[2013] The Heart Echoes

by Helena vonZweigbergk

  Henrik looks at Astrid, who returns his gaze as she frantically searches inside herself for the right words and emotions. Because this is the moment when all doubt must be vanquished. But she finds only emptiness. Inside of her are only echoing chambers in which her cries for help go unanswered.

  “I don’t know who I am, Henrik. I’m so sorry, but I really don’t know.”

  Henrik gets up abruptly. His hands are shaking as he takes his sunglasses from his breast pocket and puts them on. “I’m going away for a few days before the girls and I go to England. Tell them I had to leave on a business trip. Then we’ll have to figure things out after that,” he says, before striding out of the restaurant.

  Astrid stares at a big seagull that is balancing on the railing, high above the steep drop-off to the sea. Suddenly the gull spreads its huge wings and takes off. Astrid sits at the table watching the bird until it is lost from sight.

  If only they would leave me alone, Astrid thinks. She is having a hard time acting sensibly toward the children. In a few days she’ll finally be able to wave good-bye to Josefin and Sara as they leave on vacation. None of the kids, not even Viktor, has bought the lie about Henrik being forced to go away on some urgent business trip. They are all aggressively skeptical. They tell her that Henrik doesn’t answer when they try to phone him.

  “We just need to spend some time apart,” Astrid finally admits after being peppered with questions. “That happens sometimes with grown-ups. Things are difficult right now, with Lena being sick and everything. We both need time alone to think.”

  After that she refused to say any more.

  On the morning Henrik arrives home to pick up the girls, he and Astrid avoid looking at each other. Instead they direct all their attention at Sara and Josefin, asking them lots of practical questions. Only for a moment, right before he leaves, does Henrik meet Astrid’s gaze, but she can’t tell what he’s thinking.

  Then they’re gone.

  It takes another hour for Viktor to leave for his job at the amusement park. All Astrid wants is to allow her thoughts the space to tell her something about herself. She is done pretending.

  I really don’t know who I am, she thinks.

  She sinks into the silence. Then she walks through the apartment, peering inside Henrik’s wardrobe, sitting down for a moment on Viktor’s bed, looking at Sara’s collection of porcelain dogs, picking up the tap shoes that Josefin wore a few days ago. She wishes she could cry. She wishes something in their home would speak to her, give her some sense of clarity, but nothing does.

  She sends a text in English to Michael. Are you still in Stockholm? Could we meet? There’s something I have to ask you.

  Then she phones Lena on the landline at the summer house.

  “Hi, it’s Astrid. How are you doing?”

  Lena says she’s okay, and then neither of them says anything for a moment. Astrid can hear a rumbling sound in the background. Lena must be outdoors, and someone nearby is mowing the grass.

  “Lena . . . I wonder if you’d mind if I come up there now. Would that be all right? I’d like to spend time with you, and with Mamma. Do you think I could?”

  Lena whispers, “Of course.” They agree that Astrid will leave for the island the following day.

  Then she goes into the bedroom and lies down on Henrik’s side of the bed, pressing her cheek against his pillow. She pulls the duvet up to her nose and breathes in his familiar scent. In a low, quiet tone, she tries saying the words: “I love you, Henrik. I love you. I know that. I think I do. I know nothing.”

  She hears her cell phone ringing and sits up in bed. Henrik? She gets to her feet unsteadily.

  But it’s Michael. He’s still in the city and staying at a hotel near Karlaplan.

  “You’re welcome to come over here, Astrid. How about eight o’clock tonight?”

  As Astrid walks toward Karlaplan plaza, with its majestic fountain, she is telling lies to Sandra on the phone. Her sister has called to wish her a belated happy birthday. She did send a text on the day itself, but now she wants to speak to Astrid in person. She apologizes for not being in touch before, but so much has been going on. Then she asks Astrid how her birthday was.

  Astrid can’t do it. She realizes that Sandra is waiting to hear her reaction, to hear her say thank you for teaching Josefin to dance. That’s why she hasn’t called before. She wants Astrid to gush with gratitude on the phone. That’s what she has been expecting.

