It struck me again that Lilly was actually beautiful. Had it not been for the siblings, had it not been that she lived upstairs at our house, she would almost have been an ordinary woman with her own children and husband, a horse, and some cows in the barn, just like us. She stood there in a flowered dress with a narrow cloth belt around her waist, the wind caught her hair, swirling it in front of her eyes, and there was almost nothing that distinguished her from the other women in the parish.
Almost nothing.
Papa would take the bus to Kristiansand with Lilly and Nils, and then go with them to the hospital on Tordenskjoldsgata. He would leave them there, and stay at Hotel Bondeheimen until the next day. I don’t know who had decided this. There was nothing in the contract. No letter from the Child Welfare office in Stavanger. Anyway. The decision was made. It would be a routine operation. Somewhat more complicated in Lilly’s case, however. Nils would be first, then Lilly. It would hardly hurt.
We stood in the yard watching Papa, Nils, and Lilly walk down the road. Mama held Sverre in one arm and hung on to Erling’s hand, while Ingrid clung to her skirt. When Lilly and Nils and Papa disappeared around the bend, Erling tore himself loose from Mama and ran after them. He raced along the hawthorn hedge as if fleeing his shadow, past Hans and Anna’s house, howling and holding his hands over his ears. Then he disappeared from view, and we heard only his screams. Mama put Sverre down, gathered her skirt in her hand, and ran after Erling. I climbed up into the ash tree to see what was happening, and from there I saw Mama catch him. I saw Lilly, Nils, and Papa too. They had stopped down by the milk platform and stood there watching as Mama grabbed Erling and picked him up with his legs still running in the air. He shrieked and howled and waved his arms while Mama held him fast and carried him home. Soon afterward the bus appeared; it glided past the green fields, leaving a trail of dust, and stopped by the milk platform. Lilly, Nils, and Papa got aboard.
They were on their way.
Erling was still screaming when Mama carried him upstairs, with Ingrid at her heels. Afterward she came down to get Sverre, who hadn’t moved during the whole incident and had dirtied his pants. Mama’s face was drawn. She shut the front door sharply behind her, leaving Tone and me standing alone in the sunshine.
“Why is Erling screaming?” Tone asked.
“Because he’s unhappy,” I replied.
“Why is he unhappy?”
“Because Lilly and Nils are going to be sterilized.”
“Why are they going to do that?”
“I don’t know,” I said.
I found a moss-covered branch from the ash tree, broke it in two, and threw the pieces far out into the field.
“Will they ever come back again?” Tone asked.
“Of course,” I said.
“Will it hurt?”
“What do you mean?”
“To be sterilized.”
“No,” I said. “It will hardly hurt at all.”
Erling kept on screaming even after the sun had gone down behind the hills in the west, and after a while Ingrid started a mournful howling. It was the first time I had heard her howl that way. A long, drawn-out wail that sank through the floor, and I thought it wasn’t she who was howling, but something painful deep within her. The same thing that usually listened and understood. Now it howled in pain. She opened her mouth and it came out, filling the entire house until the walls almost split.
Mama stayed upstairs the whole evening. Tone and I were left to ourselves, as was Matiassen, who sat on his stool under the ash tree as twilight fell. Josef had sought refuge in his room long ago.
We stood by the window watching Matiassen rocking in the dusk, but then he must have realized it was time to come inside, because he suddenly got up, tucked his stool under his arm, and walked toward the house, like an ordinary working man on his way home from the forest.
We went to bed with the night-light on, while Erling and Ingrid continued to howl and scream on the floor above us.
“Aren’t they going to stop soon?” Tone said.
“I don’t know,” I replied.
“Lilly and Nils are coming home again, after all.”
“Yes, “I said. “But Erling is mentally disabled; maybe he thinks they’ve left for good.”
We lay awake for a long time staring at the ceiling, and then suddenly everything grew quiet upstairs. I didn’t know what had happened, but the screaming ended, the howling stopped; moths and night-flying insects circled silently around our night-light.
