As long as she knew that.
Their boundless faith in her, that she would make it, that she was capable. No matter what she chose to do.
What was wrong with her own generation? Why were they never satisfied? Why did everything and everyone always have to be measured, compared, evaluated? What was this unresolved restlessness that kept driving them onward, forward, to the next goal? A total inability to stop and be happy about the goals they had already reached, a constant fear that someone might pass them by, that they had missed something that might have been slightly better, made them slightly happier. So many choices, but how could they manage all of them?
The older generation had fought to realise their dreams: education, a home, children, and then the goal was attained. None of them had ever suspected that they might need so much more. No one accused them of lacking ambition if they stayed at a job more than a couple of years; on the contrary, loyalty was honourable. They had had the ability to sit down and feel content with their lives. They fought hard and then enjoyed their successes.
She opened the front door as quietly as possible and sneaked into the kitchen, putting the champagne in the freezer. She didn’t see Henrik around; the door to his office was closed. A quick shower and then take out the new lacy lingerie she had bought at lunch-time. The nervousness came over her again when she looked at her face in the bathroom mirror. Maybe she ought to make an effort more often. But how would she manage? She took off the silver clasp at the nape of her neck and let her hair fall over her shoulders. He had always liked it best when her hair was down.
For a moment she considered putting on only her robe over the black lingerie, but she didn’t dare. Good Lord. Here she was standing in her bathroom where she had stood naked with her family every morning and evening for almost eight years, and she was nervous about asking her husband to come to dinner.
How had it come to this?
She put on black jeans and a jumper.
The door to the office was still closed when she came out. She listened but couldn’t hear his fingers on the keyboard. There was utter silence inside. But then suddenly the beep of an email being sent. Maybe he had finished working.
She quickly set the table with the good dishes and was just about to light the candles when he was suddenly standing in the kitchen doorway. He glanced at the festive table setting, but there was no hint of joy in his face.
She smiled at him.
‘Would you switch off the big light?’
He hesitated an instant before he turned and did as she asked. She picked up the bottle of champagne, unscrewed the wire, and twisted out the cork. The champagne glasses they had received as a wedding present were already on the table. He was still standing in the doorway, didn’t make a move to approach her.
She walked over and handed him a glass.
‘Here you are.’
She had heart palpitations now. Why couldn’t he help her out? Did he have to make her look ridiculous because she was trying?
She went back and sat down at the table. For a moment she thought he would go back into his office. But then he finally came and sat down.
The silence was like an extra wall in the room. It cut right across the table, with each of them on one side of it.
She looked down at her plate but couldn’t eat a bite. On the chair next to her lay the blue plastic folder with the tickets. She wondered if he saw her hand shaking when she handed it to him through the silence.
‘This is for you.’
He regarded her outstretched hand suspiciously.
‘What is it?’
‘Could be something nice. You’ll have to look and see.’
He opened the folder as she watched. She knew that he had always wanted to go to Iceland. An adventure holiday. It had never happened. She had preferred holidays in the sun where she could rest, and she was always the one who planned and arranged their holiday trips.
‘I thought that Axel could stay with Mamma and Pappa, and we could go alone, just the two of us, for a change.’
He raised his eyes and looked at her, and his eyes frightened her. Never before had anyone looked at her with such an annihilating coldness. Then he put down the plastic folder on the table and stood up, looked her straight in the eye as if to ensure that each and every word would hit its mark.
‘There is nothing, absolutely nothing, that I want to do together with you.’
Every syllable felt like a slap in the face.
‘If it weren’t for Axel and the house, I would have left long ago.’
Psychotherapist Yvonne Palmgren had insisted that they have what she called ‘the first conversation’ in Anna’s room. Jonas had no objections; in there, at least, the compulsion would leave him in peace. Though he had a hard time understanding what good the conversation would do. But fearing that they might take away the nights he slept over if he didn’t cooperate, he had finally agreed to meet with her.
She was sitting in a chair by one of the windows – maybe fifty or fifty-five. Her white smock unbuttoned over a pair of grey trousers and a red jumper. A childish necklace made of big, colourful plastic beads rested on her full bosom, and four felt-tip pens in garish neon colours stuck up from her breast pocket. Maybe all those cheerful colours were intended to outweigh all the blackness she confronted daily in her patients’ tormented souls.
He sat down on the edge of Anna’s bed and held her right hand that was still normal. He could feel the woman in the chair looking at him. He knew full well what she was thinking.
‘Where do you think we should start?’
He turned his head and looked at her.
‘No idea.’
He had shown up as agreed; the rest wasn’t his problem, she would have to take care of that. He wasn’t the one who needed this conversation, it was the County Council, so that they could terminate Anna’s rehabilitation in good conscience and slowly but surely allow her brain to atrophy so that they were spared any more trouble. But they could forget about winning him over to their side.
‘Do you think it’s annoying to have this conversation?’
He sighed.
‘No, not particularly. I just don’t understand what the point is.’
‘You don’t think it’s because you’re afraid that you might have negative feelings about it?’
He couldn’t even manage to answer that. What the hell did she know about fear? Just asking the question meant that she had never even been close to it. Never felt that wild terror of losing everything. To have no power over one’s own thoughts, no control of one’s own life.
Or Anna’s.
‘How long had you been together? I mean before the accident.’
‘A year.’
‘But you weren’t actually living together?’
‘No. We were just about to get married when . . . when . . .’
He broke off and looked at Anna’s closed eyelids.
The woman in the chair shifted position. Braced herself on the armrests and then folded her hands over the open plastic folder on her lap.
‘Anna is a bit older than you.’
‘Yes.’
Yvonne Palmgren glanced down at her papers.
‘Almost twelve years older.’
He sat in silence. Why should he say anything when she could satisfy her sick curiosity by reading it all from the file?
‘Can you tell me a little about your relationship? What your life was like before all this happened? You can describe a normal day if you like.’
He stood up and walked over to the window. He hated this. Why should he have to divulge his and Anna’s life to a stranger? What right did she have to come trampling into their memories?