  But Astrid can’t do it. A couple of times over the past few days she has felt an urge to contact Sandra. But she couldn’t bring herself to call. She justified her lack of action by telling herself that she’s in the middle of a crisis. Henrik has left her in a state of uncertainty, and she can’t have a conversation with Sandra when she’s feeling so confused.

  It’s all too easy for Astrid to imagine Sandra’s snide reaction if she hears about Henrik. She would think it serves Astrid right.

  Astrid refuses to tell her sister anything about Josefin surprising her with the tap dance. Somehow she feels as if it’s all part of a plot against her, though she can’t explain why. Sandra persists in asking her questions, wanting to know how her family celebrated her special day, but Astrid responds curtly and says only that everything was nice.

  “When are you going to Fårö?” Sandra then asks. “I was thinking of going soon, and maybe taking Emilia with me. Do you think we could drive up there with you?”

  That’s when Astrid starts lying to her sister. Refusing to say that anything special happened on her birthday was merely an evasive way of withholding the truth. But now she goes one step further and tells an outright lie.

  “I don’t think I’ll be going until sometime next week or even later. Listen, I can’t talk anymore. I have to go. I’m meeting Henrik.”

  As if from far away, Astrid hears Sandra teasing her, saying that sounds exciting. But Astrid cuts her off before she can ask any more questions and ends the call.

  How absurd his name sounds, Astrid thinks. My son’s father.

  She gives Michael’s name to the desk clerk in the hotel, feeling as if she’s saying a stranger’s name. The clerk invites her to have a seat in the lobby to wait. She sinks onto the sofa cushions, which are unexpectedly soft, and then straightens her back, trying to sit as erect as possible. Her whole body is tingling. She can’t help it.

  And suddenly he’s standing in front of her. He must have just taken a shower, because his hair is still damp. His face looks freshly shaven, and his shirt is neatly pressed. He smiles at her, even though worry and strain are evident on his face. She stands up and he kisses her on the cheek as he says hi. Then he asks if she’d like to take a walk.

  When Astrid says she’d rather go up to his room, he looks surprised before saying, “Sure. If that’s what you want.”

  As they stand facing each other in the elevator, Michael flips his card key back and forth in his hand, smiling nervously. Astrid fixes her eyes on him with a solemn expression. Are you the person I let in? she thinks.

  When he opens the door to his room and she sees his unfamiliar shaving kit, the book on the nightstand, and a pair of loafers she doesn’t recognize, Astrid realizes that she has felt closest to someone who is actually a total stranger.

  What a sad and appalling thought that is.

  Michael holds out his arms, as if expecting her to melt into his embrace. She doesn’t move, merely crossing her arms in response. Michael removes some clothes from an armchair and asks her to sit down while he sees what he can find in the minibar. Astrid sits down but says she doesn’t want anything to drink.

  “I still want to know why,” she says to Michael in English. “I want to know how you could . . .” She can’t bring herself to be more specific.

  Michael sits in the chair next to her. “I don’t really know,” he says after a moment. “I wish I could tell you something else, but I can’t. For a long time I thought I was fleeing death and responsibility. But I don’t think that’s r
ight.”

  “Did you fall in love with Lena? When you were there . . . and I . . . and Viktor . . . Did you fall in love with her back then?”

  Michael looks at her, uncomprehending. “In love?”

  “Yes. Why is that such a strange question? The two of you went behind my back. You deceived me. There must have been some reason for what happened.”

  “I don’t know. Maybe there was no real reason.”

  “What exactly are you saying?” Astrid asks. “You abandon me and give up any chance of seeing your son grow up, all because of something that had no meaning? And that’s what has been shadowing my whole life ever since? The person I feel closest to practically kills me because of something that has no meaning at all? What the hell are you talking about?”

  Astrid is almost shouting now, and Michael holds up his hands as if to signal for her to lower her voice.

