happen when he can’t make himself understood. The mother also thinks her son is smart but a little passive and that he has a hard time relating to other children. At preschool they think the boy does relatively well. He has friends but mostly likes to spend time with the younger children, which they think might be because his language skills are a little behind. Otherwise, they don’t see any particular problems with the boy.
I explain to the mother that all children are unique and meet milestones at their own pace and that development varies a great deal between different children. I also emphasize that her son seems to be a clever boy who has friends at preschool, which is important. We also talk about the mother’s difficulties in handling the boy’s tantrums. The mother says she feels miserable and powerless when she can’t calm her child. I tell the mother that she can meet with a psychologist here at the Pediatric Health Care Center to discuss her difficulties in her role as mother. The mother will think about this and get back to us if she wants to talk.
Ingrid Svensk, PHCC nurse
Autumn in Stockholm.
Leaves dance across the cobblestone square at Medborgarplatsen in the setting sun. The gray clouds have given way to a dazzlingly blue sky that is reflected in the puddles, which still cover the ground after the last several days’ worth of rain. People are scurrying in different directions in the chilly breeze. The sound of cars honking can be heard from somewhere over by Skanstull.
I back away from the window slowly, into the conference room. I check the chairs, which are arranged in a circle. There’s a carafe of water and glasses on the little tray table by the door, paper and pens, Kleenex, the usual trappings.
There’s a knock on the door and Aina peeks in. Her hair is pulled up in a loose knot and her baggy red cardigan hangs down almost to her calves.
“They’re here, all of them,” Aina says.
“All right,” I reply. “Let’s get started.”
* * *
A few minutes later we’re all sitting in a circle on the hard chairs. Laughter and giggles fill the room. Someone opens a bottle of mineral water.
If you didn’t know it, you wouldn’t believe this is a self-help group for women who have been victims of violence. The mood is much too upbeat for that.
Sirkka laughs huskily and loudly at something Malin says, running her wrinkled hand through her red hair at the same time. She hitches her stonewashed jeans up higher over her bony behind and settles down next to me, so close that I smell the cigarette smoke and cheap perfume on her.
Then she looks at me. They all look at me, and suddenly I go silent. My throat tightens and suddenly I feel my cheeks getting red.
This feeling of discomfort is inexplicable because I’m always confident with my patients. Of course sometimes I struggle with how best to help someone. And I don’t always find the right answer.
But this is something else. This is something new, a sudden, mysterious social insecurity.
I look helplessly at Aina across the room. She smiles and seems not to have perceived my panic, but she must have noticed that there’s a vacuum, because she jumps right in, welcoming everyone in that warm, open way she has. Then she gently reaches out to Malin, who’s sitting next to her.
“Shall we take a few minutes and tell each other how our weeks went? Malin, would you like to start?”
Malin smiles broadly, exposing a line of straight, white teeth. She doesn’t at all resemble that shaky woman who described being raped at last week’s meeting.
“I had an awesome week,” Malin says. “My big sister had a baby on Tuesday, so I went and visited the new mother and father. And I’ve been working out a lot. There are really a lot of races this fall, so I’ve been running a lot of cross-country and hills, a couple of hours a day.”
She shrugs her muscular shoulders, as if she wants to minimize her workout efforts, and looks at Sofie, who’s sitting to her left.
Sofie smiles hesitantly and tugs a little at her faded top. Despite the thick layer of makeup, she doesn’t look a day older than seventeen. Her voice is faint and hoarse as she begins: “Nothing special. Mostly school and stuff, you know.”
Aina nods and gestures to Hillevi, who’s sitting next to Sofie. Hillevi is dressed entirely in black and is astonishingly beautiful. Her dark, short hair follows the graceful shape of her head. Her big, dark eyes calmly look around the room and she smiles a little.
“I’ve been doing a lot of thinking this week,” Hillevi says.
“Tell us,” Aina says.
Hillevi nods and says, “Last week’s meeting gave me a lot to think about. I have to say that I thought it was incredibly brave of you, Malin, to tell us about the rape. And it helped me. Because if you’re strong enough to talk about it already, then I know I’m going to be able to make it. We’re going to make it, me and the kids.”
Malin looks self-conscious, glances down at the floor, but smiles a little.
Aina nods and makes a note and I feel awkward again, as if I’m not contributing anything to the group.
Great, I think. I’m like a prop. I watch Sirkka, who’s gesticulating and talking, but suddenly I can’t hear what she’s saying. I just see her red hair and those slender hands, that narrow mouth of hers—crisscrossed by deep wrinkles and moving steadily as she recounts the events of the week.
The group laughs at something she says. Aina laughs, then glances at me and raises an inquisitive eyebrow.
I laugh dutifully and my insides are suddenly filled with something cold. Am I really going to be able to handle this? Can I—myself the victim of a crime—help these women? I, who can’t even summon enough energy to make myself listen to them?
Then it’s Kattis’s turn to speak. Her long, brown hair is gathered into a sort of twisted bun, just like the last time we saw each other. But she looks more tired today, more worn out, as if the last week has aged her.
“Okay,” she says hesitantly, faltering as if she isn’t sure whether she should say this or not. “It’s been a really tough week. Henrik, my ex, got ahold of my new phone number and has been calling me all the time.”
She slumps down in her chair and her thick, brown hair falls out of its twist, down over her face, covering her eyes.
Aina taps her pen lightly against her notepad and asks, “Kattis, do you want to take
a couple of minutes and tell us a little more about you and Henrik? Would that be okay?”
Kattis shrugs without looking up and I feel a strange solidarity with the woman next to me. We must be the same age. She’s small and neat, like me, but her skin is pale. Under the cold sheen of the fluorescent lights, I can make out some of her veins under the paper-thin skin on her throat. Her jeans hang way down on her hips, as if she has recently lost a lot of weight.
“Henrik and I met two years ago,” Kattis says. “At his friend’s house. It was passionate from the beginning.”
She smiles, raises her head, and looks around, and I’m struck by how beautiful she looks when she’s happy. I haven’t seen her so happy before.
“Passionate?” Aina says to prompt her.
“Yeah, it was crazy. We sort of instantly fell madly in love, and the sex was amazing. Maybe that seems like a silly thing to say given our context here, but for me . . . well, I’d never experienced anything like that. So we moved in together after just a couple of weeks, or, well, I moved in with him.”
She smiles again, wider this time. The rest of us sit in silence, hands clasped in our laps, waiting for her to continue. Aina nods silently.
Outside the window the autumn sky has grown dark, and a bluish light seeps into the room. The only sounds are the distant hum of traffic and the sound of Sirkka’s wheezing. Years of smoking must have taken a toll on her lungs.
More Bitter Than Death Page 5