“Where are the others?” I asked, because the house was so oddly quiet.
I regretted it right away. I shouldn’t have asked about them. Not when he had finally come in to see me. Not when it was finally just him and me.
Edmund swayed slightly as he stood there, as if he were struggling to keep his balance, didn’t know on which leg he should rest his weight.
“In church.” So it was Sunday.
I tried to sit up in bed. I lifted the blanket a bit. The stench of my own body hit me. When had I last bathed?
But if he noticed anything, he didn’t show it.
“And you?” I said. “Why have you stayed home?”
It sounded like an accusation when it should have been a thank-you.
He didn’t look at me, stared into the wall above the headboard.
“I… I was hoping to have a chance to talk to you,” he said finally.
I nodded slowly, while I strove to keep my face from disclosing how exceedingly pleased I was about his visit.
“Good,” I said. “I appreciate seeing you very much… and have been hoping you would come for a long time.”
I tried to sit up, but it was as if my skeleton could no longer hold me upright, so I supported myself on a pillow. That in itself was an enormous effort. I resisted the urge to pull the blanket all the way up to my shoulders to shut in the odor. I could barely stand the smell of myself. How had I not noticed it before, how badly I needed a bath? I lifted my hand to my face. The stubble, which had never been especially thick, had now managed to grow into a shaggy beard several centimeters long. I must have looked like a caveman.
He stared at my toes, which were sticking out from under the blanket. The toenails were long and dirty. I quickly pulled my feet out of sight and sat up in bed.
“Edmund. Tell me. What’s on your mind?”
His eyes did not meet mine, but there was no shyness about him when he delivered his message.
“Perhaps Father can get out of bed soon?”
A blush of shame rose to my cheeks. Thilda had asked. The girls had asked. The doctor had asked. But Edmund had never come to my bedside before.
“I am so infinitely pleased about your coming,” I said in a voice that was on the verge of breaking. “I would like very much to explain.”
“Explain?” He pulled one hand through his fringe. “I don’t need any explanation. I just want you to get up.”
What was I supposed to say? What did he expect from me? I tapped my hand against the mattress, a small inviting gesture. “Sit down, Edmund. Let’s talk a bit. What have you been doing lately?”
He didn’t move.
“Tell me about your schoolwork. With the good head you have on your shoulders I assume it’s all smooth sailing?”
He was preparing for the autumn, when he would be attending school in the capital. We had scrimped and saved for his schooling and now he was finally almost ready. I felt a sudden stab in my chest. His tuition, could it be that Thilda was spending it, now that I was lying here like this?
“I presume that nothing has changed. The plans for school are as before?” I asked quickly.
He nodded without any evident enthusiasm. “I work when I find the inspiration.”
“Good. Inspiration is an important incentive.”
I reached out my hand to him. “Come and sit down. Let’s have a proper conversation now. It’s been such a long time.”
But he just stood there. “I… have to go downstairs.”
“Just a few minutes?” I tried to keep my voice light.
He tossed his fringe, did not look at me. “I’m going to study.”
I was glad he was working, but still, he could certainly sacrifice a little more time, now that he had finally come.
“I just want to hold you,” I said. “Just for a minute.”
An almost inaudible sigh escaped from his lips, but all the same he came over to me. Finally he sat down beside me, hesitated a moment and gave me his hand.
“Thank you,” I said softly.
His hand was warm and smooth. It radiated with life, became a bond between us, as if his healthy blood ran through me. I just wanted to sit like this, but there was no mistaking his ever present restlessness. He couldn’t manage to hold his arms still, changed position, his feet twitched.
“Sorry, Father.” He stood up abruptly.
“No,” I said. “You needn’t apologize. I understand. Of course you have to work.”
He nodded. His eyes were fixed on the door. He just wanted to get away, leave me lying here alone again.
He took a few steps, then stopped himself, as if he remembered something, and turned around again.
“But Father… can’t you at least try to find the will to get out of bed?”
I swallowed. I owed him a proper response.
“It’s not that I lack the will… it’s… the passion, Edmund.”
“The passion?” He lifted his head, the word had apparently stirred something inside him. “Then you have to find it once more,” he said quickly. “And allow it to move you.”
I had to smile. Such big words from that ungainly body.
“We are nothing without passion,” he concluded with a gravity I had never heard from him before.
He said nothing more. Just left the room—the last impression I had of him was the sound of his footsteps against the floorboards out there. They disappeared towards the stairway and then down and away. But I still felt I had never been so close to him before.
Rahm was right; I had forgotten my passion and allowed myself to be consumed by trivialities. I demonstrated no enthusiasm in my work, which is why I lost Rahm. But Edmund was still there, I could still show him, make him proud. That way we could grow closer. Through the honor I would bring to the family name, our relationship would blossom and bear fruit. That way I would perhaps also find my way back to Rahm, so it could be the three of us after alclass="underline" father, son and mentor.
I rolled over onto my side. I threw the blanket off my foul-smelling body, and then I got out of bed. This time it was for good.
Chapter 9
GEORGE
I was building hives in the barn. That’s what I often did this time of year. While spring was gearing up, nature about to explode with greenery and everyone talked about how nice it was, while everyone just wanted to be outside and enjoy it, I stayed inside under crackling fluorescent lights and hammered away as if possessed. This year more than ever. Emma and I hadn’t talked very much since Tom left. For the most part I stayed in the barn. To be honest, I was afraid to start a conversation with her. She was better with words than I was, that’s often the case with women and more often than not she got her own way. She was also often right, once I had a chance to think about it. But not this time. That much I knew.
So that’s why I was in the barn. From morning till night. I repaired old hives, constructed new ones. Not standard hives, not in this family. We had our own design. The drawings hung on the wall of the dining room—framed. It was Emma who had done it. She had found the drawings in a clothes chest in the attic, where they lay because everyone in my family knew the dimensions by heart anyway. The chest, a real going-to-America trunk, could easily have been sold to an antique shop for a nice lump of cash. But it was nice to have it up there, I thought. Reminded me of where I came from. The chest had traveled across the pond from Europe, when the first person in my family put her feet on American soil. One solitary woman. Everything stemmed from her, from this chest, from the drawings.