  But Astrid refuses to be stopped. Rage is churning inside of her. “That has to be the stupidest, most idiotic—”

  “Please, Astrid. Calm down. I’ll try to explain.” Michael rubs his face. “I panicked. That’s all. I was overwhelmed. Everything seemed so huge and powerful. But I wasn’t. It was just too much for me. I couldn’t do it. What happened between me and Lena was stupid and reckless—and not important. That’s all it was. Something that was as stupid and reckless and unimportant as I felt. I wasn’t capable of anything else. The thing is, I not only loved you, Astrid, I also admired you. You were so smart and—how should I say this—so mature. Everyone looked up to you. It was you that your father wanted to have nearby all the time. Viktor was always running around after you. Your sisters wanted to be just like you. Your mother was always asking for your advice. I realized that I could never live up to you.”

  Astrid stares at Michael for a moment. She opens her mouth to say something, but no words come out. Instead she slowly gets to her feet.

  Michael also stands. He sticks his hands in his back pockets. “I would have left even if nothing happened between me and Lena,” he says now. “I couldn’t handle the whole situation. But you could. You were able to be a mother and a grown-up and everything else.”

  “I’m sick and tired of hearing everybody say that sort of thing,” Astrid tells him. “If only I knew what I’m doing wrong and why people don’t want to get close to me. Why does everyone have to put me up on some sort of pedestal and—”

  “But I want . . .” Michael places his hands on Astrid’s shoulders and draws her closer.

  “No. Don’t touch me,” Astrid says, pulling out of his grasp. “Don’t ever touch me again. From now on, the only one allowed to touch me is somebody who really dares to see me for who I am. Do you understand? Me. The real me! And you’re not that person.”

  Astrid bends down to pick up her bag from the floor. Then she leaves the room. It was not the dramatic confrontation she had imagined, after all. It was merely petty and pathetic. When she comes out onto the street, she finds a bench to sit on and looks at the fountain, allowing the sound of the rushing water to clear her head. Her cell phone rings, and she sees that Josefin is texting her. Mamma, you’ve been so strange lately, she reads. A sad smiley. I miss you. Followed by a heart.

  SANDRA

  It’s Friday night. Emilia is supposed to arrive on Sunday. Per has gone grocery shopping and filled the fridge with food. He’s so happy about seeing his daughter that Sandra can’t bring herself to tell him why Emilia is coming home. Per throws open the windows, and when he turns to face Sandra there’s a rare gleam in his eyes.

  “So, we’ve got the weekend to fix up the place,” he says. “We’ll cook some good grub and make everything presentable.”

  Per goes over to the broom closet and takes out the vacuum cleaner. He whistles as he puts on the attachment.

  “Is she on break or something?” he asks as he unwraps the cord. Then he pauses, looking bewildered as he holds the plug while he searches the wall for an outlet.

  “She’s not on break,” Sandra says, taking the plug out of his hand and sticking it in the outlet behind the kitchen door.

  Per looks even more puzzled. “She’s not? Then why is she—”

  “She wants to quit.”

  “What?” Per stares at her. Then he strides over to the kitchen counter and reaches for his cell phone. Sandra hurries to stop him.

  “Don’t bother Emilia right now. She’ll be here on Sunday.”

  “But I need to talk to her. She can’t let those bastards get her down! Don’t you see that? Shit, why wasn’t I home when she called. Why didn’t you tell me?”

  “Because she didn’t want to talk to you!”

  Per pushes Sandra aside, picks up his phone, and taps in Emilia’s number. He holds the phone to his ear as he glares at his wife. “Don’t you understand we need to protect her from those idiots? I know what it’s like. You have to fight for your position. That’s what you have to do.”

  “Leave her alone, Per!”

  He ignores Sandra and focuses all his attention on listening to what he’s hearing on the phone. Then he starts speaking.

  “Hi, it’s your father. You can pick up now. Okay, maybe you’re busy. But listen, honey, your mother didn’t tell me that they were making you doubt your talent. Here’s what I want to say to you. There will always be jealous bastards in the world and you just have to learn to deal with them, and—”

  Per suddenly looks crestfallen, and Sandra realizes he must have heard a beep signaling that his time was up for leaving a message.

