by Alex Dahl
After dinner, Kaia goes to bed easily, sweet face pale with exhaustion after her mountain adventure. Alison said she did really well on the slopes yesterday and it was impossible for me to imagine my Kaia skiing carelessly like other children, but she’s a different Kaia now. I pour a large glass of red wine and sit down to draw, feeling encouraged by the email from Frans Høybraathen. The darkness and cold of this seemingly endless winter all seem to disappear as my pencil sweeps across the paper as if by itself. A chest opened wide, surgical clamps holding ribs and yellow layers of fatty tissue back. And inside the empty cavity where the heart should have been, a bloody feather. When I finish, I stare at the drawing for a moment, before putting it to the side and starting another. I draw for a couple of hours, the evening deepening and my mind growing calm. I have three promising new illustrations by the time I put my pencil down.
I decide to call Alison and tell her about the email from Frans Høybraathen, and dialing her number, I feel strangely exhilarated.
‘Hey there,’ says Alison in her funny rounded American accent, picking up almost immediately. ‘You guys okay?’
‘Yeah,’ I say, and only then does it occur to me that it’s really quite late to call. ‘I’m sorry it’s so late. I wanted to thank you again so much for the break in Norefjell. I didn’t realize how much we needed to get away.’
‘No worries. Anytime. Seriously. Loved having you both.’
‘So, I have to tell you something,’ I say. ‘I got an email. From that guy you mentioned. Frans Høybraathen. He says he wants me to come in for a chat about possibly working for Speilet as an illustrator!’
‘Oh, Iselin, that’s just wonderful! Yes!’
‘I can’t thank you enough for recommending me to him.’
‘You know I really like your work, and I’m just happy to help. When will you be meeting with them?’
‘Not sure yet. Hopefully sometime next week.’
‘Well, listen, if you need any help with Kaia or anything, ask me. I’m wide open all week. I’d be happy to pick her up from school and fix her dinner or something. I’m sure you want to put your portfolio in order and maybe even start on some new stuff that would fit their profile…’
‘Oh… Well, yes. That’s probably a really good idea, huh,’ I say, looking down at the new drawings. They’re good, and different, and I’m sure Alison is right in saying I should consider my portfolio as a whole before meeting with Speilet.
‘Listen, I’d love to babysit. I’m trying to write an article on… wine-growing in the Caucasus – you know, trying to get back into it after quite a long sabbatical, and it’s so hard! Would love the excuse to hang out with Kaia for a few hours. We could go for a hike or something.’
‘Gosh, she’d love that. If you’re sure?’
‘Of course I’m sure. I really want to help, I can only imagine how tough it must be, trying to do it all on your own. You really deserve some time to focus on yourself, Iselin.’
*
I sit with Kaia as she sleeps and lay my hand to her chest, listening to the sweet sound of a strong, steady heart. Tears begin to drop from my eyes and I have to breathe slowly and deeply to keep myself from releasing a sob and waking her. I don’t know why I’m crying. I’m not unhappy, at least not in this moment, but feeling the skittish beat of my own heart, I realize that I’m anxious. Everything and everyone is changing: Kaia, Noa, Alison, my whole life as I know it is turning to dust before my eyes.
Chapter Forty-Four
Alison
When I arrive home, I sit for a while in the car, just breathing. All the lights are on in the house and I need to go inside; Sindre will have heard the car pulling up, the engine being cut. The back seat fills me with dread. I turn around, forcing myself to look at the empty seats – Kaia really is gone. She will be at home, perhaps watching a cartoon, or maybe sitting with her mother at that cramped kitchen table, drawing. I switch on the light and pull my phone from my pocket. I take pictures of the inky wing in my hand, from every angle.
Outside, the air is clear and stars wash across the entire night sky. I consider turning back to the car, driving to Iselin and Kaia’s little apartment… and then what? My life, or what remains of it, is here. I slip my key in the lock, but the door is open. Inside, it’s hot and I can hear voices from upstairs, someone laughing. I shut myself into the guest bathroom underneath the stairs and run hot water over my hands, as hot as I can bear. The ink doesn’t come off easily; I have to rub painfully across the new upturned skin with an old toothbrush to get it all off, and when I open the door when I’m done, Sindre is standing outside.
