The smoke was coming through the gaps around the door, and the heat was unbearable. For a moment she closed her eyes as she shut her mouth tight. The bedroom was at the very back of the cabin, behind the kitchen. Her first thought was to tear open the door and get out, but as soon as she touched the metal door handle, she knew that the rest of the house must be in flames. Instead she picked up the floor lamp and rammed it against the window to break the glass. Her eyes were burning so badly that she could hardly keep them open. The smoke was making her dizzy. She tried to breathe in as little as possible. Then she plunged headlong out of the window and on to the lawn. Feeling sick and in shock, she began crawling away, trying to get as far from the fire as she could. She didn’t dare turn around until she’d made it all the way over to the privy. She sat on the ground, leaning against the wall, and watched, dumbfounded, as the drama unfolded before her. The cabin was totally engulfed, the flames shooting high up into the air, an angry inferno against the night sky. There was nothing she could do but sit there as the house, in which she’d spent so many summers and which had given her so many good memories, burned to ashes before her eyes. She hadn’t managed to take a single thing with her. Her mind and her body were both numb; she didn’t dare allow herself to feel anything.
There was no one else around. It was just her and the fire. She had no means of communicating with the rest of the world. She had no mobile, and the nearest neighbouring farm was several kilometres away. For a moment she drifted off, feeling as though she might fall asleep.
Only then did she hear the sirens.
KNUTAS COULDN’T SLEEP. He tossed and turned in bed. After several hours of fruitless attempts, he finally gave up. He slipped out of bed and went downstairs to the kitchen where he poured himself a glass of milk and got out a packet of biscuits. With a sigh he sat down at the table. The cat hopped up next to his plate and rubbed his hand, wanting to be petted. At least you like me, he thought morosely. The argument with Nils had proved a brutal wake-up call. He’d had no idea that the distance between them was so great. He cursed himself. How could he have been so clueless? So selfish?
The children provided a crystal-clear mirror that ruthlessly exposed every flaw and defect that he possessed as a parent. The degree of trust, love and solidarity the children displayed was a manifestation of his success as a father. How did they behave at home? What were they willing to share without being asked? How much love did they voluntarily express? He had merely walked about, blind to what was going on around him. It was Lina who took the kids out to the country on weekends; she was the one who drove them to football matches and practice sessions; she was the one who did most of the cleaning and cooking. He had been so wrapped up in his job that he hadn’t been paying attention.
The guilt that he felt was almost too much to bear.
MAYBE IT’S THE regular conversations that are causing the haze before my eyes to disperse. The fog is starting to lift. My vision is clearer, even though I feel worse. The headaches clamp even more tightly around my forehead.
We’re sitting in that room, as usual, resting in the silence for a while.
If I turn my head and the light slants in from the side, the plaster rose in the ceiling looks like a person with a huge mouth. Maybe it’s my mother’s jaws that just keep getting bigger the more things you try to stuff inside. Her sense of dissatisfaction grows with each day, month and year that passes. She always has something new to complain about. New problems, new obstacles, new spanners thrown into the works. It’s the end of the world the minute life doesn’t flow smoothly. She’s constantly searching for new sources of wood to throw on her bonfire of wretchedness. Hungrily she swings her axe at the smallest thing that might sustain her misery. Sometimes it feels as if my brain is about to boil over.
She takes up so much space. I can always feel her presence, whether I like it or not. She’s been transformed into a thick pulp that has forced its way up inside me to settle in my throat. The only thing I want is to spit out that crap once and for all. To vomit her up. Make her leave my body, which she has invaded from the day I was born. It’s sick. I know it is.
Now I’m back with the person I’m talking to.
The window is slightly open. The sun is shining, and it’s warm outside.
‘The last time we met, you left rather abruptly. What happened?’
‘Sometimes I feel so filled with my so-called mother that I end up overflowing. Then I either have to throw up or take a shit, almost as if I’m a rubbish bin and she’s the rubbish.’
‘Can you describe what it feels like when that’s about to happen?’
‘Sometimes I just can’t stand the thought of her, and then it feels like something takes me over.’
‘What do you mean by that?’