A Modern Family

by Helga Flatland

  As if she’d been listening in on the entire thing, Liv sent a message to us both the following day, asking if we’d like to meet up for a drink.

  We met up in Tøyen a few days ago, the most convenient location for Håkon, naturally. He’s bought a flat in Kampen. Even though he lives closest and ought to have been the first to turn up, I arrived ten minutes before him. Liv messaged to tell us that she was running late, apologising so profusely that I didn’t have the heart to let the frustration I might otherwise feel take control – I’ve never understood how certain people can constantly be running late for things. People like my siblings, for instance. There’s nothing cool about turning up late, I’ve told Håkon in the past. I suspect he thinks that’s the case, that he thinks by refusing to worry about five minutes here or there, or to think about time at all, he’s somehow displaying strength of character. It’s just plain rude, I tell him, showing such unwillingness to take other people’s time or prior arrangements seriously just exposes a person’s own insecurities, I say. I think the word ‘rude’ is the greatest insult anyone in our family could give or receive. It was introduced by Mum and Dad as something awful from an early age, something to be feared, a trait considered equal to being vulgar or brash. On several occasions over the past few days, I’ve wanted to call Mum and tell her how brash her behaviour is, how incredibly vulgar it is to meet a man on holiday in the Mediterranean when you’ve only just separated from your husband, and in your seventies, no less.

  Håkon walked into the café in Tøyen at ten past seven. It’s ten past seven, I told him as he hung his jacket over the back of his chair. Liv’s not here either, he said apologetically. No, but at least she got in touch to tell us she’d be late, I said. Sorry, Håkon said. Can I get you a beer? Something to help you bear the burden of your pain and suffering? Yes, a toast on the occasion of Clinton’s wake, I said, knowing that Håkon would launch into the same discussion we’ve had several times over the past year. Talking to my siblings is one of my favourite things to do – the combination of everything that goes without saying and all those things that still surprise, the similarities and vast differences in the ways we think and express ourselves. Though they’re capable of surprising me with fresh arguments, I find that I can almost always predict the direction they’re headed in and tend to recognise the build-up.

  I hadn’t predicted any of the accusations that Liv launched at Håkon and me when she did finally arrive twenty minutes later.

  Liv and I have always argued, and right up until we were teenagers, we even engaged in physical fights. I remember how Liv used to grip on to the fridge with one hand to gain more leverage for the punches or shoves she’d aim at me, while I pulled her hair or dug my nails into her forearm, scratching and nipping her. But very few of those fights left their mark on us, as far as I can remember; they’ve never been significant. Rather, they’ve been part of our process of socialisation, and have given us something to laugh about with hindsight; the after-effects don’t run deep within our psyches. In those few arguments I do remember, something else played a part, like that one summer at the cabin when Liv said that Mum and Dad were getting divorced and it was all my fault – I spent the entire autumn walking around with a unpleasant lump in my stomach, looking for signs that it might be true. There was an undeniably horrible atmosphere that summer and autumn, and it’s all your fault, Liv said. I was convinced that what she was saying was true, that it was all a result of my difficult behaviour during the summer.

  Now I realise it had nothing to do with me or with the hormones that made my mind and body so unrecognisable to me at the time. Nothing to do with the fact that I felt angrier and more upset than ever before, that I hated my body and marched along the beach bundled up in enormous hoodies, that Mum and Dad both left me feeling permanently enraged. In my eyes they were stupid and unfair, and I constantly challenged everything they did, making awful, sly digs at Mum at every possible opportunity, rejecting any attempt she made to get close to me. The situation culminated in me knocking over an entire pan of crabs one evening towards the end of the summer as part of an ongoing argument I’d been having with Dad, who had refused to let me visit a friend in the neighbouring cabin because our uncle and aunt were coming to visit.

  Whenever there was any sign of an argument brewing between Mum and Dad in the autumn that followed, Liv would look at me as if it were my fault. I still remember how horrible it felt to have her blame me, both because I feared that she might be right, but also because I’ve always wanted to impress Liv, to make her proud of me, even to this day.