“Tell me a story,” Tone said.
“What do you want to hear?”
“About the orange crate!” she exclaimed. “How it flew across the ocean.”
“Okay,” I said, and continued: “At one time the orange crate was full of oranges, and then it flew across the China Sea. Why it was able to fly, only the orange crate knew. It came first to Dikemark, and then Mama and Papa brought it here. First I slept in it, and later you slept in it. But the orange crate hasn’t forgotten that it knows how to fly.”
I paused. Tone looked at me. And at that moment we both heard it. The voice came from somewhere far away, as if from the forest or high above the house. Tone sat up in bed, wide-eyed.
“Listen,” she whispered. “It’s Mama. Mama is singing!”
14.
A few days later Lilly and Nils returned from the city. When Ingrid and Erling saw them they ran down the road toward the milk platform. Erling lost his shoes but continued in his stocking feet, waving his arms over his head; Ingrid howled and laughed a laugh that perhaps could not be called laughter. They met about halfway. Erling didn’t know where to put his legs. Papa had to wrap his arms tightly around him until Erling calmed down, and then he walked the final stretch with us.
Lilly and Nils were home again. There was nothing different about them that you could see, they looked the same as when they left. Nils grinned, and Lilly was like a mother who had come home to her children.
“Have you been good?” she asked.
“Erling screamed and screamed,” said Tone. “And Sverre dirtied his pants,” she added.
Lilly looked at her.
“Is that true?”
“Absolutely true,” said Tone.
A few seconds of silence followed, and nobody knew what would happen. Then Lilly seemed to soften, her whole face broke into a smile.
“We got Asina sodas at the hospital,” she said.
They didn’t tell us anything about what had happened. Not a word about the trip. Not a word about the hospital. Just about the bottles of Asina, and the corks that Nils still had in his pocket. Mama carried dinner up to them, all five were gathered around the table. They sang “Blessed Lord,” and when the meal was over they licked their plates clean. Everything was the same as before. The new life could continue. Everyone was allowed to smell the two corks before Nils collected them and lay down contentedly on his bed.
Not a word about whether it had hurt.
Everyone was home again, Mama no longer slept with the younger children upstairs; Tone and I lay in bed listening, but there wasn’t a sound.
“Hear how quiet it is,” said Tone.
“They’ve probably gone to bed.”
“Tell me a story.”
“What should I tell about?”
“About the orange crate! Tell the rest of the story about the orange crate.”
“No,” I said. “I don’t feel like telling about that.”
“Tell about Jensen and Matiassen then,” said Tone.
“No,” I said, rolling onto my side. “I’ve told you so much about them.”
“Then tell another story,” she persisted. “I want you to tell a story.”
I lay peering into the room; behind me, I felt Tone sit up in bed.
“I could tell about the piano,” I said.
“Yes! Tell about the piano!”
“You must never play Mama’s piano,” I began. “If anyone plays it, the house will rise and float away
like an airship.”
“That’s not true,” said Tone.
“I swear it’s true,” I replied.
Tone lay very still, waiting for more.
“Do you remember when Josef was going to sing?” I said. “He struck one key, and the whole house shook.”
“I didn’t feel that,” said Tone.
“It’s absolutely true,” I continued. “If he’d played more, the house would have come loose from the foundation and we would have blown away with the wind, all of us.”
“I don’t believe you,” said Tone.
“Don’t you trust what I tell you?”
“No.”
“Well,” I replied, and closed my eyes, “it’s true. Absolutely true.”
15.
The crocuses by the house burst open—blue, and white, and yellow. Soon the Easter lilies were in full bloom, and their heavy flowers cast shadows that looked like sad old women. Then the tulips thrust through the ground, their petals unfurled, revealing the black faces inside.
One morning Lilly disappeared.
None of the siblings could explain what had happened. They were sitting around the table waiting when Mama brought breakfast upstairs, but Lilly’s chair was empty, her bed was made, and her shoes were gone.
