Jenny wants to hug them both. Keep the old one alive and transfer courage and strength to the little one. The nurses examine Doris, and Jenny watches them from a distance: the blood-pressure monitor being pumped up, the oxygen monitor on Doris’s index finger, the stethoscope on her chest.
“She’s weak. It was probably just a dizzy spell.” The nurses pack up their instruments and leave the room.
Probably just a dizzy spell. Probably just. Jenny finds herself getting riled up at their words.
“Should we take those rollers out now?” she asks, gesturing toward Doris’s head.
Doris nods.
“So you’ll look extra nice.”
Doris smiles weakly. Jenny allows her own tears to well up and roll toward her nose. She gently loosens the rollers, one by one.
“I’ve heard that salt water’s good for the hair,” Doris says in a rattling whisper.
Jenny smiles.
“I’m really going to miss you. I love you so much.”
“I love you too, my most darling child. And you.” She nods toward Tyra, who is calmer now, and busy throwing everything from the stroller onto the floor. Jenny lifts her up to the edge of the bed so that Doris can talk to her, but Tyra protests and wants to get back down. She jumps into thin air, and she is safe, because her mother’s hands are there to catch her.
Doris says, “Put the little one down, Jenny. Watching an old lady die isn’t much fun.”
Back on the floor, Tyra grabs hold of a picture book. She throws it against the side of the bed with such force that part of the cover comes loose. Jenny doesn’t bother telling her off. So long as the girl is quiet and happy, everything is fine. She combs and sprays Doris’s hair. The thin strands gain volume and now cover the bare areas of her scalp. Jenny studies the result with satisfaction and then turns her attention to Doris’s face. She carefully powders the wrinkled cheeks, buffs rusty-red blush onto the skin in a circular motion, paints the lips. The makeup brings life to the old woman’s face. Jenny takes a picture and shows it to Doris, who nods happily.
“Eyes too,” she whispers.
Jenny bends down and gently applies a little light-pink eye shadow. Doris’s eyelids droop over her eyes, leaving only half of her iris visible. The color catches in the creases and looks uneven, but it doesn’t matter.
“I bought you a dress. A comfy one; you can sleep in it too, if you like.”
She pulls the Gina Tricot bag from the compartment beneath the stroller and holds up the dress. It’s all one color, deep pink, and made of jersey. The arms are long and the neck rounded, and the fabric is pleated over the chest.
“Pretty color,” Doris whispers, lifting her fingers to feel the quality.
“Yeah, I remembered how much you like pink. You always bought me pink dresses. Mom hated that color.”
“Hippy.” Doris gives a labored cough after that single word.
“Yup. It’s true. She was a real hippy. I don’t know where she got it from, but her approach to life came close to killing her several times.” Jenny sighs. “I suppose it did, in the end.”
“Drugs are the devil,” Doris whispers.
Jenny doesn’t reply. She helps Doris with the dress, one step at a time. “What do you know about my dad?” she then asks.
Doris quickly looks up and shakes her head.
“Nothing?”
“No.”
“Nothing at all?”
“We’ve talked about this, my dear.”
“I know you know more than you’re letting on. I found Mom’s letters. They were in the box with the photographs. She hated me.”
Doris shakes her head.
“No, my love, don’t think that. She didn’t. She was on drugs, she wanted money. She sent those letters, without thinking, during one of her bad spells; she could never afford to call me. I don’t know why I kept them. Stupid.”
“She was raped.”
Doris doesn’t reply. She closes her eyes.
“You loved me, I know that. I feel that.”
“Elise loved you.”
“When? While she was injecting heroin into her veins? Or while she was lying on the kitchen floor, vomiting and leaving it for me to clean up? Or when she wanted to give me away to a stranger?”
“That was when she was high.” Doris’s voice is weak.
“She always promised she would stop.”
“She tried. But she couldn’t.”
“Was that why you loved me? Because I didn’t have a mother?”