‘Hey,’ I say.
‘Hey.’ He moves toward me and pulls me close in an awkward hug. ‘What’s going on, Ali?’ he says. There is something hard in his voice, like in Mexico when I asked to see his phone and he refused.
‘What are you talking about?’
‘I’m asking you what’s going on.’
‘And I’m asking you what you are talking about.’ Sindre laughs incredulously, and we both know he is going to say what he is going to say, no matter what I do. I listen out for sounds from upstairs; I feel afraid to be here alone with Sindre, but now it’s quiet, and it could be that the sounds I heard hadn’t come from upstairs at all. ‘Where’s Oliver?’
‘Ali. I’m asking you, what’s going on?’ I pick up my hold-all from the floor by the bathroom and wait for my husband to step aside so I can take my things upstairs to unpack. He doesn’t. I turn quickly around and make for the kitchen instead, and as I do, I catch a glimpse of the wall where I’d hung Iselin’s drawings, empty now.
‘What—?’
‘Ah, now she knows what I’m talking about.’
I push past him and this time he lets me go. I move over to the empty wall, where the metal bolts that secured the drawings to the wall are still sticking out, and turn back around to my husband. His face is blank and unreadable. What does he know?
‘Where are the pictures, Sindre?’ I ask.
‘I took them down.’
‘Why?’ I don’t want him to see me cry, but I can’t help it.
‘I can’t imagine it can be that difficult to understand why. What, you don’t understand how unbelievably inappropriate they were? Hey, look at me. Look at me, Ali.’
‘No,’ I say and move toward the stairs, and he grabs hold of my shoulders, pulling me upwards, forcing me to look at him.
‘I thought you said things were getting… better. This! This is madness!’ Could he know about Iselin and Kaia? No. It isn’t possible. I need to distract him. I open my mouth to explain to him that I think the drawings are beautiful and raw and that they challenge everything I thought I knew about hearts, hell, about life and love and freedom, even, but it’s like the words won’t come, so I just wrench myself free and walk out, taking the stairs two at a time.
In the bathtub I stare at billowing steam clouds, feeling the tension and fear and anger seeping from me and into the scalding water. Unbelievably inappropriate, he said. I almost laugh at how he has no idea, none at all. How far I have removed myself from my husband and what was once our life together. When I leave the bathroom, I listen for a while on the upstairs landing for sounds of him. It is entirely quiet, but I can’t relax until I’ve checked every room in the house. His car is gone, so he’s probably not just out running. I send him a message on WhatsApp.
Where are the drawings? The two blue ticks appear almost instantly; he’s read my message, but he doesn’t respond. I sit at the kitchen table, letting my eyes move slowly across every surface. I stand up and look in the fireplace – could he have burned them? The hearth is cool and a draft from the chimney pulls at my hand.
I walk over to where the drawings hung and lightly run my hand over one of the metal bolts. I realize that the sofa has been pulled out a little and lean forward to look behind it, and there they are, placed against the wall. I hang them carefully back up and stand admiring them, relief washing over me. They real
ly are incredible. Would I have loved Iselin’s hearts as much as I do if I didn’t know what I know, if I wasn’t who I am? Maybe not, but I don’t see what Sindre finds so disturbing about them.
I like the way the drawings suggest that a heart, and what fills it, is something altogether other than what you might think at first glance. I also like that the size and vivid richness of the heart in the little girl drawing is enormous compared to the body that carries it, which is portrayed as a mere shell. It supports the theory that I have come to believe; that who we are – our very core essence – is carried within the cells of the heart. Our thoughts and beliefs may well reside in the brain, but it is the heart that holds the soul. My belief was reinforced when I placed my hand to Kaia’s chest and felt the beat of Amalie’s heart; it was as though it surged a little upon my touch, as if it knew me like I know it.