  Sandra tries to take Per’s hand, but he pulls it away.

  “Stop fussing. What did she say?” Per asks.

  “She said she wants to quit. And she doesn’t want us to pressure her.”

  Sandra can feel her cheeks burning. She avoids looking at Per as she starts clearing the table. Is Emilia right about her? Is she afraid of her husband? Is it true that she never stands her ground? Well, she’ll have to start now. She has to show both Emilia and herself that she’s capable of that.

  “You have no idea what it’s like to fight for your talent,” Per says, his eyes blazing.

  There’s something about the conviction in his voice when he says those words that startles Sandra. It’s as if something has landed in the middle of the room—something that previously merely hovered around, tugging a bit at the edges, slightly blurry, only partially glimpsed. And suddenly—bang!—there it is. Finally voiced. Per speaks the words resolutely, almost with a sense of solemnity.

  “You mean that I don’t know what it’s like to have talent, right?”

  She glares at her husband. Does he seem almost relieved, because at last he has released something that has been festering inside him?

  Per narrows his eyes and frowns. “Oh, no . . . I mean . . .”

  He takes a deep breath, tilting his head a bit, as if he were confiding in her. “There’s talent and then there’s talent. I just mean that you’ve never really given everything to your art. I’m not talking about your natural gifts, but what you’re prepared to risk.”

  “But I have taken risks.” To her surprise, Sandra can feel her throat closing up. She really has. She has risked everything for her family—supporting Per, taking care of Emilia, and handling her own projects. It’s true that after she turned twenty-two she realized that she would never be a star. She didn’t have it in her. But she had Per. And together they were the best. She’s put her heart and soul into their life. She thinks about all those trips when she was responsible for toting Emilia around while also soothing Per’s nerves. Booking plane reservations, listening to Per trying to make up his mind. Should he go to this place or that one? Accept a certain offer or turn down something else?

  What Per is saying seems deeply disloyal to Sandra. He is breaking their pact. He is pointing fingers at her and scorning her devotion to him.

  “I have taken risks,” Sandra repeats faintly. “I think I’m taking risks all the time.”

  Per waves his hand dismissively. “Oka
y, sure, I know. I don’t mean that you’ve generally sluffed off or been lazy, or anything like that. I just mean that I understand Emilia in a way that . . . well, she and I can relate to something that . . .”

  Sandra leaves the kitchen to get a cardigan. The open windows are letting in the chill night air. She puts on the sweater and goes back. Per is leaning against the counter, and he has poured himself a glass of wine.

  “I guess I’m just not as gifted as you or Emilia,” Sandra says now.

  As she watches Per take a sip from his glass, she thinks to herself that she hates red wine. She hates the purplish cloying liquid with its capacity to dull and stupefy. All those glasses with the sediment in the bottom, all those mornings with sour breath, the reaching for the spout on the boxed wine, or fumbling for the bottle.

  She hates it.

  “So, what you’re saying is that I haven’t had as much at stake, since I lack that special kind of talent,” she goes on. “Sounds like you’re relieved to finally get this out in the open. It must have been gnawing at you for a long time. But as far as Emilia is concerned, I’m not sure she’s willing to sacrifice herself the way you have. Maybe she thinks the world should be bigger, not smaller. Maybe she’s simply not ready for her world to contract like yours has. You might say she doesn’t want to limit herself.”

  Per is so upset by what Sandra is saying that his nostrils flare and he’s breathing hard through his nose. He sets the wine glass on the counter, as if it’s somehow hindering his ability to defend himself.

  “Now just a minute. Limit? Are you saying that I’ve been limiting myself? Is that how you see it? Do you have any idea what an artist—a real artist—has to contend with? Do you? Do you even have a clue? No, you don’t. You think it’s about eating proper meals and getting enough sleep at night or practicing every day. Things like that. You have no idea.”