Doris opens her eyes; they’re glossy and have started drifting again. Jenny rushes forward.
“Sorry, we don’t need to talk about it. I love you. You’ve been everything to me.”
“I always came when you needed me,” Doris whispers, and Jenny nods. Kisses her forehead. “And I loved you because I loved you.”
“Don’t talk any more now, Dossi, get some rest. I’ll stay here and hold your hand.”
“Where is Gösta? Has he had his coffee?”
“You’re confused, Doris. Gösta is dead. He died before I was born. You remember that, don’t you?”
Her memories catch up with her, and she nods. “Everyone’s dead.”
“No, everyone is not dead. Not at all.”
“Everyone who means anything. Everyone but you.”
Jenny slowly strokes Doris’s arm, the deep-pink fabric of the new dress.
“Don’t be scared,” she whispers, but she doesn’t get a reply. Doris has fallen asleep again. With each labored breath, her chest rises and her lungs rattle.
A nurse comes in and raises the rails at the sides of the bed.
“I think it’s best if Doris gets some sleep now. You and the little lady too,” she says, waving at Tyra.
Jenny dries her tears. “I don’t want to leave Doris. Maybe I should sleep here?”
The nurse shakes her head.
“You go. We’re good at knowing when the end is near. She’ll make it through the night, and if things do get any worse, we’ll call.”
“But you have to promise me to call right away, at the slightest change. The very slightest!”
The nurse nods patiently. “I promise.”
Jenny reluctantly leaves the ward and heads toward the elevator. Tyra is impatient in the stroller; she wants to get up and walk. Those long hours of sitting still in Doris’s room have put her in a bad mood. Jenny lifts her from the stroller and lets her walk by her side. Clutching the side of the stroller tight in her chubby hand, she staggers forward. Jenny scrolls through her phone. Ten missed calls, all from Willie. Then a text message: You’re not going to believe it. Allan Smith is alive. Call me!
32
“He’s alive? Really?”
“He’s alive. If it’s the same Allan Smith.”
“Get over there!”
“Are you crazy? I can’t just go to New York. Who’ll look after the boys?”
“Take them with you! Go!”
“Jenny, I’m starting to think you’ve completely lost your mind.”
“You have to go. Doris has been alone her entire life. Her entire life. Other than the years with the gay artist she worked for. She’s had one love in her life. One true love. And that was Allan Smith. She hasn’t seen him since the Second World War. Do you understand? She has to see him before she dies. Go! Take the computer with you, so we can Skype. Call me when you’re there.”
“But we don’t even know if it’s the same Allan Smith. What if it’s a completely different man?”
“How old is he?”
“Born in 1919.”
“That sounds right.”
“He lives on Long Island. Widower for the past twenty years.”
“Could be right. Allan was married.”
“According to Stan’s email, he lived in France from 1940 to 1976. He took over a factory and made a fortune manufacturing bags.”
“Doris told me he went to France during the war.”
“His mother was French; he has
two surnames in his passport. Allan Lesseur Smith.”
“It has to be him, his mother was French. Go!”
“Jenny, you’re crazy. The boys are at school. I can’t just drop everything and leave.”
“To hell with school!” She can barely control her voice. “What difference does it make if they miss a few days? This is more important than anything else right now. Doris doesn’t have long to live, and she needs to see him one last time. We might be talking about hours here. Go! If you can’t do it for any other reason, do it for me. I’m begging you!”
“For your sake, then, just for your sake I’ll do it.”
“Swing by the school and pick up the boys, then take the first flight to New York. If Mrs. Berg kicks up a fuss, tell her a close relative is sick. It’s an excused absence, if I remember correctly.”
“An excused absence?”
“Yeah, you know, there are rules about when kids are allowed to be absent from school. Some circumstances are excused, others aren’t. But forget that now, just go. And don’t forget David’s asthma medicine.”
“And what do I do when I get there?”
