She was young, and for a long time I hoped she wouldn’t realise, she probably did though, but I doubted she could imagine it was a permanent condition.
One evening she mentioned that her mother had asked whether she had considered going to the doctor for the contraceptive pill.
She said this with a smile, but there was expectation in her voice, and I, trying to repress it, or deceiving myself into believing this really wasn’t happening, began to look for a way out. Not that I didn’t want it, I did too of course, no, there were other problems, greater ones, for example, that we lived in separate towns and that I couldn’t spend all my weekends with her. Those were my thoughts, at the same time I thought about her devotion, it was immense, she would do anything for me, I knew that, not least through her letters, which were permeated with longing even though they were written barely hours after we had last seen each other.
No, I had to get out of this relationship.
She came over one Saturday morning at the beginning of December, intending to stay until the following day, when her parents would come to pick her up, they wanted to meet mum, after all she was the future mother-in-law of both of their girls. It was a kind of endorsement of our relationship, and perhaps I didn’t want this. We went for a walk, the countryside was frozen, the grass in the meadow below the house glittered with rime in the light from the street lamps, afterwards we had dinner with mum, and then we caught the bus down to the Hotel Caledonien, Cecilie was wearing a red dress, we danced to Chris de Burgh, ‘Lady in Red’, and I thought, no, I can’t finish this, I don’t want to finish it.
We caught the night bus home, walked hand in hand over the last part, it was cold, she snuggled up to me. We entered the house, took off our coats and I thought: I’m going to do it now. We went upstairs, Cecilie first, she opened the door to my room.
‘What are you doing?’ I said.
She turned and gaped at me in surprise.
‘Going to bed?’ she said.
‘You’re sleeping in there,’ I said, pointing to Yngve’s room, which was adjacent to mine.
‘Why?’ she said, looking at me with big eyes.
‘It’s over,’ I said. ‘I’m finishing with you. I’m sorry, but this is no good.’
‘What did you say?’
‘It’s over,’ I said. ‘You have to sleep in there.’
She did as I said, her every movement leaden. I undressed and went to bed. She was crying, I could hear her clearly, the wall was thin. I put my fingers in my ears and went to sleep.
The next day was torture.
Cecilie cried, mum was wondering what was wrong, I could see, but she didn’t ask, and neither of us wanted to say anything. After a while her parents drove up. Mum had laid on a big brunch, now we had to sit there and have a nice time, both families. But Cecilie was silent, her eyes were red. Our parents made conversation, I chimed in with the odd comment. Of course they knew something was wrong, but not what, and probably thought we’d had an argument.
But we had never argued. We had laughed, played, chatted, kissed, gone on walks together, drunk wine together and lain naked in bed together.
She didn’t cry while they were there, she sat quietly and ate very slowly, her movements constrained, and I could sense her parents were very concerned, it was as though they were embracing her with their presence and their actions.
Then at last they left.
Thank God they were going to Arendal. It was far away, and the bridge Yngve represented between the two families was even further away.
Some time between Christmas and New Year Dad phoned. He was drunk, I could hear that from the slur. He didn’t quite have full control of his voice, there was an added timbre, although the tone didn’t sound any more resonant or complex as a result.
‘Hi,’ I said. ‘Happy Christmas. Are you still in the Canaries?’
‘Yes,’ he said. ‘We’re here for a few more days. It’s wonderful to get away from the darkness, you know.’
‘Yes,’ I said.
‘We’re going to have a baby,’ dad said. ‘Unni’s pregnant.’
‘Is she?’ I said. ‘When is it due?’
‘Straight after the summer.’
‘That’s good news,’ I said.
‘Yes, it is,’ he said. ‘Now you’ll have another brother or a sister.’
‘That’ll be strange,’ I said.
‘I don’t think it’ll be strange,’ he said.
‘Not in that sense,’ I said. ‘Just that there’ll be such a large difference in age between us. And we won’t be living together.’
‘No, you won’t. But you’ll be siblings anyway. That’s as close as you can get.’
‘Yes,’ I said.
In the kitchen mum was setting the table. The coffee machine was chugging away with small puffs of steam rising from it. I quickly rubbed my arm several times.
‘Is it nice where you are?’ I said. ‘Can you swim there?’
‘Oh yes, you bet you can,’ he said. ‘We lie by the pool all day. It’s wonderful to get away from the darkness in Norway, we think.’
There was a silence.
‘Is your mother there?’ he said.
‘Yes,’ I said. ‘Would you like a word with her?’
‘No, what would I have to talk about with her?’
‘I don’t know,’ I said.
‘Don’t ask such stupid questions then.’
‘Right.’
‘Did you go to Sørbøvåg at Christmas?’
‘Yes, we’ve just got back. Half an hour ago in fact.’
‘They’re still alive?’
‘Oh yes.’
‘And grandma was ill?’
‘Yes.’
‘You know that’s a hereditary illness she’s got, don’t you? Parkinson’s.’
‘Is it?’ I said.
‘Yes, so you’re vulnerable. You could get it. And then you’ll know where it came from.’
‘I’ll cross that bridge when I come to it,’ I said. ‘Dad, food’s ready here. Have to go. Say hello to Unni and congratulations!’
‘Give me a call some time, Karl Ove, when we’re back. You hardly ever ring.’
‘Will do. Bye.’
‘Bye.’
I put the phone down and went into the kitchen. The cat had settled on the chair under the table, I could see his bushy tail hanging over the edge. Mum opened the oven door and put some frozen rolls on the shelf.
‘There wasn’t a lot of food in the house,’ she said. ‘But I found some rolls in the freezer. How many do you want?’
I shrugged.
‘Four maybe.’
She added one more and closed the door.
‘Who was it on the phone?’
‘Dad.’
I pulled out the chair beside the cat and sat down.
‘He’s in the Canaries, isn’t he?’ mum said, crossing the floor to the fridge.
‘Yup,’ I said.
She took out one white and one brown cheese, fetched a chopping board from the worktop, put it on the table and placed the cheeses on it.
‘What did he have to say? Were they having a good time?’
‘He didn’t say much. Just wanted to chat. He was a bit drunk, I think.’
She put the slicer on top of the white cheese. Removed the jug from the coffee machine, filled the cup on the other side of the table.
‘Do you want some?’ she said.
‘Yes, please,’ I said, passing over my cup. ‘But he said one thing that was a bit strange. He said Parkinson’s was hereditary. And that I was in the danger zone.’
‘Did he say that?’ mum said, meeting my eyes.
‘Yes, that’s precisely what he said.’
I cut the rind off the white cheese, moved it to the edge of the plate, changed my mind and threw the rind in the bin under the worktop.
‘Not much is known about that,’ mum said.
‘Don’t worry,’ I said. ‘You don’t think I’m bothered by it, do you?’