Vanished (34 page)

Her elation dwindled as anger stole over her, a sense of being wronged. He hadn’t called. He didn’t leave a note. He had left her in bed without saying a word. Had he looked at her before he left? Had he caressed her cheek? What had he been thinking? Feeling? Shame, regret? Jubilation, intoxicating bliss?

Not knowing caused her physical pain. Her chest burned and she felt shaky.

Annika clenched her teeth and gazed out the window.

Grand-ma, Grand-ma, Grand-ma, Grand-ma, Grand-ma, Grand-ma . . .

Stability and love, where would she be without it? The elderly woman was her world, her context, her roots in an existence that shifted like quicksand. She really ought to be there for her, it was the least anyone could ask, but she didn’t have the strength to do it, she didn’t want to. Ashamed, she curled up on her seat, feeling cold.

Finally, she had made it. All those years at school, the endless hack work at the local paper, the dues she’d paid pulling night shifts; it was time to cash in. Was she supposed to give up everything she’d worked for and take on a responsibility that rightfully belonged to society? Or did it?
What do we really owe the people close to us?

The train continued along the tracks as snow obscured the view. By the time Annika got off at the station in Katrineholm, the weather had turned pretty bad. The storm slapped her face like a sharp broom. Her feelings of rage, of being unjustly treated, increased.
Why here, why now?

She staggered across the station yard and headed for Trädgårdsgatan. The headwinds were strong and it was getting more slippery by the minute. The low-pressure front made it darker, sounds were rubbed out. Cars slipped past with thin headlight beams and crunching studded tyres. Finally, the hospital, Kullbergska, appeared on the right, a blunt grey structure. She lurched into the lobby, brushed herself off, leaned against the wall and took a breather. Two young women were on their way out. Both of them were pregnant and they were dressed in colourful quilted coats.

Annika turned away, pretending not to see them.

I’d rather be dead than live in this town.

Slowly, Annika walked over to the ward, picturing the tedious hours ahead, how her grandmother would ramble on about the past, the hard bunk she would sleep on tonight.

The corridor was deserted, bathed in flickering bluish fluorescent light. Voices from the nurse’s office trickled out into the corridor. She slipped past without checking in. Some of the doors were ajar and she could hear the geriatric patients wheeze and cough. Her grandmother’s door was closed. When she opened it she was hit by a cool draught of air. The room was dark and the elderly woman was in her bed. Annika went up to her and switched on the small bedside lamp, spreading rays of light over the yellow government-issue blanket.

She smiled and raised her hand to caress the old woman’s cheek.

‘Gran?’

The elderly woman was lying on her back. Annika saw the sunken features and instantly realized what had happened. Too still, too white, too limp. Regardless of this she touched the cold, greyish skin. Awareness sank in like a knife, reaching her chest, her brain, her lungs. Then she screamed. Screamed and screamed and screamed. The nurses came running, the doctor came, she still screamed and screamed.

‘Save her, you’ve got to do something! Heart massage, shock treatment, a ventilator. . . Do something! Do something!’

The doctor with the ponytail appeared beside her, backlit and serious.

‘Annika,’ she said. ‘Sofia Katarina is dead.’

‘No! No!’ Annika screamed, backing away, knocking something over. She was sightless. Chaos.

‘Annika . . .’

‘You’ve got to bring her back, do something, operate—’

‘She passed away in her sleep, quietly. She was very ill, Annika – maybe this was for the best . . .’

Annika stared at the doctor, tunnel vision taking over.

‘For the best? Are you out of your mind? You didn’t take care of her, you let her lie here and die, your neglect killed her, I’m going to report you, you bastards . . .’

She had to get out, get away. She headed for the door. People were blocking the way. She turned around, bumped into a nurse and the doctor grabbed her by the shoulders.

‘Annika, pull yourself together, you’re hysterical. We looked in on Sofia Katarina less than an hour ago and she was sleeping peacefully.’

Annika tore herself free.

‘She can’t be dead, she’s in a hospital, why didn’t you watch over her, why did you let her die, you bastards, you bastards . . .’

