More Bitter Than Death (7 page)

I look at Mia, who’s still crying, her eyes fixed on the floor. I realize that I haven’t gotten to know the person Patrik is describing either, the outgoing, talkative woman he was once in love with. For the first time I’m seriously worried about her. What if she’s so depressed that she actually needs a stronger intervention than our little counseling practice can offer her? I’ve lost patients before, and I don’t want to see that happen again.

“Mia,” I begin hesitantly, touching her shoulder very gently, which makes her jump. “Mia, what do you have to say about this?”

Mia just shakes her head. “It’s not . . . like that,” she says.

“What do you mean? What’s not like what?” I ask.

Patrik folds his tall body back into the comparatively tiny armchair and eyes Mia dubiously.

“It’s not like Patrik says,” Mia argues. “I mean, yeah, I was tired. I had fallen asleep for a while, but I definitely hadn’t taken any pills.”

“Whose pills are they then, Mia? Can you explain that?” Patrik says slowly.

“They’re mine, all right? I got them from the doctor, you know that perfectly well. I don’t sleep well. I suffer from anxiety. I don’t know what to do. That’s why I’m so tired during the day. But I wasn’t on anything yesterday, not then. I was just so . . . tired.” Mia speaks quietly, looking down at the floor the whole time, all the while rubbing her thighs.

“I didn’t
taaaaake
any
piiiiiiilllls,
” Patrik mimics her, his voice shrill. “Do
you know how pathetic you are? There’s not an addict around who doesn’t claim that they’re not under the influence. You can’t trust an addict, don’t you know that? You gave up the privilege of being believed as soon as you started taking those goddamn pills. Do you get it?”

My wall clock shows that it’s getting close to three, which means that we’re going to have to wrap this up. It’s like that sometimes; you’re forced to end a session right in the middle of something painful or important. After all, at the end of the day, I’m only paid to listen to their confessions for sixty minutes at a time. So I do what I’ve done so many times before: summarize our conversation, give them a short assignment to work on for next time. Finally we set up a new appointment for the following week.

I watch Patrik and Mia leave the room—him first, moving jerkily, full of pent-up rage, her right behind, shuffling, still with her head down.

Like a dog.

His dog.

All that’s left in the room is a faint, acrid smell of sweat in the air. Everything is quiet again.

“And Anette isn’t exciting enough for you to hang out with?” Markus asks sarcastically.

Markus and I are arguing again. It’s the most wretched of pastimes, accusations being lobbed around the room like snowballs. The only goal is to hurt the other person, get a cold, hard strike right in their most sensitive spot.

Gray light sifts in through my glass doors.

Outside the ocean, raw and inhospitable. Foam and brown leaves float in the water along the shore. The temperature is approaching freezing outside and no one in their right mind would swim anymore or sit on the rocks admiring the view. Black birds root around in the puddles in the yard, looking for cold, slippery insects to sate their hunger. Naked trees unabashedly stretch their bodies into the leaden sky.

“There’s nothing wrong with Anette,” I reply. “I just don’t know if I want to spend Christmas with her.”

Lie.

There is something wrong with Markus’s sister. She’s so damn boring, she makes time stand still.

She’s a cop, like Markus. She lives in a suburb where all the houses are the same—same weathered gray wood façades, same blue trampolines in the yard, same Weber grill on the neatly manicured lawns outside the kitchen window, husband, two children, the match on the TV during dinner, the children nagging nonstop to be excused from the table so they can go play video games.

Why should I spend my Christmas with her? I don’t see the logic.

Markus is losing now, because how is he supposed to argue that I should have to hang out with Anette since I’ve been honest about how I feel about her from day one?

“That’s just so damn typical of you,” he says. That accusation doesn’t really stick, but his voice is dark and filled with rage. It fills my room like black water, oozing into the space between us, filling it with its presence.

“You’re. Not. Being. Fair.” And now I’m the one screaming. “I never promised
that we would hang out like that, did I? That we’re . . . that we would be . . . together, not like that. I’m sorry. I wish I were different, but I’m just not right now.”

“Do you know how that makes me feel?” Markus says, his voice tense now, his jaws clenched.

And I shake my head, because how should I know?

“Like a fucking prostitute,” he says.

I can’t help it, but his comment makes me burst into uncontrollable giggles. It seems ludicrous. Markus, a prostitute. Markus, my little whore. I walk over to him and hug him gently. Kiss his stubbly cheek.

“Honey. You’re many things to me, but a whore . . . ,” I say, and then giggle again.

His body is stiff in my arms. With determination he loosens my arms and looks at me without saying anything, turns around, and walks out to the front hall, where coats and shoes are all strewn about. He throws on his jacket, steps into his muddy rain boots, and disappears out the door, out into the leaden-gray, damp, chilly afternoon. I can hear footsteps as he walks away from the house through the muddy puddles. The door is still ajar. Cool, damp air seeps into my living room.

He’s gone.

Just like that.

And I’m left behind, alone.

I feel guilty now, guilt in every pore, in the air I breathe, in the sweat that covers my palms.

And filled with certainty.

He deserves someone better than me.

