Good Night, My Darling

by Inger Frimansson

  She let the animal to the floor, and it scurried directly to the cabinet and tried to squeeze underneath it in order to hide. The bird flew there. He was bloody and sticky around his beak.

  “Be nice to Rattie!” she scolded. “You are going to be friends, keep that in mind!”

  He shook himself, took a few hops, and pecked lightly with his beak on the guinea pig’s round back. Rattie whirled around and raised herself onto her hind legs.

  “It’ll be fine,” she said. “You’ll get used to each other.”

  At eight o’clock, she called the hotel. A man’s voice answered. She asked to speak with Hans Peter.

  “He’s not here.”

  “But… doesn’t he work there?”

  “Yes, but he’s not here now.”

  “Why not? Did he say why?”

  “Can I take a message?”

  She hung up the phone.

  She woke up many times during the night. The same dream; it returned in quick sequences. Hans Nästman, with a cleanly washed, thinned face. He stood next to her bed; he didn’t move, just stood there. When she tried to get up, she found that she was chained to the bed with a rattan rope. Hans Nästman smiled and showed all his teeth. It’s over, Justine; you are to come with me now, and not make a fuss.

  “You can’t prove anything!” she screamed. “Get out of here, leave me in peace!”

  He took a step toward her; his hand had neither skin nor fingernails.

  “Nothing needs to be proven, my friend. Now Hans Peter Bergman is also missing, and that’s enough to take you in.”

  She woke up from her own screaming. There was flapping and screeching in the room. She turned on the light and saw the bird flying around in panic. He calmed down in the light, landed on his branch, still thin and frightened.

  She had to get up. She had to call, call home to Hans Peter.

  It was a quarter to three. No one answered.

  The day was quiet, without sun. Dry snowflakes in the air. She took the guinea pig with her in the car. She wrapped the animal in a blanket, and it rolled up and went to sleep almost immediately.

  She came to the ward and went to the desk. A nurse sat, flipping through a binder.

  “Good morning. I’m Justine Dalvik, and I thought I’d visit my mother.”

  “Your mother?”

  “Flora Dalvik.”

  “Oh, yes, Flora. Good morning. It’ll be great for her; every change is so welcome to our residents.”

  “How’s she doing?”

  “Very well. Yesterday she was up the entire day.”

  The nurse was named Gunlis. Justine didn’t recognize her. Gunlis closed the binder.

  “I’m fairly new here. I don’t think we’ve met before. I’ll take you to her. What do you have there, by the way?”

  “A little guinea pig, which I’ve just gotten. I wanted to show Mamma, I hope that there’s nothing against it.”

  “Oh, no, quite the opposite. It makes things a little more human in the ward, a little less clinical, if I may speak freely. I’ve always advocated for it, but it’s hard to make changes in the daily routine. Wouldn’t it be wonderful with a house cat wandering around visiting the residents, who rubbed their legs in a friendly way, who jumped in someone’s lap and began to purr? I think the residents would have greater quality of life if things were less sterile.”

  She lowered her voice: “But you can hardly dare say anything like that. You risk losing your job.”

  “Really?”

  “Well, of course you can’t. What would it look like if the workers had opinions? May I look? What a sweet little nose peeking out here! It doesn’t bite, does it?”

  “No, of course not.”

  Flora was sitting in the wheelchair. She lifted her head, her roving gaze.

  Gunlis went up to her and dried off her chin.

  “Look, Flora, look who’s here for a visit. And a little grandchild, too. Or you could almost say so. Right?” she laughed.

  Justine bent over the wheelchair.

  “Hi, little Mamma.”

  She stroked her chin, petted the dry, cold hands. She placed the towel with the guinea pig on Flora’s lap; unwrapped it carefully. There was a hoarse, gasping sound from the old one’s throat.

  A telephone rang in the distance.

  “I have to go answer it,” Gunlis called. “Oh, I really wanted to see it!”