Someone took hold of her and she struck out at them and screamed; they wanted to take her away from Gran, they wanted to do even more damage, they weren’t going to get
her
!

‘Leave me alone! Let me be with her. You let her die, let me take care of her . . .’

Faces swam by. She didn’t want to see them and flung herself backwards. They yelled at her:
Annika
! She roared back at them, refusing to hear, refusing to listen.

‘You damned murderers!’ she howled. ‘You left her to die!’

They pushed her down on a bench, held her there, So now they were going to get her too? She howled and resisted them.

‘Go and get some sedatives,’ a voice said. ‘We’ve got to calm her down.’

Suddenly Annika couldn’t take it any longer and collapsed on the bench, grief sucking the breath out of her. The lights went out, she no longer had the strength to cry out, she began to get cold, there was no air, she was fighting for oxygen, desperately breathing in, breathing in. Someone yelled: ‘She’s hyperventilating, get a bag over here.’ Everything went hazy, then black.

Annika mother sat beside her. The mink had been tossed onto the adjoining chair. Annika was lying on the hard bench. She had been given pills and the room had receded, faded and floated away. She looked up at the window. It was very dark outside.

I have no idea what time it is,
she thought.

Her grandmother was lying in her bed, still and white. The bed was flanked on each side by candles, their flames twin golden circlets in the darkness.

Annika sat up. Her mother was crying.

‘I didn’t make it in time,’ Barbro sobbed. ‘They called, but Mother was already dead by the time I got here. She died in her sleep – peacefully, they tell me.’

The room seemed to be rolling as if they were at sea. Annika’s mouth was dry.

‘How would they know?’ she said. ‘I was the one who found her. Get rid of those candles!’

Annika got up and started walking across the floor, reeling and lurching, wanting to get to Gran, wanting to get rid of the candles, wanting to shake life back into the body.

Her mother got up and took hold of her.

‘Sit down. Don’t spoil this moment. Let’s say farewell to Mother in a calm and dignified way.’

She led Annika back to the bench.

‘It was for the best,’ her mother said, dabbing at her eyes. ‘Sofia would never have regained her old lifestyle. She was such an outdoor person – just picture how awful it would have been for her to end up bedridden. She wouldn’t have liked that.’

Annika sat on the bench, finding it difficult to keep her balance. Her mother appeared to roll like the waves of the sea, swinging upwards and pitching down again.

‘They killed her,’ Annika said.

‘Rubbish,’ her mother countered. ‘She had another haemorrhage, the doctors told me, probably in the same part of the brain as last time. There wasn’t anything they could do.’

Annika regarded her grandmother: the love, the strength, the context she offered, now reduced to this, so tiny, so white and so thin. Soon she would be gone for ever. Annika was alone now.

‘How am I supposed to go on?’ she whispered.

Her mother got up, walked over to the dead woman and gazed down upon the old face.

‘She had her ways,’ Barbro said. ‘She could be unfair and judgemental, but now that she’s gone we’ll have to disregard all that. We should remember her good qualities.’

Annika tried to think of something to say, unable to sort out her impressions and not wanting to mouth platitudes. She didn’t want to play along with her mother so she sat in silence, staring at her hands. Remembering how the cold skin and lifeless head had felt she put her hand into the warmth of her armpit.

‘She had her faults,’ Barbro said. ‘But then, so does everyone. I always wished for a mom who would care, who would look after me. All the other girls had mothers like that when I was little.’

Annika didn’t answer. She tried not to hear the words as her mother chattered on, mostly to herself.

‘Then again, you always love your mother, it’s such a close relationship.’

‘Gran was the person I loved the most,’ Annika whispered, feeling the tears spill out and roll down her cheeks. She did nothing to stop them, just let them roll, let the pain sink in.

Her mother looked at her with a faraway and dark expression in her eyes.

‘Now wasn’t that just a typical thing for you to say at a time like this?’

Barbro left the dead woman’s side and approached Annika, her eyes red, her mouth compressed into a line.

‘My mother always protected you,’ Barbro said in a whisper. ‘But now she’s gone and can’t do it any more.’

Annika closed her eyes and felt her mother close in on her.

