by Alex Dahl
‘Hanne Vikdal?’ I ask, and she nods curtly, taking me in. I’ve applied a full face of make-up and put clean, ironed clothes on for this visit, and though I may appear a little tired and haggard, I think I pass for a normal person. ‘I’m Anna Barton. I’m sorry to turn up like this… I just wondered whether you had a moment to discuss a rather sensitive matter. It’s about your tenant, Iselin, and her daughter Kaia. The thing is… Well, frankly I’m concerned for the child’s wellbeing.’ The woman’s eyes bulge and become instantly animated. There is something repulsive about her obvious glee. I could turn back around – it’s still not too late; she’d never know what I was going to say, or where what I’m doing here might take us.
‘Come in,’ she says, reaching out and pulling dramatically at my sleeve, as though we might be watched outside. I step into her meticulously tidy hallway, the walls hung with large black-and-white photographs of three unremarkable-looking young boys posing dutifully for the camera. Hanne Vikdal follows my gaze and smiles proudly.
‘Magnus, Georg and Philip, my sons. Wonderful boys,’ she says. She shows me into a kitchen and quickly fixes us each a cup of milky tea. When she sits down opposite me by the window looking down over Iselin and Kaia’s porch, she raises and eyebrow as if to say, So, what have you got? For a moment, I feel bad. I glance out the window, at the exact space Iselin probably stands every day, fumbling around in her bag for her keys, stroking Kaia’s hair absentmindedly as they enter their little flat. Can I take it all away from her? But the heart wants what it wants, and I am acting in the best interest of a child.
‘Iselin and I got to know each other kind of randomly,’ I begin, paying attention to my tone of voice, trying to appear soft-spoken and concerned. To get this woman on my side is crucial. ‘We… uh, have socialized on quite a few occasions now, and I have helped her out with Kaia quite frequently. You might have seen me around, actually.’ Hanne Vikdal nods vigorously, she has indeed seen me around, has indeed been watching. ‘That’s my car over there.’ I point to the gleaming XC90 and a glimmer of appreciation crosses Hanne’s face.
‘I’ve been happy to help Iselin out with Kaia. You know, she’s very young, and with Kaia’s medical issues, it can’t have been easy. Just… And I have really debated whether I should talk to anyone about this… I do believe we all have a duty to speak up in the interest of a vulnerable child. I don’t think everything is quite right at home, and I wanted to check in with you, to see whether you’d noticed anything unusual. I will be honest with you – I am intending to file a report of concern with child services.’
Another vigorous nod. ‘Yes,’ says Hanne, bland eyes narrowed. ‘Yes, unfortunately I have been thinking along the same lines myself. Something’s just not right. Every night, that poor child screams like a banshee. I think she must hurt her, I truly do.’
‘Really? I suppose with her medical situation, she could be in some kind of pain, or it could be a side effect of the drugs she has to take…’
‘You haven’t heard it. It’s bad.’
‘My goodness,’ I say, face serious and sad.
‘I have never seen the father around. God knows where he is. And the mother shouts a lot. They both do. The other day they screamed for a long while, then I heard a loud bang and then it went quiet.’
‘Oh,’ I say. I’m glad, now, that I went to the trouble of coming here – it just goes to prove that my gut instinct wasn’t off. It’s just too much for Iselin. She needs help. And my baby bear needs to come home.
‘I… I’ve noticed some things that I really believe are cause for concern, too. I think Iselin drinks,’ I say. Hanne Vikdal’s mouth drops open. ‘Yes. She came with me to my mountain cabin a while back and I noticed that she seemed to be drinking during the day. You know, liquor. She has also asked me to babysit so she can travel abroad. To a party or something. I mean, I’m happy to babysit Kaia; she’s a sweet kid. But she has just had major surgery less than a year ago and is still on a long list of medicines. I suppose I feel that it’s a little irresponsible of Iselin to even contemplate leaving her in the care of someone who is practically a stranger. We’ve known each other less than two months, you know? I just find it a little disconcerting that a mother would feel the need to travel far away from her sick child…’
‘Goodness me,’ says Hanne. ‘That’s just absolutely unacceptable.’
‘Well, I think so. What I suppose I wanted to know is whether you’d be willing to back up my report to Barnevernet concerning whether Iselin is in a position to take care of Kaia.’