I turn away from the drawings, now back in their place, and go upstairs. I stand by Amalie’s closed bedroom door for a moment, trying to gauge whether I am actually strong enough to open it. I am. In the last few weeks, since I have been spending time with Kaia, I have begun to feel some small, but unmistakable, changes. I sometimes think about the future. I am eating. I am not taking as many tranquilizers, and mostly drinking only at night. I’m not counting as much, and before we went to the mountains, I began to read a book. The unbearable pain of losing Amalie is softened, only a little, but still, by the presence of Kaia Berge. And tomorrow, I will have her all to myself.
Chapter Forty-Five
Alison
I very carefully unpeel the name label from the back of the iPad. I’d forgotten it was there, and thank God I removed the cover on a hunch, to double check. Amalie M-J, it reads, with my phone number underneath. When it has come off, I hold the iPad up to the light and tilt it slightly. The dark screen is covered with fingerprints – Amalie’s fingerprints. I take a deep, shaky breath and bring a moist cloth to its surface, press down and wipe it clean. Then I put the iPad on charge. When it’s full I will restore it to factory settings, deleting my daughter’s apps and games, and then I will give it to Kaia.
My coffee is still too hot to sip, so I stand at the counter by the charging iPad and stare out into the garden. Today is a beautiful day, almost spring-like, with sunlight streaming onto the lawn, searing hollows in the snow. It’s only 10 a.m.; how am I going to fill all the hours until I can pick up Kaia from school? I run a damp cloth over the breakfast bar, then the hob, satisfied to find overlooked blobs of oil around the gas rings. When I’m finished I take a few more sips of my coffee, considering whether or not to add a couple of vodka shots to it, but decide against it as I have to drive Kaia later and I can’t risk anything bad happening to her.
Is today the day I begin to think about Amalie’s room; maybe at least clearing away some of the toys that lie scattered on the floor, taking the bed sheets off, letting some fresh air in, folding some clothes into boxes? I let my mind linger on each of these potential actions, and find that I am able to bear thinking about them. I pour out the rest of the coffee; it has gone from a touch too hot to a touch too cold and it disappears down the drain in a muddy swirl.
I go and stand by the window, looking out at the city held beneath a wispy mist. I’m coming to get you, Mills, I whisper, drawing two ‘A’s close together in the steam from my breath on the window.
*
‘Hey Kaia,’ I shout, and she turns around from where she is sitting high up on the red climbing frame with another little girl.
‘Alison!’ she shouts, her face lighting up. She shimmies down the frame’s central pole and drops to the icy ground before running toward me and hugging me hard.
‘So excited to be hanging out with you this afternoon!’
‘Me too,’ Kaia says, waving goodbye to her friend. She picks up her backpack, then places her gloved fist in my hand.
‘I thought we might go for a hike or something. The weather’s pretty nice. Then we could go to my house and I’ll cook something for us while you get a start on your homework. Sound okay?’
‘Yeah.’ I pull out of the crowded car park and head left, toward Røa. Traffic is slow because of the school run, and I glance at Kaia in the rearview mirror; she looks content but lost in thought, staring out at the murky snow pushed up high along the sidewalks by the snowplows, and the people walking home, faster than we are driving. After Røa, traffic loosens up and, instead of continuing straight ahead toward Holmenkollen and home, I turn left toward Bogstadvannet Lake. I park behind the gas station and turn to Kaia.
‘We’re here,’ I say.
‘Where?’ She looks outside the window, but can only see the road and the gas station’s parking lot from where she is sitting.
‘Bogstadvannet.’ Kaia nods. ‘Have you been here before?’ I ask, focusing on maintaining a smooth, neutral voice. Kaia nods again. ‘I thought we could walk around it. It’s nice, not too far.’
‘Okay.’