  They should have separated, I think to myself now. There’s something deeply disturbing in Dad’s repetition that things haven’t been right between them for years, if they ever had been right at all, in fact – the idea that they’ve gone along with things for so long while wishing for something different all this time.

  The doorbell goes the day after I meet up with Liv and Håkon. I’m lying in bed, my white pillow case flecked with eye make-up. I’ve called the office to tell them I’ll be working from home, as I often do, and that I’m not quite feeling myself – it’s true to a certain extent. The conversation between Håkon, Liv and me has left me feeling sick, and my head is aching after the argument I had with Simen before he left first thing.

  As I’d been lying beside him this morning, before either of us had properly woken up, he had pushed me away in a fleeting moment of pure instinct. We were both half-asleep at the time, and I’d placed a hand on his chest without thinking, my body driven by a vague desire for intimacy and some sense of belonging, no doubt triggered by the confrontation with Liv and Håkon the previous evening. Simen had woken up with a start, pushing me away with a shout. He’d seemed taken aback after the fact, embarrassed perhaps, I can’t be sure, but either way he was quick to get up out of bed. You could at least have asked me first, he muttered crossly, looking for something to wear for the day ahead. What, ask if I can touch you? I replied. Simen said nothing, making his way into the bathroom and turning on the shower. Later, I heard the front door close from where I lay in the bedroom; I think it might be the first time he’s ever left without saying goodbye.

  I get up reluctantly when I hear the doorbell, pull on my dressing gown. I shouldn’t have slept naked, I should have worn pyjamas or a t-shirt so Simen would have known there was a secure line of defence separating us; he’s probably been trying to get away ever since I dived into bed last night, naked, drunk and seemingly without a care in the world.

  Only salesmen and TV licence people call at your door without warning, and I always go out onto the balcony to check who’s waiting downstairs before letting anyone in. I lean over the railing and look down. Dad is standing there in his exercise gear, jogging on the spot four floors below me, his thick, grey hair like a lion’s mane under his hat. It’s cold; quick, small puffs of frosty air reveal the fact that he’s out of breath. I stand looking down on him for just a little longer than I should; he tips his head back and looks up, doesn’t know which floor I live on, he’s never been here before. I jump back, don’t think he catches sight of me, then run back inside and feign surprise at hearing his voice on the entryphone.

  I hurry into the bathroom and wipe away the make-up that’s become smeared beneath my puffy eyes, pulling on some jogging bottoms and Simen’s hoodie. I only just make it to the door as Dad makes his way around the last turn in the stairwell and comes into view just below me. He’s quick on his feet in spite of his sore knee. He must be in much better shape than me, I hate exercise. Both Liv and Håkon have inherited his impulse to move, to exercise – Liv goes as far as to describe herself as being dependent on it, she feels like she experiences genuine withdrawal symptoms if she doesn’t manage to fit a run into her schedule. I’m more like Mum when it comes to that kind of thing, we’re more laid-back, the two of us, she’s often said to me, when we’ve been on holiday or away together and the other three have gone off for a run or some other physical activity.
Often, she and I have settled into our armchairs or cosied up on the sofa, enjoying a beer and some crisps, a bar of chocolate or some other unhealthy treat, and I still can’t imagine anything nicer than those short, special, somehow secret hours spent with her.

  ‘Well, you get a bit of exercise for free here,’ Dad says, nodding at the stairs before removing his hat and giving me a hug.

  ‘Well, yes and no,’ I say, smiling and pointing at the lift door behind him.

  He laughs.

  ‘Have you been out for a run?’ I ask, letting him past me and into the hallway.

  ‘Yes, I was just out and thought I’d see if you were at home, plus, I haven’t seen your flat yet,’ he says.

  ‘No, things have been busy lately,’ I reply, my conscience and sense of self-righteousness busy doing battle with one another. ‘Do you want a coffee? Tea?’

  ‘I’d love a tea,’ Dad replies, removing his shoes.