‘Oh yes. Yes absolutely,’ says Hanne, eyebrows scrunched tight together in light of this new and delicious information about her tenants.
‘Well, I must say that it’s lucky for Kaia that she has a vigilant neighbor such as yourself on her side. It is of the utmost importance to make sure the poor child is taken care of in the best possible way.’
*
Back in the car, I drive fast toward home, then a thought occurs to me and I take a left at Røa, toward the lake.
I don’t go the usual way. Instead I head north, to a quiet stretch of the lake that isn’t as easily accessible for walkers. I have to push through some shrubbery and some young trees that have blown over during the winter, and then I reach a thin sliver of pebbled beach, impossible to see from the graveled pathway that encircles the lake. This is where I will bring her – it’s perfect. I sit down on a flat rock and close my eyes, running through the plan.
The thing is, baby bear, I needed to learn to listen. All those months I spoke to you, I was so, so sad because I couldn’t hear you – I didn’t understand then, how you would come to speak as clearly as before, only differently. I just needed to listen. When our girl looks at me, I see you in her eyes. I feel you in everything she does. The beat of your heart is clearer than the sound of your voice. I can’t live without you, and because of the girl, I won’t have to.
Chapter Fifty-Six
Iselin
The club is a pop-up in a huge basement near Bastille, down an alleyway from Rue Philistène, which used to be seedy, but is now the height of cool. I’m in the VIP section with Enzo and his handsome friend Matthieu, who Noa is trying to set me up with. We’re not far from the booth, where DJ Noa and DJ Tantalyze are playing. My sister’s hair is sprayed a silvery violet and slicked back into a futuristic, chic bob. She’s wearing sequined Chanel hotpants, a leather halter-neck top and studded Valentino shoes. My sister, Nora Berge from the dilapidated cottage on the far side of Svartberget, is regularly mentioned in the same breath as the likes of Harley Viera-Newton and Leigh Lezark. I feel a tremor of pride, watching her, and also something else – I feel freed from envy. She was born to be up there – this is her world, and it feels okay, in this moment, that it isn’t mine.
‘Issy,’ says Enzo, Noa’s handsome but somewhat intense boyfriend. I lean toward him but can’t hear what he’s saying over the music. I laugh as though I did, and that was clearly the right response. I check my phone – nothing. Kaia will have been in bed a long while now. I wonder if Alison remembered to give her the Azathioprine at 7. I have to stop worrying – I know Kaia would remind her even if Alison forgot. I can just be here in this moment, young and free again. Matthieu presses another beer into my hand and I drink fast; it’s so hot and sweaty in here. He says something to me and again, I just laugh. I excuse myself and go to the bathroom. Even inside the cubicle, the air is clammy and the music thumping uncomfortably loud. How does Noa bear it, night after night? And what will she do if she and Enzo have kids or she wants to leave this party-world behind?
In this moment, Kaia will be asleep, her little face bare and resting. What will she do if she wakes in the night, needing me? Does being here make me a bad mother? And why did I say such awful things the other day – did I really think that being drunk in a warehouse full of strangers, listening to this weird electropop music, would be so much better than being at home? I’m having fun, I tell myself. Stop sabotaging yoursel
f. Matthieu is cute. He’s the kind of guy I should be looking for – he’s an architect so we’d have something in common, he’s handsome and a bit shy, his eyes are mellow and kind. I look at myself while I wash my hands. I haven’t had sex in four years. I’ve never had sex with the same person more than a handful of times. I could make it clear that I’d be interested in something with Matthieu. I try to reconnect with that girl I used to be, the one who’d bring guys home from Stella’s bar in Saint-Germain, the one who’d laugh easily at their jokes, the girl who would shed her clothes without a shred of shyness, but who never did let anyone in. But that girl is gone, I know that now.
I hover a moment in the vestibule area and check my phone again. I don’t want to seem hysterical, but worry is niggling at me and I feel both slow and emotional with all the alcohol, so I text Alison even though it is well past midnight.
Hey, just wanted to check that bedtime went okay, I write. Give K a big hug from me! Issy X
I buy another beer and drink it down quickly while scrolling through Instagram, trying to recapture the feeling of giddiness and uncomplicated excitement I felt on the way here, sitting beside Noa in the Uber. I took a picture of us sipping with straws from a magnum of Moët and it’s already had 195 likes. I’m about to go back in when a message ticks in from Alison.