“Where’s Lilly?” Mama asked.
The four looked at her.
“Not here, anyway,” said Nils.
Papa quickly rode off on his bicycle and alerted neighbors all the way to Skinnsnes, and soon we heard that Lilly had been seen walking along the road past Sløgedal’s house. She had looked purposeful and determined.
We all set out to hunt for her. Josef put on his uniform jacket with the medal on its lapel, Nils went with Papa, Ingrid and Erling came with the rest of us. We ran down the road and turned left by the milk platform, calling for Lilly.
Papa saw her first. We were only halfway to the store when he stopped and pointed.
“There she is.”
Lilly stood knee-deep in the Djupåna River, out in the slow, dark current. We stayed up on the road, while Papa went down to the water’s edge.
“So this is where you are, Lilly,” he said. “We’ve been looking all over for you.”
Lilly didn’t say a word. She seemed almost ashamed, yet at the same time stubborn. When she saw us she squared her shoulders, looked at us coldly, and turned away as if in disgust.
“It’s best you come ashore now, Lilly,” Papa continued. “You could get sick, you know.”
Lilly did not reply. The water flowed by silently. Now and then an eddy appeared and vanished. We sat on the bridge dangling our legs, waiting to see what would happen. Lilly just stood there with her arms held out to either side and her back to us, and it was impossible to tell what she was thinking. More and more people gathered around us on the road, and everyone stared at Lilly. Sløgedal rode up on his bicycle and stopped in the middle of the bridge.
“What’s going on?” he asked.
“It’s just Lilly,” I replied.
Finally Papa sat down on a sandbank, calmly took off his shoes and socks, rolled his pants above his knees, and started wading toward her. River mud rippled like velvet around his white calves, the distance between him and Lilly became smaller and smaller. At last he was so close that he stretched out his hand to her.
“Come, Lilly,” he said. “Just take my hand.”
Lilly looked at the outstretched hand, and she looked at Papa. Then she started to wade out even farther. The water was now well up on Papa’s thighs; he tried to grab her arm and pull her to shore, but she screamed and spit and shouted at him, until finally he had to let her be.
Lilly stood there in the river, her woolen dress rippling around her. Tone, Erling, Ingrid, and I were dangling our legs and sprinkling handfuls of gravel into the water when Mama arrived with Sverre in her arms. At first she was gentle and friendly, but firm. She turned to all the onlookers.
“Please go home now, all of you.”
No one reacted.
“Everyone has to leave.”
Nothing happened. Everybody just stood there. Sløgedal cleared his throat. Then someone at the back of the group laughed loudly.
“Do you hear me? Everyone has to leave. I need to be alone with her.”
I heard mumbling and laughter, and people kept stopping on the road. That’s when Mama exploded.
“Go home! Leave! Now!”
People seemed paralyzed. Mama had shouted so loudly the words echoed from the hills across the river. I sat there on the bridge and simply stared. Erling stared, Tone stared, Ingrid stared. Everyone stared at Mama. Even Lilly turned around in the river and looked at her aghast. Then, after a moment, Sløgedal fastened his pants clips, got on his bicycle, and rode toward the store without looking back. Others began leaving too, turned around as if by accident, spit in the ditch, put their hands into their pockets, and wandered away kicking pebbles and pinecones. Finally, everyone was gone. The road was deserted at last.
“You too,” Mama said quietly, looking up at us. “You need to leave too.”
We were at home when Mama and Lilly returned. I saw them walking arm in arm up the road from the milk platform. They looked like two girlfriends having a quiet, confidential conversation, or maybe like mother and daughter. When they reached our yard, Lilly kept her eyes on the ground while Mama looked straight ahead and didn’t meet anyone’s gaze. They walked past us and into the house, and nobody ever found out what Mama had said to Lilly.
