More Bitter Than Death: A Novel Part 29

My breakfast is just as uninspired as the gloomy fall morning outside my window-a piece of old, damp crispbread that hangs feebly in my hand, and a cup of tea.

Markus walks in the front door again. He carries the firewood firmly against his chest, stacks it carefully on top of the already enormous pile by the woodstove, and then brings in some more.

"Are you stocking up for World War Three, or something?"

Markus doesn't laugh, and I can sense his irritation from across the room.

"There's a storm coming in tonight. But I suppose you don't care about mundane things like that, do you? If it were up to you, your refrigerator would be empty and the firewood would stay out there in the shed."

I shrug and look over at the black windowpane. Like polished granite, I think. The darkness outside the cottage is impenetrable.

Then I say, "Boy, are you grumpy."

He doesn't respond, just keeps stacking up the firewood in silence.

"Snowstorm. There's a snowstorm coming. I don't think you should take the car to work today."

"I'll take the bus, as usual. I never take the car into the city, do I? And besides, what does it matter to you?"

He's quiet again. He looks at me, and then I see the pain. "I'm worried about you. Why can't you understand that?"

Something inside me softens, and a warmth slowly spreads through me. I get up, tug a little at the long T-s.h.i.+rt that is getting tight over my belly, walk over to Markus, and wrap my arms around him. Feel the cold from his quilted jacket, inhale the faint scent of wood smoke in his damp hair.

"Hey," I say. "I love you."

He pauses, doesn't say anything, doesn't move at all. The only sounds are his breathing and the crackling of the fire.

We stand like that for a long time.

"I always do all right, I'm like a cork. I always float to the surface, you know?"

Patrik's voice is calm, quiet. But his eyes dart around my little office. There are dark-purple rings of exhaustion and grief under his eyes. This is our last appointment. Our sessions are over, like the relations.h.i.+p they were supposed to fix. I wonder if that means that I failed, because obviously I wanted their relations.h.i.+p to work, wished that I could glue the shards of their life back together, as if it were a broken flowerpot.

"And Mia?"

"She . . . seems calm, almost happy," Patrik says.

"And how does that make you feel?"

"How the h.e.l.l do you think that makes me feel?" Patrik is staring at me menacingly, but behind the rage I glimpse the sadness and I realize that my question was a therapist cliche.

"I'll tell you how it feels. It sucks. It would've been easier if she left me for someone else."

"Easier?"

"Yeah, I mean, she didn't leave me for someone else, she just left me for . . . nothing, nothing at all. You know?"

I nod slowly. I do know the sadness, the shame of being rejected. And suddenly I'm ashamed, because I realize that's exactly how I've made Markus feel.

Yes, of course I love you, but I need my freedom. I want the baby but not you. Not here in my house, in my bed, in my body. Not so close.

"And what about the practical details: how will the separation work?"

Patrik shrugs and runs his hand through his limp hair, which reminds me of the tufts of dead gra.s.s poking out of the puddles outside my cottage.

"All right, I guess."

"What does that mean?"

"The kids spend every other week with me. Mia is renting a two-bedroom on Brannkyrkagatan. She took almost all the furniture, so the house is pretty empty. But the strangest part of all is that suddenly we have some kind of . . . I don't know what to call it . . . a business relations.h.i.+p? It's like we're running a company together. We negotiate stuff, like, 'If you take the table, then I'm taking the chairs. Oh, you already bought chairs? Then maybe you want an armchair instead? Fine, that's what we'll do then.' It's really weird. Sort of civilized in a . . . really sad and painful way. And then we make appointments to pick up and drop off the kids and go to parent-teacher meetings together and pretend to be normal even though we just want to scream at each other. And then we tell the teachers, 'Yeah, we've separated, but it's working great. Really. Mia and I communicate well and of course you can call either of us if anything comes up, we keep each other posted.' You know?"

"I understand."

"Do you?" Patrik says, and gives me a tired look, and I realize that he doesn't actually believe me.

Sometimes you wind up in a situation with a patient where you feel like it might be valuable to share some of your own experiences-if nothing else, to explain why you really, really, really understand. I could tell Patrik about Stefan and his death. How I was convinced that my life was over. I could admit in a whisper that I'm not able to love Markus as much as the memory of my dead husband. Share my insights on my inability to really love. Love in the good, mature sense-the self-sacrificing, 2.5 kids, white-picket-fence, nuclear-family sense.

