A Modern Family

by Helga Flatland

  Dad is living in a rented flat in Torshov. As far as I know, only Olaf has been there so far, helping Dad carry a table there in June after Dad had done so much jogging on asphalt that the doctor had threatened to have him admitted to hospital against his will for reasons entirely unrelated to his knee if he didn’t give it a rest. Olaf is the only one to have told me this story. The little that I’ve spoken to Dad, we’ve talked about Agnar and Hedda, and I’ve pulled myself together for their sake, but I didn’t want Dad inviting them to his new flat. No, sorry, I told him the first and only time he asked, feeling a physical aversion towards the place rise up within me, it’ll only upset them, I told him. He’s taken them out for pizza a few times, and one Saturday they took the ferry out to the islands to go swimming.

  I put off telling Agnar and Hedda about Mum and Dad for as long as possible. But one morning at the beginning of May, after Dad had sent me a Facebook message with an advert for a flat he’d seen online, I told Hedda on the way to nursery that Grandma and Grandad would each be living in their own houses from now on. She stopped and looked at me, then asked where Grandad was going to live. I can’t say why she immediately assumed it would be Dad living elsewhere; perhaps she felt the way the rest of us seemed to, that Mum belonged in the house in a different way to Dad, that she and the house were one, that it was impossible to imagine the house in Tåsen without Mum being there. Olaf was annoyed that I’d told Hedda without informing him, this situation isn’t just yours to deal with, he said, but he calmed down quickly afterwards, as he used to do, saying that he would at least like to be there when we told Agnar. That was much more difficult; it became more real when we asked Agnar to sit with Olaf and me at the kitchen table that evening. I felt mostly embarrassed in truth, a familiar embarrassment about my parents, the same I’d felt as a child when Mum was so much louder than the other mothers at playgroup, or when Dad came to collect us from friends’ houses in his far-too-tight cycling shorts. I had such difficulty explaining to Agnar that his grandparents were getting divorced, it just seemed so unnatural. I had a feeling that the conversation would unfold in almost exactly the same way if it were Olaf and I who were getting divorced; we would assure him that we both loved him, just as I assured him that Grandma and Grandad obviously still did, that it was about other things. What other things? Agnar asked. He seemed afraid of the answer, that I might say one of them had met someone else. I don’t think either of them has met anyone else, it’s more that they’ve grown apart, I said, using Mum’s words, the same words Ellen had laughed at and mocked so openly in Italy, and which Olaf had also tried to joke about in hindsight, with varying degrees of success. It wasn’t funny in that moment, sitting opposite Agnar, and Agnar wasn’t laughing either – he started to cry. I hadn’t expected that. Almost half the parents in Agnar’s class are divorced, which had led me to believe that it wouldn’t be so difficult for him to get his head around the idea, that it wasn’t such a foreign concept for him, but Agnar was heartbroken about the whole thing. He buried his face in his hands and sobbed, and I felt so guilty that it took everything I had not to burst into tears myself. Once he’d calmed down and was able to speak again, Olaf gently asked him what he felt was the worst part of it all, but Agnar couldn’t tell him, it was just the whole thing. That, and the fact that nothing would ever be the same again.

  Agnar’s reaction was much like my own. One of the worst parts about it was the change. I’ve always hated change, the complexity of it. I’m too dependent on being in control, as Olaf puts it. I need to be able to anticipate things, to plan for them after they come into practice, and even the slightest deviation knocks me completely off-balance.

  The tradition and security found in routine had been shattered. We’ve had Sunday lunch at Mum and Dad’s almost every Sunday at seven o’clock for as long as I can remember, for instance. Even on those Sundays when I haven’t been able to make it, there’s been a certain subconscious reassurance in knowing that the others have been sitting around the table as usual. We’ll still have dinners together, obviously, Mum wrote in one message a few days after we returned from Italy, but we need to take a break for the moment, just to see what shape things might take.