  The guinea pig had pooped. The blanket was full of long, hard pearls. Justine emptied them into a garbage can. Then she let the guinea pig crawl around in Flora’s lap. She saw drops of sweat appear on Flora’s upper lip. The gasping sound had become faster, even more rattling.

  “Isn’t she sweet? Her name is Rattie. No, it’s not really a rat. It’s an everyday old guinea pig. You know that I always wanted a pet. You remember, don’t you?”

  Flora had closed her eyes. Her skin had taken on a pale gray tone. Justine lifted up the guinea pig, carefully wrapped it in the towel again. The nurse returned.

  “Was she happy?”

  “I think so… but it’s so hard to tell.”

  “She looks a bit tired… but certainly it made her happy. It’s sweet of you to come by with your guinea pig. Thoughtful, even. May I pet it?”

  The other bed in the room was missing sheets. There were no personal articles on the bed stand.

  “Didn’t my mamma have a roommate?” Justine asked.

  The nurse pulled her a bit to the side.

  “Yes, but, unfortunately… she’s not with us any longer.”

  “That’s sad to hear.”

  “Yes, but that’s life, isn’t it? It has to end sometime.”

  Justine gestured to the woman in the wheelchair. Flora had opened her eyes and had a strong look of fear in them.

  “Unfortunate for my poor mamma. I believe that they got along fairly well. As much as can be expected.”

  “Yes, it’s very sad. But a new person is coming this afternoon. The beds don’t stay empty for long here.”

  “Bye-bye, Mamma,” Justine called. “I’ll come back soon. Maybe take you home for a little while. Maybe even tomorrow, if that works for you?”

  The old person’s lips jerked, gurgling noise from her throat.

  “She’s trying to say something,” said the nurse.

  “She had such a pretty voice,” sighed Justine. “What bad luck that she can no longer use it.”

  “Others have it worse,” said the nurse.

  “Too true, there’s always someone worse off.”

  She drove to Fryspannsgatan. He must have come home; he must have read her note. She rang the bell, but still no answer. When she opened the mail slot, she saw a magazine and some envelopes lying on the floor. She couldn’t tell if her note was still there.

  She went home but felt restless. She paced around the house, finally ending up in the room that had been her father’s and Flora’s. A violent rage came over her. She flung open the closet door and ripped out everything that had belonged to Flora: her dresses, her shoes. The clothes carried memories, and Flora appeared, materialized, her mouth white and closed. Take off your clothes, you good-for-nothing. I’m going to give you a whipping.

  She lifted one of the dresses, it had been hanging so long that the cloth had puckered, was fragile. She grabbed the fold, and with one pull, she ripped it all the way to the waist seam. She kept going, from the bottom up, until the skirt was nothing but long strips. But Flora’s hand came to her; it slapped her head, hard and ringing.

  “You’ve never been completely normal. Take your clothes off so I can hit some sense into you. I’m going to stuff you into the wash tub… You’ll sit there until you learn how to become nice and compliant, you spoiled little monkey, until you do exactly what I want.”

  Flora was still there inside her; she was in the memories of the house. She would never let go of her grip. Even in her look, there was a certain strength beneath the fear, Justine had seen it when she had visited, a triumphant scorn.

 
Justine’s body began to shake; her throat became thick and harsh. She had to leave and drink some water.

  Then she got some plastic garbage bags, She threw everything into them: shoes, jewelry, clothes. Everything which could remind her of Flora.

  Then she saw her father’s suits, and she stepped into the closet and burrowed her face into them. She was crying now, bellowing and ugly; then she ripped them off their hangers and stuffed them into the bags as well.

  The next afternoon, she drove back to the nursing home. She had slept heavily and without dreams. She had drunk quite a bit of wine before she finally could fall asleep. She felt feverish; her forehead hurt her as though a clamp was tightening around it.

  Gunlis appeared in the hallway. Her eyes were bloodshot. “Well, good day to you again!” she said, and yawned. “Oh, excuse me!”

  “It doesn’t matter. I’m also a little tired. But I thought I would let Mamma come home for a short time today. Would that be all right?”

  Gunlis placed her arm around her.