But I don't. I say nothing. Just look at him as he sits there, huddled in my armchair with those long legs in tight jeans stretched out in front of him, because I don't usually share that kind of personal information with my patients.

"Surely you would agree that your newfound ability to cooperate is positive?"

Again he shrugs those skinny shoulders, jingling the chains on his leather jacket.

"And how are you feeling about the future?" I ask gently.

He leans back, seems to be studying the crack in the ceiling, which runs diagonally across the room. He says, "Like I said. I'll manage. I'm not actually that mad at Mia anymore."

"Well, that's good, isn't it?"

Again he gives me that look. A combination of sadness and contempt.

He says, "I've been doing some reading. Trying to better myself, or whatever."

"Have you?"

He squirms and the chains on his leather jacket jingle softly again, an ominous, old-horror-movie kind of sound.

"Love is just a bunch of hormones and neurotransmitters and s.h.i.+t. There are different phases. First comes desire, then s.e.xual attraction. During that phase testosterone and estrogen and things like that get secreted. That lasts for a few months, tops. Then there's being in love. A bunch of serotonin, dopamine, and whatever they're all called are secreted then. They have the same effect on the brain as amphetamines. Are you following? We're all secretly high when we're in love, before we come back down to reality. And that's it. That 'in love' feeling lasts for up to three years, and then it's over."

"And then what?" I ask. "I mean, people stay together for longer than three years. It happens all the time."

"Then there's another phase. What keeps couples together? Kids, marriage, shared activities and interests, and other hormones, like oxytocin and-"

"Now wait a minute, Patrik. I don't know exactly what you've been reading, but what you're describing now is what's usually called a biological model. Certainly it's accurate, but I don't think biological models alone can explain human behavior. In fact, they tell us very little about what it's like to be human. What it feels like."

"I think it makes a lot of sense," he mumbles.

"I'm sure you do, in your situation."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"Well, Patrik . . ." I pause, trying to find a good way to word this without offending him or diminis.h.i.+ng his experience. "You've just been dumped. You're disappointed, humiliated, disillusioned. It makes sense that a theory describing us all as animals controlled by instinct is appealing to you right now."

"So you don't think it's true?"

"I didn't say that. I just mean it isn't the whole truth. I think there are a lot of ways to explain love. A purely biological explanation is just one way. You could also look at love from a cultural, social, or cognitive perspective, or a theological one, for that matter, though that's not my area of expertise. But if you were to talk to a pastor, for example, I'm sure you'd get a totally different picture."

"I don't even know any pastors."

"Me neither." I smile. "But that's not the point, is it?"

"Well then, what do you believe?" Patrik asks.

Suddenly my cheeks feel hot. What do I know about love, anyway? What keeps me and Markus together? My loneliness and fear? His perseverance and patience with me? The baby growing inside me? Oxytocin, serotonin, and testosterone?

"There was a philosopher named Kierkegaard," I begin.

"I know who the h.e.l.l Kierkegaard was."

Patrik's voice is hoa.r.s.e and his tone is bitter. My cheeks burn and I suddenly feel like a fraud, like someone who's just pretending to be a therapist, who's just borrowed the office with the little table and the sheepskin-covered chairs, who threw in the Kleenex and the notepad to give the whole thing an authentic feel.

"Kierkegaard said-" I put my palms to my cheeks to cool them down, but they're too hot and damp with sweat. Instead I just end up betraying my nervousness to Patrik. "He talked about a leap, a 'leap of faith,' that people take when they fall in love, or when they believe in G.o.d. That it's not entirely logical. It's about daring to believe and let go and it can't be explained rationally. And at the same time, there's always an element of doubt when we believe. So, no faith without doubt, and no love without daring to let go and take that leap. Even though rationally we know that we're taking a risk, that we can get hurt."

He watches me gloomily, slumps deeper into the armchair, and twists that straw-yellow hair between his fingers, his lips pressed together into a thin, bloodless line.

"Do you believe any of that s.h.i.+t?" he asks.