  I make my way into the kitchen and leave Dad to have a look around the flat on his own, listen to him opening bathroom cabinets and bedroom cupboards, letting himself out onto the balcony, hearing knocking sounds as he taps on walls and pipes and goodness knows what else. I can’t help but smile, pleased that he still checks these things, happy to know he’s looking out for me. Simen would probably see it as a disparaging move on Dad’s part, the way he goes around doing his thing like this, and I’m glad he’s not at home to see it. It’s as if the atmosphere in the flat changes with Dad here, the place feels warmer, smaller.

  ‘A lovely place you’ve got here, Ellen,’ Dad says as he comes into the kitchen.

  ‘Yes, we’re happy here,’ I say, pouring the boiling water into the teapot and placing it in front of Dad on the small kitchen table before digging out two cups.

  ‘The layout here is almost the same as in mine, though my place is quite a bit smaller,’ he says, measuring the size of the kitchen in his mind’s eye using the skirting board as a guide.

  Dad is taller and broader than the average person, and my mind has a tendency to exaggerate these features. He’s always represented something strong and safe and stable in my eyes. Now, as I picture him in his little flat, he suddenly seems small, weak, sad.

  ‘So, how’s it going living on your own?’ I ask him, as if he were a student who’s just moved away from home.

  ‘Fine, thanks, still a little unusual. And a little empty, I have to admit,’ Dad replies. I ought to have been to visit him.

  ‘You could always call off the divorce,’ I say, smiling even though I mean it, but also in an attempt to check whether he’s heard about Morten or not.

  ‘That’s not just up to me,’ he says.

  ‘And if it were up to you, would you be moving back?’ I ask him.

  ‘No, that would be too easy. I still think this is for the best,’ Dad replies, and I’m not sure if he means it or if it’s his pride that’s causing him to say it, or a sense of shame, or perhaps a combination of all these things and more.

  I pour us both a cup of tea, the same tea he and Mum have always bought, and the only tea that Liv, Håkon and I drink.

  ‘I think you’re being silly,’ I tell him.

  ‘Your mother and I are two relatively well-informed people who have reached this decision together. As I said, there’s too little left to be drawn from our marriage,’ and once again I have the desire to point out the strangeness in thinking that anyone should draw anything but children and grandchildren from a marriage at their age, but I hold back, can’t face the discussion that would ensue.

  ‘What size is the flat?’ Dad asks, changing the subject in a neutral tone.

  ‘I think it’s about seventy-five square metres, including the balcony,’ I say.

  He nods, smiling.

  ‘Have you spoken to Håkon?’ he asks after a short pause.

  ‘Yes, I actually met up with him and Liv yesterday. We had a beer in Tøyen.’

  ‘Did you now?’ Dad replies, looking almost relieved.

  I don’t have the heart to tell him about the conversation I had with Håkon and Liv, how awful it was, how upset Liv is, and how clearly Håkon seems to be demonstrating how unaffected he is by things. I can’t bring myself to describe how we sat there, around the table, all three of us so distant, with Liv almost hostile in our presence. You do nothing, she shouted at me, you’re completely irresponsible. You always leave me to deal with everything, turning up whenever you feel like it, enjoying the benefits of everything that falls within the category of family life as and when it suits you. And now here you are, leaving me to take responsibility for this, too.’

  I thought she knew about Mum’s new partner, I wasn’t trying to make a point, I told Håkon after Liv had left. And I think I believed that she knew, but I don’t know for certain; perhaps in the moment I mentioned it to Liv I wanted to hurt both her and Mum – to exact revenge for the accusations that had rained down upon me, for the injustice of being held responsible for Mum and Dad’s decision. All the same, I didn’t feel even the faintest hint of schadenfreude when I saw how crushed Liv was.

  We’ve been living a lie, Liv said several times that evening, the same notion expressed in numerous different ways. Håkon was silent. It’s not a lie, I tried to tell her, they might be divorcing now but it was real, I said, I couldn’t understand what she was getting at. But today I feel myself coming around to understanding her point of view, beginning to see how the whole thing draws a veil of insincerity over every memory and experience and belief I have relating to family life, with Mum and Dad clearly able to brush off forty years of marriage, to abandon so easily the union that created us. That is, at least, how I think Liv perceives things, although I can’t read her the same way I once could.