“Talk to him. Make sure he’s the right Allan, and see if he remembers Doris. Then call me right away.”
“But listen, what good will it do for her now to find out he’s alive? That he’s been alive all these years? She’ll die unhappy. Isn’t it better for her to believe that he passed away years ago?”
“It’s not going to help, no matter what you say. Go now! I’m going to hang up on you.”
“OK, I’m going, even though I still don’t really understand. Just don’t get your hopes up; it could be a different Allan.”
“Yes, I know, but you don’t need to understand right now. All I’m asking is for you to go. It’s the right choice, trust me. I’m hanging up now. Sorry, but I really have to.”
She ends the call before he has time to reply, switches the phone to silent, and drops it into her bag. Tyra is on the hallway floor, rifling through the things stored beneath the stroller. She has spread them out in a semicircle. A banana, a book, a couple of clean diapers, some poop-stained tights, rice cakes. Jenny quickly gathers everything and nods to some passers-by. Tyra staggers off down the corridor, and she hurries to catch her. The girl struggles as Jenny tries to put her into the stroller and pull on her coat and hat; she whimpers and cries.
“We’re going home now. Home to eat. Shh.”
But there is no silencing the scream; Tyra gasps for air between bouts of tears. Jenny leaves her to it. She has too much on her mind. She pushes the stroller quickly and hopes that the movement will calm the little one and quell that pang of shame that mothers feel when a child has a tantrum in public.
The Red Address Book
S. SMITH, ALLAN
They say that people never get over their first real love. That it builds a nest deep in their body memory. That’s where Allan still lives. He may be a fallen soldier or a deceased retiree, but he still lives within me. Deep inside my wrinkled body. And when I go to my grave, I’ll take him with me, hoping I’ll find him up there in heaven. If I’d known where to find him here on earth, I would have followed him all my life. I’m convinced of that.
He said that his heart was French, his body American, and his mind a jumbled mix. That he was more Frenchman than American. His spoken French had a few rounded American vowels, and I used to laugh at his pronunciation as I danced through Paris by his side. That laugh took hold of my heart and became a symbol of happiness—a happiness I sadly never got to experience again. He carried within him a unique combination of acuity and playfulness. He was as thoughtful as he was lighthearted, as lively as he was serious.
He had studied to become an architect, so whenever I saw pictures of new buildings in magazines, I always read the texts carefully, searching for his name. I still do. It’s silly. Nowadays I might be able to find him with the help of the Internet, but when I was younger, such a search would have been much harder. Maybe I didn’t make enough of an effort. But I sent letters, masses of letters poste restante, despite having no idea where in the world he lived. I sent them to post offices in Manhattan, in Paris. He never replied. Instead, he became something of a ghost. I spoke to it at night. This memory in my locket. My one true love.
Gösta bought us a sofa in exchange for two of his paintings. A big, soft sofa with dark-purple velvet covers. We often sat in it in the evening, sharing a bottle of red wine and all our hopes and dreams. They were sprawling and many. They made us laugh and cry.
Gösta often asked me about men. He was both frank and uninhibited, so he asked plenty of intimate questions. He was the only one who knew about Allan, but he didn’t understand me, thought I was crazy. He did everything he could to stop me from loving Allan from afar. To make me open my eyes to others. Men or women. It made no difference to Gösta.
“It’s the person, Doris. The gender is not what’s important. Attraction arises when related souls meet and recognize each other. Love doesn’t care about gender, nor should people,” he used to say.
The greatest comfort in life comes from freely expressing one’s opinion and being met with nothing but love in return, even when opinions diverge. That was why it felt good to live with someone as tolerant as Gösta. We had everything. Only passion was missing. Once, he did actually try to kiss me. It made us both burst out laughing.
“No, that wasn’t good,” he said, grimacing. That was as close to romance as we came.
I didn’t spend my entire life alone. Gösta was my family. And you, Jenny, you are my family. My everyday life was good and comfortable, it really was. Sadly, Allan remained out of reach, but I had a good life.