  You’re taking it all too personally, Olaf told me one day in the summer, before a split really started to form between us. It’s getting to you too much, you have a life, we have a life. Anyway, you’ve got me, I’m going to Liv my whole life long with you, isn’t that right? he joked as he always did when he was trying to cheer me up. But the sense of catastrophe had hit me with full force, and it felt indisputably personal. Things are unravelling, just like the jumper Mum knitted me many moons ago, triggered by a hole low down at the back that grew and grew the more I tried to knot and fasten the loose bits of yarn. And even though I’ve done my best to think rationally, as Olaf has asked me to, I can find nothing to hold on to. Mum and Dad, independently of anything and anyone else, have represented such a fundamental source of security in my life, a safety net always there to catch me should I ever fall.

  You’re dependent on them because you’ve never tried being alone, Ellen said to me once after I’d argued with Olaf in our early days as a couple. We were sitting on the sofa in her old flat. I’d gone straight home to Mum and Dad’s first to find they weren’t home, only to then turn up at Ellen’s door, shaking with fear that Olaf might accept a job offer in Germany. Ellen almost seemed disappointed when she realised I hadn’t come to her first, and spent most of the time telling me that I couldn’t go running back home with every little problem I had. This isn’t a little problem, I said. Either way, Ellen replied, you need to be less dependent. You’d only been living away from home for about three minutes before you met Olaf, it’s almost like you replaced Mum and Dad with him. You’ve got no inner sense of security, she said with an unbearable look of self-satisfaction, and I wrote off what she said as self-assertive, nothing more than a defence of her own way of living her life.

  I’ve wondered lately if she’s right, if the reason the divorce might be getting to me so much is that I don’t have any independent sense of security, as Ellen still calls it. I am entirely anchored in those around me. But I’ve never wanted to be alone, to be independent, I’ve always considered it important to relate to others, to fit in, to be a part of something bigger, a community. Ellen’s solitary existence never appealed to me, it always seemed fickle and indistinct, something I’ve been happy to escape. Whenever Ellen told me in my twenties that I was missing out, I thought she was referring to the parties, the flirtations, the freedom. It never struck me that I might have been missing out on something more fundamental, something that exists – or at least ought to exist – within me.

  All studies indicate the middle child is most independent while the eldest is most intelligent, Håkon told me once many years ago out of the blue. He’d been reading up on the significance of the order of siblings. I think it was during dinner one Sunday, but I remember Ellen nodding with satisfaction across the table, at any rate. And all of the typical differences between the eldest, the middle child and the youngest are a result of the way parents treat their children differently, Håkon continued. Of course people treat their children differently, Mum said, children themselves are all different. The chicken or the egg, Håkon replied. Although I later found out that the results of the research were somewhat different from Håkon’s cocksure assertions at dinner, I remain convinced that it’s the fact that I’m the eldest that matters when it comes to the lack of independence Ellen is talking about, and which she claims to possess. No, it ought to be the opposite way around, Olaf said when I ran the theory past him, an eldest child himself. All of the world’s most successful people are eldest siblings, he said, the leaders in their fields, the research makes that quite clear. But a good leader is dependent on others to do a good job, I replied. That’s very female logic, Olaf replied, holding his hands up in the air as if Ellen might overhear what he’d said.

  In any case, I’ve always
taken more responsibility than Ellen and Håkon; it’s easy for them to be independent and do as they like when I’ve paved the way for them. Mum and Dad have always expected much more of me than of them. They made it very clear, for instance, that I should go into education straight from sixth form, while Ellen travelled to the US to ‘consider her options’ just a few years later, all without any major objections from either of them – and Håkon started studying at least three different subjects that he gave up on after a few semesters, messing around and doing nothing for an eternity while still living at home.

  It’s beyond dispute that the eldest child is subjected to the most pressure, I said to Olaf. The situation is what you make of it in a lot of ways, he replied, and I ended the conversation there, just as certain as I always had been that it must play a role – that the lack of independence could be explained by a personality that Mum and Dad had created for me.