For the first time in our session, I'm at a loss for words. Because if I believed it, I would just let go and take that leap with Markus, wouldn't I?

He pulls his snuff tin out of his back pocket, eyes still fixed on mine, casually stuffs a pinch under his upper lip, and mumbles, "Yeah, that's what I thought."

It takes me a moment to regain my composure. "All I meant was-"

"I know what you meant, but I don't buy it. I believe everything actually is as bleak and s.h.i.+tty as it seems, that love exists so that we will go forth and multiply, that what keeps people together is the practical stuff-money, kids, all the c.r.a.p you end up owning together. People just use love as an excuse to justify whatever the h.e.l.l they want: being hurtful, controlling, abusive . . . People do totally crazy things and then blame it on love. Every dude out there who hits his girl claims that he did it out of love, right? People kill people and say they did it for love . . . It's borderline psychotic, you know?"

He looks at me, challenging me, seeking my validation, and then adds, "Do you understand? Love is lethal. Watch out for love."

I open my mouth to refute his a.s.sertion and come to love's defense but decide against it. Maybe he's right. Large snowflakes float down over Medborgarplatsen outside. Swirling around under the streetlights, dancing through the air, covering the square beneath us with a soft, white blanket.

"It's snowing," I say, but Patrik doesn't respond.

We're meeting at one of the coffee shops in Soderhallarna. I know Aina would object to our meeting outside the office, but I don't care what she thinks anymore. Aina is becoming angrier and more standoffish every day. We haven't been getting along well since she broke up with Carl-Johan, and she often just brushes me off.

It's crowded in the indoor market and the place smells like a wet blanket. There's some kind of celebration going on, an anniversary, and tons of people are lining up to spend a fortune on slabs of pasture-raised pork or Swedish-produced dessert cheese. I sit down at a table and watch a magician performing card tricks for a group of wide-eyed kids. Kattis sits down next to me without my noticing.

Her hair is up in a ponytail as usual. Her face looks pale and emaciated. Still, she's beautiful in an almost hypnotic way, lit up by some inner glow.

"Have you heard anything? Do they have any leads on Henrik?" I ask her.

She shrugs, resigned, and responds, "Nothing. They don't know s.h.i.+t, or at least they're not telling me anything. I don't get how he can just disappear. Someone must be helping him. Someone must be hiding him. Sometimes I have this feeling that he's nearby. That he's following me, but that's like totally insane, right?"

"Have you talked to the police? Have you told them that you think he's . . . following you?" I ask.

"Yeah, I talked to the police and they set up an alarm at my house so there's a direct line to nine-one-one and I don't know what else. At least they're taking me seriously now. Ever since Hillevi-"

She stops and stares down at the table, seems to be studying the tabletop in detail, tracing a scratch with her finger.

"And Tilda? Do you think he might have taken Tilda?" I ask.

Kattis glances up, looks into my eyes. "I don't know. Going after a kid doesn't really seem like his thing."

We're both quiet for a bit. I think of Tilda, of the picture of the missing five-year-old that was in the papers, her thin brown braids and happy mouth, a little girl who witnessed her own mother being murdered and then disappeared herself. I wonder if she's still alive.

"I decided to take a few days off," Kattis says. "I'm just not up to being at work. It's hard to give to others when you feel so . . . so empty, yourself. Is that wrong? Do you think that's wrong?" Kattis looks unsure; she seems to be seeking my approval.

"I don't think it's necessarily wrong. I mean, this is an extreme situation," I tell her.

"They're supposed to go on an field trip today and stay overnight. They're going to the Universeum Children's Science Center in Goteborg and are going to spend the night in a hotel. The Employment Center people, I mean. We usually do stuff like that with our younger members, you know. A lot of them are socially challenged. They don't have an easy time making friends. We're sort of like parents, friends, and career counselors to them. Sometimes it's just so hard . . ." She looks back down at the table again, holds her latte, and watches the magician, who is now pulling glittering silver coins out from behind a little kid's ear.

And suddenly I feel my stomach sink. It takes a moment before I can formulate my thought.

"Hey, you know your client, the one who was there when I met you at your office? That guy with the coin?"

Kattis nods, looking around the cafe indifferently. "Tobias? What about him?"