Excerpt from Pediatric Health Care Center Patient File

Phone conversation with the mother

The mother contacts the Pediatric Health Care Center because she’s worried about her son. She says that she has always thought he was behind and that he is having a hard time getting going in terms of his language development. He’s also clumsy, behind in his gross motor skills, and he has trouble jumping and climbing. He sometimes has tantrums both at preschool and at home, which often seem to happen when he can’t make himself understood. The mother also thinks her son is smart but a little passive and that he has a hard time relating to other children. At preschool they think the boy does relatively well. He has friends but mostly likes to spend time with the younger children, which they think might be because his language skills are a little behind. Otherwise, they don’t see any particular problems with the boy.

I explain to the mother that all children are unique and meet milestones at their own pace and that development varies a great deal between different children. I also emphasize that her son seems to be a clever boy who has friends at preschool, which is important. We also talk about the mother’s difficulties in handling the boy’s tantrums. The mother says she feels miserable and powerless when she can’t calm her child. I tell the mother that she can meet with a psychologist here at the Pediatric Health Care Center to discuss her difficulties in her role as mother. The mother will think about this and get back to us if she wants to talk.

Ingrid Svensk, PHCC nurse

Autumn in Stockholm.

Leaves dance across the cobblestone square at Medborgarplatsen in the setting sun. The gray clouds have given way to a dazzlingly blue sky that is reflected in the puddles, which still cover the ground after the last several days’ worth of rain. People are scurrying in different directions in the chilly breeze. The sound of cars honking can be heard from somewhere over by Skanstull.

I back away from the window slowly, into the conference room. I check the chairs, which are arranged in a circle. There’s a carafe of water and glasses on the little tray table by the door, paper and pens, Kleenex, the usual trappings.

There’s a knock on the door and Aina peeks in. Her hair is pulled up in a loose knot and her baggy red cardigan hangs down almost to her calves.

“They’re here, all of them,” Aina says.

“All right,” I reply. “Let’s get started.”

*   *   *

A few minutes later we’re all sitting in a circle on the hard chairs. Laughter and giggles fill the room. Someone opens a bottle of mineral water.

If you didn’t know it, you wouldn’t believe this is a self-help group for women who have been victims of violence. The mood is much too upbeat for that.

Sirkka laughs huskily and loudly at something Malin says, running her wrinkled hand through her red hair at the same time. She hitches her stonewashed jeans up higher over her bony behind and settles down next to me, so close that I smell the cigarette smoke and cheap perfume on her.

Then she looks at me. They all look at me, and suddenly I go silent. My throat tightens and suddenly I feel my cheeks getting red.

This feeling of discomfort is inexplicable because I’m always confident with my patients. Of course sometimes I struggle with how best to help someone. And I don’t always find the right answer.

But this is something else. This is something new, a sudden, mysterious social insecurity.

I look helplessly at Aina across the room. She smiles and seems not to have perceived my panic, but she must have noticed that there’s a vacuum, because she jumps right in, welcoming everyone in that warm, open way she has. Then she gently reaches out to Malin, who’s sitting next to her.

“Shall we take a few minutes and tell each other how our weeks went? Malin, would you like to start?”

Malin smiles broadly, exposing a line of straight, white teeth. She doesn’t at all resemble that shaky woman who described being raped at last week’s meeting.

“I had an awesome week,” Malin says. “My big sister had a baby on Tuesday, so I went and visited the new mother and father. And I’ve been working out a lot. There are really a lot of races this fall, so I’ve been running a lot of cross-country and hills, a couple of hours a day.”

She shrugs her muscular shoulders, as if she wants to minimize her workout efforts, and looks at Sofie, who’s sitting to her left.

Sofie smiles hesitantly and tugs a little at her faded top. Despite the thick layer of makeup, she doesn’t look a day older than seventeen. Her voice is faint and hoarse as she begins: “Nothing special. Mostly school and stuff, you know.”

Aina nods and gestures to Hillevi, who’s sitting next to Sofie. Hillevi is dressed entirely in black and is astonishingly beautiful. Her dark, short hair follows the graceful shape of her head. Her big, dark eyes calmly look around the room and she smiles a little.

“I’ve been doing a lot of thinking this week,” Hillevi says.

“Tell us,” Aina says.

Hillevi nods and says, “Last week’s meeting gave me a lot to think about. I have to say that I thought it was incredibly brave of you, Malin, to tell us about the rape. And it helped me. Because if you’re strong enough to talk about it already, then I know I’m going to be able to make it. We’re going to make it, me and the kids.”

Malin looks self-conscious, glances down at the floor, but smiles a little.

Aina nods and makes a note and I feel awkward again, as if I’m not contributing anything to the group.

Great, I think. I’m like a prop. I watch Sirkka, who’s gesticulating and talking, but suddenly I can’t hear what she’s saying. I just see her red hair and those
slender hands, that narrow mouth of hers—crisscrossed by deep wrinkles and moving steadily as she recounts the events of the week.

The group laughs at something she says. Aina laughs, then glances at me and raises an inquisitive eyebrow.

I laugh dutifully and my insides are suddenly filled with something cold. Am I really going to be able to handle this? Can I—myself the victim of a crime—help these women? I, who can’t even summon enough energy to make myself listen to them?

Then it’s Kattis’s turn to speak. Her long, brown hair is gathered into a sort of twisted bun, just like the last time we saw each other. But she looks more tired today, more worn out, as if the last week has aged her.