  Personally, I’ve never felt that there’s anything heroic in the act of remaining in dead-end or miserable relationships, regardless of the reasons for feeling that way – if people have children, those children will be better off with happy parents, I’ve always felt – and it seems helpless and rather pathetic not to break free from such a relationship. Nowadays I chop and change between standing for what I’ve always believed and leaning in the other direction, particularly in light of Liv’s reaction – surely if they managed to hold out together for so long, they might as well keep it up for the remainder.

  I want to confront Dad, to tell him about the conflict between Liv, Håkon and me, to force him to take some responsibility and to tidy up the mess he and Mum have left for us. Even so, I can’t bring myself to feel angry.

  It feels so safe to have him sitting here in my kitchen, I can’t do anything other than cling to that feeling. He just needs to be here, to be Dad; we can pretend nothing’s amiss for a short while, or at the very least pretend that I have one family I can pin my hopes on, trust in, rely on. I’m so tired. I’m so small.

  ‘What are you going to do with the extra room?’ Dad asks, clearly not thinking about anything other than the fact it’s an empty room, not sensing what the room might be missing, ten square metres teeming with fragments of unspoken hopes and expectations.

  Oh, Dad.

  I’m lying in bed when Simen gets home, unconcerned that it might seem like I’m trying to make a point one way or another. I haven’t checked my emails or phone all day; it’s the first time in as long as I can remember that I’ve set them to one side for so long. Liv believes I’m genuinely afflicted by Internet Addiction, and it’s true that I experience physical and mental symptoms if I don’t have access to the net for a few hours at a time. From a rational standpoint, I’m aware that I’m probably not missing out on anything important, and as a rule it’s not crucial for me to check my emails or Facebook messages every half-hour. But it’s like losing a limb, if I’m being honest, as I explained to Simen in Croatia one day when I’d managed to leave my phone behind at the hotel. It’s a sense of being disconnected from the world, of being on the outside, I said. And I don’t find that enjoyable in the slightest, I continued. No, but it’s enjoyable
for me, Simen said. He’s designated at least two hours a day as mobile-free, often longer over the weekends, and he believes that it’s only during those hours that he feels connected to the real world. You’re just old, I tell him, that’s an old-fashioned notion, the idea that the internet and the possibilities it brings aren’t part of the real world.

  It’s just as real as that tree is, I said, pointing to a tree trunk beside the pathway one afternoon as we walked around the lake at Sognsvann – for the simple reason that Simen grows restless sitting at home without being able to use his computer, his mobile, his Netflix account and everything else that’s hooked up to the internet. Simen thinks I’m wrong, that I’m the old-fashioned one – wait and see, he says, you’re part of a generation for whom the internet is so new that we’re all amateurs really. Everybody who grows up with it today will relate to it completely differently in the future, even a teenager nowadays has a better grasp of it than you do, a more natural relationship compared with our forced ways of using and understanding what it has to offer. I couldn’t be bothered to point out the forced nature of Simen’s self-imposed, clearly taxing quarantines.

  The first thing I tend to do in the morning, while still lying in bed, is to check emails, news and social media on my mobile. I haven’t given it a single thought today, I’ve simply lain there in silence without moving, barely able to formulate a single coherent thought since Dad left. I wrap my duvet around me, hear Simen making himself a coffee while on the phone to his brother. They speak to each other much more formally than I do with my siblings – they’re so polite. The kind of confrontation that erupted between Håkon, Liv and me yesterday would seem absurd to them. My entire family situation would seem absurd to Simen’s well-ordered family, and even though I’ve thought before that it must be awfully dull living in a family where so much goes unsaid, never having an honest conversation, never engaging in a real confrontation, I do wish now that my own family might occasionally have said a little less, kept more to themselves, been less concerned with what’s authentic and ‘real’, values that now seem self-centred and pretentious.