  Now it makes no difference where the blame lies. It’s a bloody nightmare regardless, any sense of security is gone, and I’m losing control of every part of my life. I can’t seem to get a grip.

  After locking up Mum and Dad’s house, I consider running to Ellen’s. She recently bought a flat in St. Hanshaugen, but for the same reason that I can’t simply pick up the phone and ring her, I can’t just swing by. Ellen is the most confrontational of the lot of us, besides Mum, and she can’t let anything go, she wants it all out in the open, we have to be able to talk about this, she says. The fact that she hasn’t confronted me about the recent situation is worrying, the fact she hasn’t called me to discuss Mum and Dad, hasn’t turned up at my door to cry and question things, to curse, to mock. That’s her role, and I don’t dare undertake it myself. In one sense there has been something comforting in her absence; I’ve escaped the need to relate to the reality of the situation. But now too long has passed, and I’m starting to fear for our relationship, for our friendship and the close bond that I’ve always taken for granted. Even when my hatred for her peaked during my teenage years, the bond between us remained strong – we were sisters and would always have one another. I’ve never considered there to be any alternative.

  I run home instead and let myself in. I can tell all my keys apart even in the dark, I know exactly which shape of key corresponds to which lock. When I was at primary school, I wore a house key on a piece of string around my neck, a responsibility that was never conferred on Ellen, and one which I’ve never granted to Agnar – out of consideration for him, myself and for the other parents. In the hallway I remove the key for the house in Tåsen from the keyring and place it inside a drawer.

  ‘Hi,’ Olaf says behind me, and I turn around.

  He’s leaning against the doorway into the kitchen, one leg crossed over the other. He looks as if he’s been standing there for some time.

  ‘Hi,’ I reply.

  ‘Been out for a run?’ he asks.

  ‘Yes, then I popped by the house in Tåsen,’ I say so casually that I hope he reacts.

  I feel a need to ascribe words to the experience of having walked through something that felt almost like a museum of my own childhood, an exhibition of all that’s been lost. Or perhaps of what never existed in the first place, just scenes in a play about a family, my family.

  ‘I thought your mum was on holiday?’ Olaf replies, taking a bite of the piece of bread he’s holding in one hand.

  ‘She is. I just felt like popping in,’ I say.

  Olaf nods. He doesn’t appear to be thinking about moving, but says nothing. I don’t know what to say next. Ellen has always remarked on how glad she is to have language at her disposal, and I know what she means by that: I’ve always felt grateful to have grown up in a family that talks, and I’ve recreated that feeling in my own family – in spite of Olaf’s limitations when it comes to putting his feelings into words, that is. I’m glad that Agnar and Hedda have both learned to express themselves when they feel upset, for example, rather than simply wailing or slamming doors. Olaf and I have also always argued in concrete terms, rather than enforcing demonstrative silences or playing games. Now I find myself unable to put into words the very thing that is splitting the earth beneath my feet, tearing up the foundations of everyone around me.

  ‘So, how was it? Has Sverre taken all of the furniture with him?’ Olaf eventually asks, smiling.

  ‘No, there wasn’t much missing. He’s taken the lamp we gave him. Other than that, just a few bits and pieces. But that almost makes things worse,’ I say, and I know that’s true, that it really would have been better if Mum and Dad had more clearly emphasised the change, if they’d reacted in a way that would legitimise my own feelings.

  ‘What do you mean?’ Olaf asks. ‘How can that be worse?’

  ‘Because I want them to acknowledge the change!’ I say with some volume, and Olaf jumps. ‘They’re the only ones acting as if nothing is any different, as if they’re going to continue their lives just as they were before – only, by themselves from now on.’