We walk slowly around the south shore, occasionally picking up flat, gray stones and flicking them onto the ice covering the surface in patches, where they bounce around, faint echoes rising against the dense trees surrounding this part of the lake. Kaia remains silent beside me, walking dutifully in the controlled, calm manner of an adult. Amalie would have lurched, skipped, run, fallen down, stopping constantly to pick stuff up off the ground. A twisted paper clip, a funny stone, a frozen conker, a Coca-Cola bottle cap. I stop myself from looking at Kaia again, and keep my eyes on the lake. It’s almost five o’clock and the sun is receding, slipping behind the tallest trees on the opposite shore.
I turn toward Kaia and realize she’s fallen behind. She’s thirty or so yards behind me on the path, looking out at the lake, entirely unmoving as though she’s been frozen. I take in the overall shabbiness of her – the purple puffa jacket, the clashing green knitted hat, the bare, red hands held close to her sides, the stringy dark hair messily framing her face, the scuffed brown shoes. I smile at her, and she starts toward me, but I have to look away, because it hurts, how much I have come to love her.
‘I have bad dreams,’ she says, stopping beside me and staring out at the partially frozen water.
‘Me too,’ I say.
‘I’m afraid to sleep because scary things happen to me in my dreams.’
‘What… What kind of scary things happen?’ I ask, though I already know what she is going to say.
‘I can’t breathe. My heart begins to hurt. It feels bad again. Like before, when I was sick.’
‘Tell me again. How did it feel when you were sick?’
‘Like I couldn’t breathe. Like my heart sometimes was fast and sometimes too slow, and it burned.’
‘Burned?’
‘Yeah my heart felt like it burned.’
‘Mine feels like that, too.’
‘Are you sick?’
I look away, I don’t want her to see the tears that blur my vision. ‘Not sick,’ I say, eventually, starting to walk again. ‘Sad, I guess.’
‘But… But why are you sad?’
‘I wish I had a little girl of my own. A girl… like you.’
‘Oh,’ says Kaia, frowning. Then she places her fist back in my hand and I hold onto it tight as we start onto the forest path, back toward the car.
*
At home, I make a hot chocolate for Kaia and a coffee with milk and vodka for me. I’ll have to drink a glass of water or two before I drive her home, but I feel so disoriented and confused after our walk that I just need something to soothe my nerves.
‘I almost forgot,’ I say, ‘I got you something.’
‘A present?’
‘Yes.’ Kaia claps her hands together and bounces up and down on the stool at the breakfast bar, where she’s drawing. I unplug the iPad and hand it to her. She looks from the iPad to me and back several times, disbelieving.
‘Can I borrow it?’
‘No, you can have it, sweetheart. It’s yours.’ I help her to turn it on and the apple appear
s on the screen.
‘I’ve wanted one for so long! It’s not even my birthday!’
‘Glad you like it.’
‘I love it! My mamma is going to be so jealous. She wants one too but she can’t have one because it’s expensive.’
‘Well, make sure you share it with her.’
Kaia nods solemnly. ‘But… But why don’t you want it?’
‘I bought a new one and I don’t need two.’
‘Doesn’t your boy want it?’
‘Well, he already has one.’
‘Oh.’
I smile at her and Kaia smiles back, but it’s the sad smile of a child who suddenly understands that there are differences in the world, that some people have a lot and some people don’t.
‘Where is he?’
‘He’s gone to his mother’s after school today. He lives here one week with me, and then he lives one week with his mom.’
‘Oh. Where’s his dad?’
‘He’s… He’s working.’ The truth is, I don’t know where Sindre is. He didn’t return home last night. He never answered my message about what he’d done with Iselin’s drawings, though they are thankfully back in their place. I’ve tried to call him but his phone goes straight to voicemail. Then, just before I picked Kaia up from school he sent me a message.
I have an evening conference call with Houston, then running with Espen in Maridalen. Home late.
I obviously wouldn’t have brought Kaia back here to the house, had Sindre been home.
*
After dinner I drive Kaia home. She’s stabbing away at the iPad, pale face ghoulishly lit by the green light from the screen. I drive slowly, mindful of the two shots of vodka I poured into my coffee earlier. We’re stopped at a red light at a deserted junction in Grini when Kaia speaks.