People had seemed paralyzed, I’d sat on the bridge staring. But then Sløgedal had gotten on his bicycle, folks began to leave, and afterward, when Lilly came home again and sat at the table upstairs with her siblings, she was the same as ever. Lilly was the same, and Mama was the same. But I had heard. All of us had heard. Not only that Mama shouted, but that her shout echoed from the hills on the other side of the river.
It may have been after the river experience that Lilly became afraid of the water. She still felt that fear the day we drove along the seashore in Jaeren and she lay in the car with her face in Ingrid’s lap. Maybe the fear began when she realized she would never have children. Or it may have started later. Perhaps the time Josef took her to Lake Djupesland one summer evening many years later. The sun hung low in the west. They were gone a long time. Then we heard her screams, and soon afterward Josef came running home to get help. Lilly had started to scream as they stood by the water, he said, and he couldn’t stop her. She screamed and screamed and refused to budge, until Papa slung her over his shoulder like a fireman and carried her home through the woods.
Maybe that’s when her fear of water began. She and Josef had been looking out across the lake. Maybe he said something. Maybe a bird was hidden in the pine trees. Maybe he had touched her arm. I don’t know.
16.
Several days after the incident with Lilly, Hans came to the door with two blind kittens he wanted to give us. He had found them in the hay the night before. Anna didn’t want them, but Hans could not bear the thought of killing them, and so he thought of us. Josef immediately christened them Cain and Abel. For the first few days they lay in the orange crate under the woodstove in Josef’s room. They licked drops of milk from his little finger, and he talked to them as if they were two babies. I’d been the first to lie in the orange crate, then Tone, and now Cain and Abel lay curled up there, dreaming of a world they had never seen.
Cain and Abel would later be immortalized.
One Sunday morning Nils Apesland rode up the road from the milk platform on his bicycle. Tone and Ingrid and I were standing by the hay barn with the kittens scampering around our feet when he entered the yard and waved to us. He had a black bag on his baggage carrier, and I thought there might be grass snakes in it, or his white coat. When Mama came out on the doorstep he asked if anyone in the family would like to be photographed. He had gotten a camera and was going around the area taking pictures of people, he said. Mama hesitated a moment, glanced at us, and then called to m
e.
Nils Apesland suggested we pose on the knoll just behind the hayloft, because the light was so pure there, he said. He told us to stand next to each other; Ingrid and Tone should hold Cain and Abel in their arms, I should be in the middle, and everyone should smile. Nils lined us up, and then took his camera out of the bag. It looked like a small accordion with a black bellows, but he didn’t have a tripod like a real photographer. He got everything ready, while we waited patiently and Cain and Abel did their best to wriggle loose.
“Hold them tight,” Nils commanded, and the girls held the kittens close so they couldn’t get away. Then he stepped back slightly and raised his arm in the air.
“Don’t move!” he shouted, even though all three of us already stood motionless staring into the camera.
“Now smile, everybody!”
And so the picture was taken.
It was sort of a sibling picture.
Ingrid to my right, Tone to my left, all of us smiling carefully. Tone and Ingrid each holding a kitten. The picture would later be sent to a painter in Oslo, Herbert Andersson. He would get specific instructions, but when it came to the kittens he could do as he wished. The photograph clearly shows that Tone and Ingrid are holding them tightly.
17.
Summer came. Swallows plunged from the sky like black lightning, Lilly’s dress hung alone on the clothesline and danced in the wind. Tone and I were sitting on the knoll behind the house, about where Nils Apesland had taken the sibling picture, when the kitchen window opened; sunlight struck the glass as Mama came into view and called to me. When I entered the kitchen I saw she had made sandwiches for us, the bread knife lay on the cutting board, and she had poured pale currant juice into two empty milk bottles. Now she stood drying her hands on her apron.
“I thought we’d go swimming,” she said.
“Swimming?”
Mama laughed, and rumpled my hair slightly.
“Why do you seem so surprised?” she said.
“Can we just leave?”
“Of course we can.”
“What about Matiassen?”
“He’ll be fine, I’m sure,” Mama said. “After all, he just sits there.”
Across the China Sea Page 5