“I’ll definitely do it. I’ve just been delayed,” he said.
“Okay. So I shouldn’t do it?”
“Nope, not on any account.”
Now a fourth meeting is in the wings, and this time I’m not saying a word. Not only that, but in the last few months I’ve actually begun to feel a connection to him. For I’ve read about his symptoms hundreds of times on the internet, heard about them in support group, seen them in the clinics. And they’re quite common.
The impulse to execute an action is formed in an area of the brain that is distinct from the area that determines what we plan and say. Even a quite minor injury to the frontal lobes will often weaken the connection between the two areas, and that means that an affected person may seem completely healthy as long as you’re just talking to him. Yet it’s disturbing how few of his fine words and plans ever lead to anything — again, just like with some teenagers. There’s simply no neural contact between word and deed.
In the teachers’ lounge, when the others are hanging out and enjoying themselves, I’ve begun to feel alone. Even if I took several weeks to explain to those I’m closest to how different everything’s become at home, none of the teachers would really understand. Niels certainly wouldn’t understand either, and yet I have a deep sense that he and I are on the same team.
I don’t know if his injury’s congenital, or if he perhaps hit his head at some point. No one’s ever mentioned brain damage when they talk about him or why the hell the administration doesn’t fire him. But I’m sure they can’t imagine how different things are for him at home either.
• • •
The doctors have been saying for a long time that I shouldn’t expect Frederik to ever become completely well. The best I dare hope for is that, someday, his symptoms will be just as difficult to detect as Niels’s.
• • •
After the next class, Bernard hasn’t replied to my text. I pay it no mind. But after the third class he still hasn’t answered. And then it hits me: he isn’t answering.
He doesn’t intend to answer.
He’ll never answer.
The goofy mood I’ve been in since last night vanishes from one moment to the next, and just like I’ve seen teenage girls from my older classes do, I lock myself in the bathroom. Fortunately it’s lunch break, and then I have a free period, so I can weep in peace. When the free period is about to end, I call the school secretary from the bathroom and tell her I’ve become ill and have to go home. She knows it’s not true, but she’s kind and wishes me a speedy recovery.
As I’m driving home, the realtor calls; a buyer has signed the contract, and we have to be out within a month. We still haven’t found another place because it turned out we couldn’t afford the apartment I saw with Bernard, and since then I haven’t had the energy to look elsewhere.
At home, there’s already a message on the answering machine from the estate administrator: now that the house has been sold and no longer needs to look good for potential buyers, they’re going to come on Monday and take possession of their half of the furniture and household effects.
I just want to crawl into bed. Frederik’s lying there already, just like he was before he was admitted to the psych ward.
In bed, I toss and turn at his side, I can’t fall asleep, yet I don’t feel awake either. Again and again I check my cell, to see if I accidentally turned it off or set it to mute, to see if the text to Bernard was sent. The sign on the ceiling: are we really cursed? Is it our own fault? I threw Frederik out a long time ago, and Niklas found me unconscious on the kitchen floor. Something a son shouldn’t have to experience. Yes, cursed. A righteous punishment.
And the odor in here: my father home from prison, the smell of his two-bedroom flat as he sat with a blanket across his legs and slowly went to pieces. My visits, the months before he died. He was definitely cursed.
The doorbell rings. I’m not up to answering it, but then Frederik gets out of bed and goes downstairs.
I can hear that it’s the neighbor. A letter for us, delivered to them by mistake. I’ve explained to them that they shouldn’t give letters or messages directly to Frederik. I’m worried that they won’t reach me, but I can hear she’s doing it anyway.
They’re talking down below. I hate getting letters. As a rule, they just pile more work on top of what I’m already behind on. Forms to fill out for the municipality, the union, the insurance company; new appointments with Frederik’s doctors. It never lets up.
Frederik comes back in. “Not good,” he says.
“What’s not good? God damn it, what is it this time? What mess have you dragged me into now?”
He hands me a letter that he’s already opened, and I twist myself up into a sitting position.
It’s from Frederik’s new lawyer.
Dear Mr. Halling,
I have attached the psychiatric report from the Medico-Legal Council.
Unfortunately, it is not as positive as we had hoped. As you can see, the council chose to disregard the opinion they commissioned from the neuropsychologist Herdis Lebech.
As you will recall, it is not possible to appeal the case any further.
I am at your disposal for any questions you may have, starting on Tuesday. You may call my secretary and request an appointment for us to speak on the telephone.
Sincerely yours,
Louise Rambøll
I read the opening lines of the attached report and skim the other pages: … finds the assertion that Frederik Halling was mentally unstable at the time of the crime not proven … fully acquainted with the consequences of his actions and therefore responsible …
Back when Frederik was himself, I would have talked to him about a matter as critical as this. I also would have tried to in the first months after his operation, because I still couldn’t conceive then how meaningless my efforts really were. But I no longer have the energy — the energy to struggle with the case and at the same time attend to his needs.
My cell phone lies on the night table, still without a text from Bernard. I punch in the new lawyer’s number. Her secretary doesn’t want to transfer me, but I press her and at last she puts me through.
“I don’t understand … but Dr. Lebech said …” I find myself crying.
Louise Rambøll’s an idiot — just as she’s been in my previous conversations with her. The only thing she can say is that I’ve understood the letter correctly: Frederik will receive a sentence of at least three years. After he’s served his time, his criminal record will prevent him from ever working with children again or for a public employer, regardless of how well he becomes. If he doesn’t qualify for a disability pension, he’ll have to go on welfare, and there’s nothing we can do about it.
Frederik asks, “What’s she saying?”
“She hasn’t got a clue about anything!” I shout at him, with her still on the line.
I hang up without saying goodbye and call Bernard.
His secretary doesn’t want to put me through either. But I don’t stop crying while I tell her to tell him that Frederik’s psychiatric report has come.
He takes the phone and his manner is formal — hardly that of a man whose limbs were entwined with mine on the hood of a car last night.
“This is Bernard.”
“Bernard, you’re going to have to take on the case again. Louise Rambøll is totally impossible. Frederik’s going to jail now.”
“Louise is very clever.”
“No! She’s about to send Frederik to jail!”
“I’ll have a talk with Louise, and then—”