‘All these years you came first in her eyes: Birgitta was second-best, and you just hogged the spotlight. How do you think that made your sister feel?’

Annika hid her face in her hands.

‘Birgitta always had you,’ she said.

‘And you didn’t, I suppose? Have you ever figured out why? Maybe it had something to do with the kind of person you are. Look at me!’

Annika looked up and blinked. Her mother was right in front of her, towering over her. Her eyes were dark, her face was twisted with pain and contempt.

‘You’ve always spoiled things for the rest of us,’ Barbro whispered. ‘You’re bad luck – there’s something wrong with you. Ever since the day you were born you’ve brought misery in your wake.’

Annika gasped and backed away.

‘Mother, you don’t know what you’re saying.’

Her mother leaned forward.

‘We would have been a happy family,’ she said. ‘If it hadn’t been for you.’

The door opened. The doctor came in and switched on the fluorescent lighting.

‘Oh, I’m sorry. Would you like us to leave?’

Her mother straightened her back and glared at Annika.

‘No, that won’t be necessary. I was just leaving.’

Barbro picked up her purse and her fur, shook hands with the doctor, murmured something or other and gave her dead mother one last glance before she walked out.

Annika remained where she was, her mouth open, the tears veiling her face, devastated. Had she actually heard that? Had her mother really said the words that had always remained unsaid, that had always been present as an undercurrent, the forbidden key phrases that had locked and defined her childhood?

‘How are you doing?’ the doctor asked and sat down beside her.

Annika bowed her head and gasped for air.

‘I’m going to give you a doctor’s certificate. You need to take time off for the rest of the month. I’ll give you a prescription for a sedative as well: twenty-five Sobril tablets, a dosage of fifteen milligrams each. They’re not strong enough to overdose on, but don’t mix them with alcohol – that could be dangerous.’

Annika covered her face with her hands and tried to stop shaking. The doctor sat next to her in silence for a while.

‘Were you very close to your grandmother?’ she asked.

Annika nodded.

‘You’ve had an awful shock,’ the doctor said. ‘Or, rather, two shocks. You were the one who found your grandmother at her home as well, isn’t that right?’

Annika nodded again.

‘Everyone goes through certain stages when a loved one passes,’ the doctor explained. ‘The duration may vary, but the stages are the same. The first stage is shock, that’s where you are now, and it’s generally followed by aggression, then denial, and finally acceptance. You will have to be kind to yourself now: you could find yourself in a state of anxiety and end up with stomach trouble or sleep disturbances. This is normal and it will pass. But if things get too difficult you must go and see a professional. Take these tablets if things get tough. You’re always welcome to call someone here at the hospital if you need to talk. If you like, I can arrange for you to see a counsellor.’

Annika shook her head.

‘No, not a counsellor,’ she said.

The doctor patted Annika on the back.

‘Let us know if there’s anything we can do. We are going to move Sofia Katarina now. Do you need help getting anywhere?’

‘Sofia Katarina,’ Annika whispered. ‘I’m named after her, my name is Annika Sofia.’

‘Well, Annika Sofia,’ the doctor said. ‘Take care of yourself.’

Annika looked up at her: so close, yet so far away.

She didn’t reply.

PART THREE

DECEMBER

SHAME IS THE BIGGEST TABOO.

We can talk about anything, anything except what we are most deeply ashamed of. Other emotions, even the difficult ones, can be shared with others and brought into the open, but not shame. That’s part of its nature. Shame is our deepest, darkest secret, its very secrecy a form of punishment.

When it comes to shame, there is no mercy. Everything else can be forgiven – violence, evil, injustice, guilt – but for the most heinous offence there is no absolution. It is not a privilege granted to shame.

In my case, guilt and shame are intertwined. It’s a common enough occurrence, but it doesn’t have to be like that. My failing was betrayal. Everything I’ve done for the past year or so has been an attempt to atone for my cowardice. In that sense shame is a creative force: it encourages action and invites revenge.

I am unable to deal with my shame. Along with the violence, it destroys me. It doesn’t grow in size, it doesn’t shrink, it’s like a cancer at the very base of my consciousness.