  “That’s a silly question. If more of our residents had relatives who cared, the world would be a very different place. Wait here, and I’ll get her ready.”

  Justine sank onto a bench. The floor was as shiny as a mirror; it appeared to be unbearably long. Farther down the hallway, a man with black skin was pushing a cleaning cart.

  A hunchbacked, very wrinkled man came out of one of the rooms. He came shuffling toward her, supported by a walker. He stopped right in front of her.

  “Nurse… do you work here?”

  “No,” she said, turning red.

  “You ought to be glad of that. This is not a good place.”

  Gunlis had returned.

  “What’s going on, Martin? Is there a problem?”

  “I want to go home; that’s the only thing I want. Why do you keep me imprisoned here?”

  Gunlis shook her head.

  “My dear Martin, we’re not keeping you prisoner here.”

  The man spat. The spit landed on the nurse’s shoes, a brown, sticky gob.

  Tears came to her eyes.

  “Martin!”

  He glared at her threateningly.

  “Don’t you touch me; you can be contagious. The radioactive material is spreading with the speed of the wind. It’s spreading and is going to kill us all…”

  Gunlis grimaced. She disappeared into the washroom, Justine heard her flush and rinse with water. A girl with a ponytail came out from Flora’s room.

  “Are you the one who’s picking up Flora?”

  “Yes.”

  “I’ve dressed her and placed her in her wheelchair.” “Great.”

  “Can you take her down yourself?”

  “Certainly. I’ve done it before.”

  Flora was wrapped in a blanket. A coarse knitted cap was on her head. She stared at Justine; her eyes never left her. Gunlis came out just as Justine was starting to leave.

  “Forgive me,” she said. “I lost my head for a moment. I’m still a bit tired, I’m afraid.”

  “It’s not so pleasant to be spat upon.”

  “He can’t help it. He thinks he’s a prisoner. I wish that he also had someone who would come and take him on fun outings. Or what do you think, Flora?” She bent down and adjusted the knit cap. “Have a great day, you two!”

  Chapter SIX

  She talked to Flora; the whole time, she talked to her. She had fastened Flora’s seatbelt, and was now approaching the Vällingby roundabout.

  “Do you know where you are, Flora? It’s been awhile since you were outside. Do you think it looks familiar, farther on, by the small houses between Åkeshov and Ängby? They’re in the middle of building noise barriers, yes, so the people won’t be bothered. We never have to worry about that kind of thing; we’re never bothered. We have always kept to ourselves. We have enjoyed peace and quiet, haven’t we, dear Flora? Do you know that Martin, the one with the walker, he thinks that he’s being held prisoner. To think what it would be like to always long to get out. Maybe I can set up some kind of system; get a minivan and drive around picking up old people who are all by themselves and want to get a little joyride. Wouldn’t that be a great idea? You’ve always said a person needs a mission in life. I thought you could come home for a while; it’s been so long since you were home. You haven’t been home since you got sick, little Flora. Won’t it be nice to come see the old place, even though you wanted to sell it? But we’re not going to do that, of course. The house is going to stay mine. I am going to live there. It’s my house, but now you can come and visit, now you are my guest. What a generous step-daughter you have, Flora. Didn’t you hear what Gunlis said? Every resident should have someone like me. Do you see the palace there, Hässelby Palace? So beautiful and frozen it looks, Hässelby Palace. This part is just the same as always; nothing much has happened here in Hässelby Gård. What does the thermometer say there? 100 degrees? They’re crazy. I wonder if that thermometer has ever shown the right temperature. You can fly to the moon but can’t get a thermometer to work. Do you think I’m talking too much? Yes, I am, I’m sure, but I have to speak for two now, you understand; you can’t speak so I have to speak in your place. Look, there’s the cemetery, where Mamma and Pappa are buried. Look how well-kept it is. There was a burial yesterday. They throw away the flowers afterward, the wreaths and the coffin arrangements, what a great waste. I wonder what will happen with you, I mean, if there is any special kind that you want. I’ve been thinking about graves and maybe it’s better with ashes spread in the minneslunden, the field of remembrance; that could be nice, too. The forest on our left, it was huge when I was a child; the perspective changes. I played there sometimes. I found a dog there once, but I think it was already dead, I remember that strange smell, though then I didn’t know how death smelled. OK, hold on, we’re turning on to Strandvägen. The bathhouse is gone, that fine bathhouse, and the water slide that was here for a while; nothing like that is left. But you know that. Flora, do you see the ice? It looks thick and like it can bear weight, but you have to be careful; a few hundred meters out it’s open water. But look here to the right. They’ve torn down one of the summer houses, the one that was so rotten and ramshackle. Now there’ll be another villa. They’re tearing down all the old stuff. Now we’re getting there, Flora. Are you happy?”