The sweet little nugget is fast asleep after board games, banana bread baking and bath. Will have her call you in the morning. Xo Ali
The phone vibrates again and in comes a photo of my girl sleeping, hair unbraided and wild. In her thin white arms lies a purple bear, snug. She’s wearing boyish Rupert the Bear pajamas I’ve never seen before, probably a cast-off from Alison’s stepson. She’s safe and well taken care of, and my heart feels so full looking at her. It’s good to know that I would choose my life over this one – maybe we all need a reminder sometimes. I put the phone away and push my way back through the crowds, smiling to myself, feeling young and happy again.
*
It’s almost 5 a.m., and back at the apartment, the four of us float around aimlessly, fixing drinks and slipping out of uncomfortable clothes, before collapsing on the huge black velvet sofas underneath the sky lights. I’m in my yoga pants, holding a Bloody Mary, pleasantly drunk and still buzzing. Enzo cuts the lines of coke as casually as if he were slicing cheese, and I’m about to say, Thanks but no thanks, I don’t do drugs, but then I think to myself, why not? Why the fuck not? Noa watches me as I draw the lines, first one, then another, and I can tell she’s surprised – she probably thinks of me as a party pooper. I wonder how she speaks of me to Enzo and their friends. Am I the poor, unfulfilled older sister who got stuck in an awful life? Or am I the tired but fun, hopeful person I perceive myself to be?
We still share the same bond that we always have, but we’re very different people. I can’t believe that my little sister has been in a relationship with Enzo for five years, that they own a beautiful, if small, apartment in central Paris together, that Noa somehow went from knowing three words when we moved here (bonjour, baguette and merci) to being totally fluent in French without me noticing, that in spite of the crazy hair and the parties she is a real adult now.
‘Come here, big sis,’ says Noa, pulling me close in a sideways hug. ‘Matthieu,’ she says, ‘don’t you think Iselin should move to Paris?’ Noa pronounces my name with a French accent, stressing the last syllable instead of the first one. Is–Céline. I like it, but could I be her? Matthieu nods and laughs, rolling a spliff between his fingers, his eyes glassy and distant. I close my eyes and immediately feel myself drifting away on a strong current, the smell of pot and cigarette smoke in my nostrils, the bitter taste of cocaine at the back of my throat like a burn.
Chapter Fifty-Seven
Alison
‘I have a surprise for you,’ I say. I just can’t wait to see Kaia’s face when she sees what I’ve done. It wasn’t as hard in the end as I had feared it might be. It would have been different, had I done it for any other reason than to make a beautiful space for Kaia. She takes my hand as we climb the stairs, and Oliver trails behind. He has barely spoken a word to me since he got here last night, but is watching Kaia intently. When she smiled shyly at him, he looked away, and I could tell that her presence moved and unsettled him. I pause for effect outside what was my daughter’s bedroom. Then I open it.
‘Your room,’ I say, and the stunned look on Kaia’s face grabs me by the heart. It’s quite a big bedroom, with pink-and-green flowery curtains. It has a deep wooden sleigh bed that was Sindre’s childhood bed, then Amalie’s. The headboard has intricate wooden carvings, and if you were to look closely, you could see where Amalie once traced over them with a purple crayon. There’s a desk, neatly stacked with drawing paper, freshly sharpened pencils, and a box containing scissors, Sellotape, and little pots of glue and loose glitter. In the corner stands a large antique French wardrobe, its doors open, showing neat rows of clean, folded clothes.
‘Who… who lives here?’ asks Kaia, and a raw, stricken look crosses Oliver’s face before he regains his composure.
‘No one, darling,’ I say. ‘I’ve made this room for you.’
‘But… But, who do the toys belong to? And the clothes?’
‘You, Kaia. Everything in this room is yours.’
‘But… I’m only here for two days. Mamma said.’ I feel Oliver’s eyes on me; he too believes that Kaia is only here for the weekend. He doesn’t yet understand that she belongs here with us.
‘Don’t you like it?’ I want her to be grateful. She needs to realize that the person who can give her everything – from full maternal attention to a beautiful, comfortable home and a real family, is me.
‘I love it,’ Kaia says quietly, smiling shyly up at me. She’s just overwhelmed; the poor child is used to living in that dreadful, cluttered space. ‘Can I draw?’
‘Of course you can, sweetie,’ I say.
