“Not that great.”
“What happened?”
“Frederik’s in the hospital. They think he might be suffering from depression.”
“But that’s good, isn’t it? Isn’t that a sign of progress?”
“Yes, it’s good. I don’t know …”
Then it’s quiet again.
“I don’t know,” I say once more. “What about you?”
“To be completely honest, things here aren’t going so well either.”
“What’s wrong?” I find myself shouting, as if he’s suffered some disaster.
“Well, it isn’t—”
“Yes?”
“No, it isn’t so … It’s just Lærke, she’s been struggling with some stupid sores she gets because she sits so much.”
I see vividly before me the spongy sores she might be getting from poor circulation in her buttocks.
And then without warning: he says it in the space of a second, and the tone of his voice is something I’ll replay again and again in my head. “I end up saying too much to you, Mia. It just slips out. I’m not cross, but you shouldn’t call me again. I need to hang up. I’m sorry.”
Hastened. From one moment to the next. And then a click. Then three short beeps, and quiet. I memorize the sound of his voice — and the click — and the three beeps. They all fuse into a single sound: the last I’ll ever hear from him.
20
A wan diffuse light lies upon the maze of small and rather deserted streets of low yellow row houses. Andrea lives here, and the support group is meeting at her place tonight. Three times I think I’ve found a parking spot, and each time it turns out to be reserved for disabled drivers. Perhaps the buildings here have been especially designed for wheelchair users? Petals from a cherry tree speckle the lime-green surface of the car in front of me, which has a handicapped sticker in the window.
As I maneuver my car into a tight space a little farther away, I catch sight of Kirsten; she stops and stands waiting for me. Two weeks ago, she told me on the phone that her husband had been admitted to the hospital again. The doctors say she might get him home in a couple of months, but it could also be that he’ll never return.
Together we walk over toward Andrea’s house, and on the way we meet Gerda and Anton. They’ve already heard from others in the group that Frederik was only in Hillerød for a few days, and that he’s been home again for a week now. Gerda tells us she’s finally gotten a new caseworker from the local authorities, but Merethe already told me.
Andrea lets us in, and she gives me a great long hug. She’s the group member I talk most to on the phone. Every time I call her, I feel a strong desire to take care of her — to protect her from her hard life with two small children and a husband who has multiple handicaps. But in reality, she’s the one who looks after me. Despite a demanding career as a biologist, she always has time to pose the right questions, to listen, and to come up with new suggestions about neurological research — like her tip about the Iowa Gambling Task — that might save Frederik in his court case.
While she ushers the others into the living room, I act as if I’m going to use the bathroom. She won’t mind me walking around a little and seeing what her house is like before taking my seat with the group.
Quietly, I walk to the bathroom, which is large and fitted out for a wheelchair user, with lifting equipment like in a hospital. I know that a home caregiver comes twice a day to help Ian with hygiene. Then I poke my head into the kitchen, which looks more ordinary. The walls are mustard-colored, ’80s-style, and the kitchen cabinets cheap, but Andrea has hung up lots of kids’ drawings and paper chains and photos. There’s so much color and life here that it makes you just want to sit down and hang out with your family.
The biggest picture is of Ian seated in his wheelchair and grinning, while their youngest crawls on his lap and their eldest stands at his side, thoughtfully leaning her head against the backrest.
I’d like to poke my head into the bedroom too, but Andrea has stacked two moving boxes in front of the door. They’d be easy to get past, but they may signal that she wants to keep the bedroom to herself.
In the small entryway, I stand quietly and listen through the door to the living room. Lissie’s telling them how she tried explaining to her husband this afternoon where Andrea lives. “ ‘It’s just north of Hillerød.’ ‘Ohh, in the direction of Køge?’ ‘No, up along King’s Road past Birkerød.’ ‘Do you go past Kolding?’ ”
I can hear them laughing in there, Lissie loudest of all. Kolding’s on the mainland, some three hours in a completely different direction. “ ‘You drive up along King’s Road, and then north of Hillerød you take a right.’ ‘Ah, now I understand! You head toward the airport!’ ‘No, no, toward a small town called King’s Meadows.’ ‘And then past Roskilde?’ ‘No, no, no!’ ‘Well then I’m completely confused. Do you drive toward Gilleleje?’ ‘Yes, at the start you could actually say it’s toward Gilleleje.’ ‘Okay, and then you turn off at Odense?’ ”
They keep laughing on the other side of the door. Lissie has the healthiest spouse of the group. She and her husband still see their friends, travel together, and I dare say enjoy life on his pension, but he suffers from spatial disorder and can perseverate as well. When he has a bad day, he can ask questions about directions for half an hour at a stretch without realizing that time is passing, and in the end he gets to be tremendously annoying.
Lissie told us once that she laughs a lot with her husband. But by now I’ve heard plenty of women say the exact same thing, only to find out later that they actually laugh at their husbands, who laugh along without really understanding why. It might sound harsh to say that the best thing you’ve got left from a long marriage is laughing at how stupid your husband is, but if that’s the only way to keep your spirits up …
I open the door to where the others are sitting, just as Andrea says that Bernard’s been delayed a bit. I stop in the doorway. “Delayed? But I thought he wasn’t coming today. That’s what Merethe said.”
“Yes, he was supposed to have a meeting at Lærke’s day-care center, but it was rescheduled.”
Do they notice anything in my reaction? They must be deaf and blind if they don’t.
But nobody reacts, and I sit down quickly without a word, staring at the table. Bernard must think I’m not coming tonight, because I sent Andrea my regrets and only found out today that a meeting at school had been canceled.
I should leave now. I should definitely leave. Bernard’s been in the group much longer than me.
The others talk about the relationships they have with their in-laws — ancient mothers and fathers who are helping take care of sons over sixty.
The doorbell rings. Andrea gets up and the others chatter on, oblivious.
Faint noises in the hall. Is he hanging up his jacket? Andrea’s friendly chuckle. The door opens.
He catches sight of me and slumps, and hunched over he retreats backward to the hallway.
“Bernard, Bernard! What’s the matter?” the women all call in chorus.
“Nothing!” he answers from the far side of the door.
“Yes, but …”
They look anxiously at one another.
And then he enters again, erect and smiling. It took only a few seconds.
“I get stomach cramps once in a while,” he says, avoiding my gaze. “It’s the stress. Don’t worry about it.”
They fall on him. “That’s awful! You should do something about it.” “Werner had the same thing, but he got over it.” “Have you had X-rays?” “I know a good specialist.” “Carrot juice, have you tried that?”
“Sorry to frighten you. It’s nothing, I feel better already.”