Except for the occasional car going by on Sandviksvägen, it was peaceful and quiet here. The graveyard is the resting place of the dead, as the sign on the entrance stated; here you weren’t supposed to disturb the peace by being loud. The dead had had enough of that in life and now they had the right to rest in peace.
She was alone. She looked around. In one of the apartments back there on Fyrspannsgatan, a young daughter of a doctor had been held prisoner by a psychopath. That was over a year ago and she suddenly remembered the details of the story. The girl had stood at one of the windows and hoped that someone would see her and take action. But who would take action by seeing a girl in a window? Even if she were screaming and calling for help?
How was it going for that girl now? According to the papers, she escaped with her life, but what about her psyche? She must be psychologically damaged for ever after?
Berit wondered about which window it had been. The evening tabloids had certainly shown pictures of the house with a circle around the window in question. Curious onlookers had definitely come by just to see the place and try to understand what it must had been like to be caught in the hands of a psycho.
A thought entered her mind to produce a book about the girl. Convince her to write a diary about the awful time she had been imprisoned. She was surprised that Melin & Gartner hadn’t done that already, as they usually were the first to publish books of that sort. Criminals and victims, suspects and police: those were the kinds of books that sell.
Here she was, thinking about work again! Even though she told herself she wouldn’t do that!
She felt her way along the shoveled and sanded little path. Over there to the left, the family grave, which would probably only ever hold two people. Family grave, an idea from previous eras, when people lived among their folks.
The grave was covered with snow. She brushed the snow off with her mittens and said the names of those two people who had been her parents out loud. Her conscience nagged her; she really ought to come here more often.
She had bought two grave candles, one for each.
“One for Mamma, one for Pappa,” she whispered, while she tried to light the two votives. It was harder than she thought, as every puff of wind blew out the matches, even though the wind wasn’t that strong.
“I think of you anyway,” she whispered, “even if it doesn’t look like it. Even if I don’t come here so often. I think of you both from time to time, and you must know that. If you see me now, if you are moving above me invisibly, keep a watchful eye on me. Right now I really wish you could do that.”
Both of them had died of cancer. Her father had been a big smoker. His labored breathing returned to her, his scratching at the throat opening when he didn’t get enough air.
“Whatever you do, my girl,” he would say whenever she came to visit him in the hospital, “don’t ever start smoking!”
He didn’t know that she had already been smoking for a while, and the sight of his emaciated body on the sheets could not bring her to stop.
Her mother had skin cancer, the same kind that took Tage Danielsson’s life in the early eighties.
They were already old when they had her, just as old as she was now. They could have died of simple old age. Her mother had told her that she thought she was barren, but when she began to throw up her breakfast every morning for a whole week, she realized that she wasn’t.
Berit left the grave with the votive flames barely visible in the January sun. She followed Hässelby Strandväg and walked past the house she had lived in when she was growing up. It hadn’t changed. She wondered who lived there now, but she saw no sign of life and the walk was white from snow that hadn’t been shoveled.
She had gone this way from her house to the school every day when she was little. There were more houses, but nevertheless, time seemed to have stood still here. She didn’t have any contact with her classmates now, and she barely remembered their names.
Lake Mälar was smooth, a bit of mist rose slightly above the surface. She longed for ice, longed to put on her skates and skate right out to the horizon, away from everything that surrounded her, everyday life, people, away from her own self. She suddenly noticed that her hands were freezing and she had left her mittens at the grave.
She found herself standing in front of a narrow stone house. An inner picture of the house remained in her head from her childhood.
Justinn försvinn, Justinn försvinn.
Get lost, Justine. Get lost and stay lost!
A chorus of high voices, and she was a member of that chorus and her own voice was one of them.
Justine went in, Justine went out, when she went in, she pissed again.
The sound became louder to the point she got dizzy.
A woman was standing by the door. She had short, curly hair, and was wearing pants with a flower motif. Something about her was familiar. Berit waved.
“Justine?” she said doubtfully. “Justine, is that you?”
The woman came down to her. Her eyes were green and her look was straightforward.
“Berit Blomgren! How strange! I was just thinking of you.”
The words echoed inside her.
“You were?”
The woman laughed.
“As a matter of fact, I really was.”
“My last name is Assarson nowadays…”
“Oh of course, you’ve gotten married.”
“Yes.”
“I was just going to get my old kick-sled. These days you can’t use a kick-sled that often, but at least today it looks like winter.”
“We had kick-sleds, too, when we were little. I got a red one, which my pappa painted for me.”
“Mine was just varnished. It’s out in the shed. But why don’t you come in for a minute? You look like you’re freezing.”
“Hmm, maybe I am. I just came from the cemetery. I must have left my mittens there.”
“Would you like some glögg? I have some left over from Christmas.”
“Glögg? Sure, that would be great. Glögg warms you from the inside out.”
The sun flowed over the floor. Berit sipped her glögg and felt warmth return.
“How many years has it been?” said Berit softly,. “since we last saw each other?”
“1969, when we finished grade school.”
“Must have been.”
She thought a minute.
“Jesus, that was over thirty years ago!”
“Yep.”
“You’ve lived here… still here in your parents’ house?”
“Yes, indeed.”
“You’ve been here the whole time?”
“Uh-huh.”
“Are they deceased? I remember seeing something about your father in the paper. There was quite a write-up, I believe.”
“Oh yes, my pappa is dead. Flora is in a nursing home.”
“Flora, yes, that was your mother’s name. I always thought that it was such a pretty name. She was really beautiful, your mother, and she always smelled so good.”
“She wasn’t my real mother.”
“I know.”
She took another sip of the glögg. It was strong and wellspiced.
“My parents are buried over in the graveyard there. They were very old, you probably remember. I didn’t stay here in Hässelby very long. I had to get away from here. I met my husband soon after that. He’s called Tor, by the way; he’s an accountant. Sounds dull, doesn’t it?”
Justine smiled. “Have some more glögg. We might as well finish it up, Christmas is over.”
“Skål.”
“Skål yourself. To our meeting up again.”
“But really… why were you thinking of me today exactly? That sounds so odd. The exact day when I am here in Hässelby, you think of me and then we meet up again, like fate.”