  She drove up to the house and parked. The old woman sat straight and unmoving. When Justine loosened the seat belt, she fell straight to the side, and Justine had to catch her and lay her down across both seats while she unbuckled the seat belt. Then she lifted Flora’s tense body and carried it up the stairs.

  “Sorry that I can’t go any faster; my foot hurts. Do you remember when I broke it? Do you? After that it’s never been the same. No, I’m not complaining. I can both walk and run, but I twist it easily and sprain it… No I really am not complaining, not like you. I can come and go just as I please. How does it feel now, Flora? I’m going to put you in your favorite chair, where you sat with Pappa all those years ago. You can look out into the mist if you want. You can imagine that it’s summer and you’re sitting on the balcony and the sun is round and hot, and Pappa is in the boat down there. I’m just going to take off my jacket and lock the car. If the phone rings, answer it. No, that was stupid of me, just plain thoughtless of me. Sorry.”

  She took a long time. She made coffee and prepared a coffee tray. The bird was in her room; the door was shut. She heard him cawing in there, how he heard her voice and wanted out.

  Flora sat just where she’d been left, her head slightly turned toward the window.

  “Would you like some coffee? I can help you. Open your mouth and sip. Is it too warm? No I don’t think so. Are you sitting here and thinking about old times, how we used to have it, you and I?… What is that? The sound you mean? I have a pet living here, you know; you met Rattie yesterday. I call her that even though she’s not a rat. She was with me in bed last night for a little while, but I was afraid I might suffocate her, so I pu
t her back in her cage. She was warm and soft. I have a bird, too. You’ll meet him in a minute, but drink up now; he’s such a bother when we’re eating…”

  A sharp ring, the telephone.

  “Is it you?” she said breathlessly.

  “I guess I should always answer yes to that kind of question,” said a hearty voice. “Jacob Hellstrand, the agent.”

  “I don’t have time and I’m still not interested.”

  “I have developers who are ready to pay whatever you ask. You’d be crazy not to grab this kind of offer.”

  “Don’t you understand that no means no!” she yelled, and slammed down the phone.

  She went to Flora. Flora’s saliva was running down her chin and on to her neck. Her pupils glowed and burned.

  Justine stuck her face right into Flora’s.

  “Do unto others as you would have them do unto you. Have you ever heard that passage, Flora? Jesus said it, and it’s a good rule to follow, even today.”

  She lifted up the old woman, carried her in her arms like a child.

  “Let’s go for a tour of the house; that must interest you. Here’s the kitchen, just as it was; here’s the blue room. I’ve honored your memory, as you can see. And then the basement, oh yes… we’re going there, too. Do you remember what you had down there, Flora? Do you remember what was hiding behind that door? Do you remember?”

  Flora had begun to make noises. She threw her head around; the high-pitched wail intensified to a muddled, long drawn-out howl. They had come into the room with the washtub. Justine climbed carefully up onto the cement block where the tub was standing. She lifted Flora slightly into the air and then lowered her gently into the tub.

  Then she went to get the bird.

  She was at the funeral director’s when the telephone rang. They had a fine, thorough conversation, the coffin had been ordered and they had chosen some beautiful songs that the old woman would have liked. It would be a simple ceremony, simple but dignified. The director had promised to sing, and he knew someone who played the flute.