  And Mum and Dad seem genuinely surprised that their decision has seen consequences great and small rippling across the landscape between them like waves. In a conversation with Mum just a few days after we returned from Italy, she furrowed her brows when she realised I was crying. Are you really so upset by all of this, she asked, and when I nodded, she told me that I had to try to understand that this wasn’t about me, or about any of you children, as she put it, before continuing somewhat paradoxically: We’re all adults, each and every one of us. This is between Sverre and me, she said, and her words punctured and left deflated every desperate question I had and the need I felt to receive any kind of apology.

  ‘But they might have a point, this doesn’t necessarily need to be as disastrous as you’re making it out to be,’ Olaf says, and I feel speechless in the face of his lack of understanding, his lack of support. Who is he really, the man standing in the doorway of our shared home and shared life, the man snacking on a piece of bread, the one who’s been my partner for almost twenty years now, yet who reveals at this crucial moment that he doesn’t know me at all?

  ‘Doesn’t need to be as disastrous? Giving up on a forty-year marriage, on an entire family?’

  ‘They’re not giving up on their family,’ Olaf says. ‘Now you’re overreacting.’

  ‘They’re giving up on everything that we were,’ I say, and my voice cracks, a result of Olaf’s cold lack of understanding and the realisation that has hit me full-force: ‘With a shrug of their shoulders they’re tearing down everything I’ve built my life on.’

  Olaf falls silent, inhaling as if about to say something but instead letting the air out in one long sigh before turning around and heading back into the kitchen.

  A few days later I take Agnar to the doctor. His spots have become much worse, it can’t be normal, I said to Olaf one evening, and as usual he responded by telling me he’d had spots at that age. Firstly, that doesn’t sound right, I’ve seen plenty of photos of Olaf as a teenager – he looks like a slightly less well-proportioned version of a fairy-tale prince – and secondly, it’s not a case of him having lots of spots, there’s more to it than that, I said to Olaf. He can’t sleep, it hurts him even just to lie there, it’s not normal. I booked an appointment with the doctor mostly for my own benefit. To fix something.

  The doctor asks Agnar if he wants me to come in, and Agnar looks at me.

  ‘It’s your decision,’ I say, making a half-hearted attempt to look as if I mean it, not trusting for a second that Agnar will speak up well enough for himself.

  ‘She can come in,’ he tells the doctor, and I’m sure I fail completely to disguise my relief and pride.

  Once she’s examined his face, she asks him to remove his shirt. I’m surprised; I haven’t seen his back and chest for a long time and his shoulders are broader, almost manly. He resembles Håkon, but most striking of all is the line that becomes visible when he removes his t-shirt, a line that reveals the fact that he can’t have spent any time without
a t-shirt on all summer, as well as the enflamed spots spreading from the nape of his neck and down his back, closely packed, like tiny, angry volcanoes. Poor Agnar, I picture him on the beach with his friends, in the showers at school – Olaf has forced him to shower in spite of the fact that Agnar has been on the verge of tears about it all, telling us nobody else did – and all of the looks from all of the girls, their gazes lingering on his forehead, around his mouth, looks that cause every tiny pimple on Agnar’s open, honest face to sting angrily. I’m furious, my anger aimless to begin with, but thereafter directed at Olaf. I don’t know why and can’t face thinking much more about it.

  The doctor asks Agnar about how things have been up until this point, how long he’s had issues with his skin, his daily habits, diet, that kind of thing. I squeeze the arm of the chair to prevent myself from interrupting Agnar, who stumbles over his words and misunderstands her questions, turning every so often to look over at me. I nod encouragingly, smiling with my lips pressed tightly closed. I don’t want to appear controlling and overprotective in front of the doctor, don’t know why I’m so concerned about what she thinks of me and us, but I feel as if we have something to prove – and I let Agnar tell her about things himself. About the pimples that appeared around Christmas time, that worsened over the course of the spring, that then got better, he can’t really remember everything, but March and April were OK, then everything got worse in July, he had a bump on his shoulder that he thought was cancer, but which turned out to be a totally sick spot, as he describes it, and over the course of the summer things only got worse and worse.