Often, while sitting here at home, I think of him. More and more, the older I get. I can’t understand how a person can work his way into a person’s life like Allan did. I would so dearly like to know where he went. Did he die there on the battlefield, or did he grow old? And if he grew old, what did he look like? Did his hair turn white or gray? Was he fat or thin? Did he ever get to construct those buildings he once dreamed of? Did he think of me? Did he feel passion with the woman he married, as he did with me? Did he love her the way he loved me?
A constant stream of questions flows through my mind. It will be that way until I die. Perhaps he and I will meet one day, in heaven. Perhaps I’ll finally be able to relax in his arms. The dream of seeing him again makes believing in God worthwhile. Here’s what I’d say to him:
Hello, God. It’s my turn now. My turn to love and be loved.
33
So many sheets of paper in the pile. So many words. Maybe there are even more on the computer, the one on the bedside table in the hospital. Jenny leafs through the pages, chooses sections about the same person. Reads about Elaine and Agnes in order, about Mike and Gösta. Entire lives summed up in a few short lines.
So many memories. So many people now dead. What secrets did they take to the grave? She goes to fetch the address book and flips through it, curious about those not mentioned in Doris’s stories. Who was Kerstin Larsson? On a notepad she finds next to the bed, she writes down the name in large letters. She’ll ask tomorrow. How Kerstin died. What importance she had in Doris’s life.
She follows the lines with her index finger. Her own name is there too. One of the few without an unsteady line drawn through it. But the address is wrong; it’s her old house. Her student apartment, where she lived during that brief spell of trying to get an education. Before Willie. Before the kids. Was she happier then? She shivers, wraps herself in Doris’s knitted cardigan. Maybe. She crosses out the address and carefully writes in the new one. Where her family lives, where happiness should live. Where it might be found.
It was Doris who paid for the creative writing course that she took. Six months of exercising her imagination and reading aloud in groups. Doing the writing itself was wonderful, but the readings were awful. She didn’t handle criticism well. And then, suddenly, there was Willie. Strong, handsome
, and safe. He made her forget all her dark thoughts, and they had so much fun together: surfing, cycling, playing tennis. And so she gave up, dropped out, and found a job as a waitress in a restaurant. What would have happened if he had never shown up, if she hadn’t stopped writing? Doris still nags her about it. Asks her how it’s going, as though it was obvious that she would be carrying on with it. The truth is, she hasn’t written much at all since then.
Another truth: writing lies dormant within her, like a vague dream she can’t quite catch hold of. She knows she can do it. She has the talent. Deep down, she knows that. But she is where she is. First of all, who would take care of the kids? Who would cook their meals and clean the house? And second, it’s too daunting. Only one percent of all manuscripts submitted to publishers become books. One measly percent. The odds are against her. Why should her manuscript be the lucky one? What if she isn’t talented enough? What if she fails?
Jenny brushes those thoughts away and pulls out her phone, scrolls to Willie’s name among her most recent calls.
“Hey, love. How is it going, have you left yet?”
“No, we haven’t left yet.”
She sighs. “Please, Willie . . .”
“I’m going. I have a ticket for tomorrow morning. David is staying at Dylan’s, and Jack can look after himself until I get back.”
“Thank you.” Relief in her voice, the tears welling up. “Oh, Willie, thank you!”
“I hope it’s worth it.” His voice is tense, blunt.
“What do you mean by that?”
“I understand what you’re doing, but not why you want to subject her to it.”
“But . . . what don’t you understand? She’s dying. He was the love of her life. What is it that you don’t understand? It’s obvious, isn’t it? Or have you never been in love?”
“My God, Jenny, don’t be so dramatic. Of course I have. I love you, I hope you know that.”
“OK.”
“Good. Don’t be sad. I’m helping you find Allan, I fly tomorrow.”
The Red Address Book Page 22