‘Uh,’ says Oliver. ‘I got you a, uh, present. It’s on Am— uh, your bed…’
Kaia lights up and walks over to the bed. She picks up the clumsily wrapped present and looks nervously from Oliver to me and back. I smile at Oliver – I’ve never been prouder of my stepson. I just knew that he would see what I see.
‘Open it,’ I say. Kaia tears the paper and inside is a fluffy purple bear wearing a Queen Elsa T-shirt. Amalie had wanted this bear, and watching Kaia hold it solemnly to her chest, my heart feels like the anatomical heart in Iselin’s cross-section drawing: cracked open, its intricate, gory innards bared to the world. I look at Oliver and, judging by the look on his face, he feels the way I do.
‘How did you know I wanted this bear so much?’ asks Kaia, and unselfconsciously launches herself into Oliver’s arms, clearly unaware of the tension in the room. ‘I’ve never seen this bear before! But it was exactly what I wanted!’ Kaia whoops and claps her hands together before twirling around on the floor, laughing loudly. A little girl, holding a bear, laughing in this room. Could life become livable again?
*
Oliver and Kaia played Snap. They baked banana bread, Kaia standing on a chair next to Oliver, wearing Amalie’s old baker’s hat. They collected sticks in the forest just beyond our garden, the way they used to. They threw the sticks into the hearth and sat on the floor sipping hot chocolate with marshmallow hearts, listening to the spit and crackle of the flames. Oliver even sat next to Kaia at the little desk, drawing for her. When it was time for bed, Oliver read Rupert the Bear to Kaia, which she had never heard before, and when he finished, she fell asleep holding the book in one hand and the purple bear in the other.
It’s past midnight now, but I feel wide awake, roused as if from a blank, deep sleep by Kaia’s presence in this house. I am sitting at the edge of her bed, watching her sleep. She seems much less restless than she did a few weeks ago in Norefjell. I believe that my presence in her life has had a calming and positive effect on her. Kaia is entirely at the mercy of a volatile, irresponsible mother who expresses feelings of bitt
erness toward the child, I wrote in the statement to child services. She is timid and under-stimulated. She deserves a more stable home – just more of everything. It wasn’t an easy step to take, and I have had moments of guilt and doubt, but the main concern here is Kaia. I love her in a way I don’t think even Iselin could. When you have regained something you had lost, you hold it dearer.
I stroke Kaia’s hair and she stirs in her sleep. I gently insert my hand underneath her pajama top and let it rest above her heart. I stay like that for a long while, just drinking the faint thuds in, like oxygen. My phone vibrates, and it’s Iselin. I can’t even picture her in this moment, it’s as though she has been conveniently erased from the situation. And soon enough, she will be. I write back to her and include a sweet picture of Kaia. Then I put the phone away and snuggle up next to Kaia.
‘Welcome home, Mills,’ I whisper, nestling my face in her hair.
Chapter Fifty-Eight
Iselin
‘Let’s do the old haunts,’ says Noa, remarkably bubbly at 10 a.m. for someone who went to bed just a few hours before, high as a kite. Enzo is still asleep in their bedroom, and Matthieu is sleeping on the sofa and grunts loudly when Noa opens the shutters.
‘Okay,’ I say, a little reluctantly, just because being back here in the city I have pined for has been surprisingly uncomplicated so far, and I worry that my old neighborhood would make me sick with longing. I love this city as much as I always have, but my home is with my child and I crave her in a way that feels physical. Like a part of me is missing.
We meander up Rue Mouffetard, admiring Pont-l’Evêque and Livarots from the cheese stands, running our fingers across plump, fuzzy basil leaves, and eating fresh croissants straight from grease-stained paper bags. We have a glass of wine before lunch at Place de la Contrescarpe and smoke thin French cigarettes sitting underneath a monochrome awning as the sky unleashes sudden torrential rain. We walk down rue des Écoles, giggling and reminiscing about all those nights walking home the same way from Stella, a dive bar on the lower slopes of Montmartre where we worked part-time when we first arrived. We have avocado and fried eggs on sourdough bread with Bloody Marys at Coffee Parisien on rue Princesse and for a moment it is as though I’ve entered a time warp and I am right back there. I sat in this exact same spot on the day I told Noa I was pregnant. She’d rolled her eyes and shrugged, not thinking for one second that staying pregnant was even an option.