Some Kind of Peace (31 page)

“Yes, I feel better today, Siri. I am so ashamed of my behavior last time. I don’t know what… what happened. I’ve become so incredibly…
unstable
recently.”

Charlotte smiles carefully at me—not a happy smile but an apologetic, self-deprecating gesture. Though she is evidently ashamed of her behavior during our last session, she does appear to be feeling better today. She is wearing the same tracksuit as last time, but she is a completely different person. Her hair glistens, newly washed, and she is sitting straight, her legs modestly crossed and her hands folded in her lap.

The old Charlotte is back.

“Don’t think about it anymore. In here, you don’t need to be under control. In here, you can allow yourself to lose control. One might say that here, you can confront your loss of control and all the difficult emotions that come with it. Do you understand?”

“Hmm.”

Charlotte is squirming a little in the chair but doesn’t say anything.

“Try to look at it this way: Control is central to you, you do everything you can to retain control. In every situation.”

“Control over food?”

“Sure, control over food, but in the end it’s your own feelings you are trying to control. By not eating, by exercising manically, by always being in a good mood. And so on.
I
think it’s a healthy sign that you spoke up with your boss.”

Charlotte laughs a hoarse, joyless laugh and inspects her well-manicured nails.

“Well, that worked out really well. I’ve now been to the unemployment office. With all the other welfare cases. It was a… hmm… new experience.”

“Is that how you see it? I mean, that whoever is unemployed is a welfare case?”

Charlotte squirms, aware that she expressed herself in a politically incorrect way. The familiar redness spreads over her neck.

“Well, I don’t know. Maybe.
Some
are, in any case.”

“Charlotte, I’m not judging what you say, I’m only trying to understand why it is so hard for you to accept that you are someone who needs to go to the unemployment office.”

“Because it means that I’ve failed, at least in regard to my career.”

“And what would happen if you had indeed failed? Why would that be so terrible?”

“I don’t know.”

“Think about it. What would you think, for example, if one of your friends had to go to the unemployment office? Would you think he had failed?”

“Of course not!” Charlotte answers immediately, looking me in the eyes.

“So then you have… stricter rules for yourself than for others?”

“I guess so…”

I try to summarize what Charlotte has just said and clarify my view of her situation. Her description of her fear of failure is typical of many high-performing individuals who are under a lot of pressure.

“So could we say that you have developed a strategy to avoid feeling like a failure, and that strategy is to maintain control—in every situation?”

“I suppose so. But wouldn’t you want it too?” Charlotte whispers, her face ashen.

“Do I want to maintain control?”

Charlotte nods and looks at me seriously, her eyes like large, dark marbles.

“Well, of course a certain degree of control is both necessary and desirable, but it is… a means. Not an end in itself.”

Charlotte does not seem to be listening; she is no longer looking at me. Instead her gaze is fixed on the lithograph hanging above my little table. It depicts a woman riding a butterfly, an image that Aina considers far too psychodynamic for our offices. But I like it anyway, so I leave it there despite her protests. And when children visit, they are usually captivated by it.

“How does it feel to lose control, Siri? How does it feel when someone else controls your life?”

“What do you mean?” I ask, and at the same time I realize I know exactly what she means. I know how important it is for me to maintain control over my life. And how it feels to lose it, when it slips between your fingers like a wet bar of soap.

Charlotte stares at me intensely and slowly nods.

“Exactly,” she says quietly.

After Stefan’s death, I was paralyzed. I was incapable of arranging the funeral or his inheritance. Mom and Dad had to help me, and they were happy to do it. No one questioned why I spent days, even weeks in bed. Mom brought me meals on the little red IKEA tray they had given me as a birthday present a few years earlier. Cabbage rolls, meatballs, and cod with egg sauce—real comfort food. Dad opened the mail, made sure that bills were paid, and told everyone who needed to be told about Stefan’s death. I lay there unmoving, unreachable, and inconsolable between the damp sheets. I didn’t shower for weeks, which meant I could smell my own pungent body odor as I turned in bed, but that didn’t bother me. It was as if I were sitting next to myself, observing my sorrow from a distance.

I do not have many memories of the funeral, aside from the fact that it was held at the Forest Cemetery and that the chapel was covered with a beautiful beige mosaic. I also remember what the minister looked like. I actually think I remember how everything looked, but not what was said or what happened.

When Mom and Dad finally left me in peace, Aina moved in. In the beginning, she did everything for me—cooked, washed my hair, and shoveled snow so the car could make it up to the cottage—but after a while, I’m not sure how long, we fell into a wordless daily routine. A collaboration in which we divided up the household chores. A couple of months passed and suddenly there it was, the day I felt that I had to make my way back into the world. I explained to Aina that I wanted to start working again, and the only thing she said was, “So I guess we’ll drive in together tomorrow morning?”

After that, my daily routine regained some semblance of normalcy. Nothing was the same anymore, but nevertheless it appeared to be like it always was. I went to work every day, saw my patients, and spent evenings
writing case notes, reading, or chatting with Aina. The weekends were painfully long but could be survived by dividing them up into brief, manageable portions: reading, two hours; grocery shopping, fifty minutes; washing the car, forty-five minutes; peeling potatoes, twenty minutes; and so on. The trick was never to be without something to do, never to let my thoughts wander.

Despite everyone’s protests, I chose to stay in Stefan’s and my little house by the water. Secretly, I harbored a vague plan, the general idea of which was that once I felt strong enough I would sit myself down and seriously assess whether it was good for me to stay in that house. Obviously, that day never came. Winter turned to spring, and when the sun melted the last of the snow and the snowdrops sought their way up through the leaves I never got around to raking last year, I felt a quiet joy that I had decided to stay. This was my home, and nothing could make me leave.

How wrong I was.

It is Friday evening and I’m at the ICA supermarket. Around me, people are occupied with routine grocery shopping. An older woman fills her shopping cart to the brim with everything she needs for the weekend, and a man in his thirties races with his little daughter through the aisles. Bad, jazzy Christmas music is everywhere, and Advent candleholders and stars are already being sold in one corner of the store. I feel alone and shut out from this sense of community. I know that Stockholm is full of single-person households, that I am not the only thirty-five-year-old who does not have a family to go home to. But right now, that’s no consolation. I wish I were someone else, anyone, just not Siri Bergman. Maybe the girl who is choking with laughter as her dad tickles her, maybe the young woman with an Eastern European name behind the deli counter.

Anyone, just not the person I am.

It’s not only the solitude that eats away at me, it’s also the fact that someone is threatening me. At night it takes me a long time to fall asleep, because first I have to methodically go over all the facts, all the suspects. I ransack my past, but I can’t contemplate someone who would want to play with me so cruelly. Sometimes I have fantasies that I am responsible for something horrible, that I unconsciously committed a crime and that innocent people had to suffer because of me. Am I being punished for some atrocity I committed without my being aware of it?

I think about Sara and the guilt weighs heavily on me. If only she had gone to a different therapist, to a different practice, or to Aina, then maybe she would still be alive. But Sara is dead because she was my patient. It’s my fault. And there is nothing I can do that will change that.

As a psychotherapist, you work toward change and improvement. I think that what made me want to become a psychologist in the first place was that simple: to help people. I was inspired by the notion that I could help make a difference in a person’s life. Not heal or make whole, but
make a difference. It sounds presumptuous now. And I really did make a difference in Sara’s life. She’s dead. She’s gone. She no longer exists.

And I’m guilty.

My cell phone rings, and I’m embarrassed to discover that I’m just standing there, frozen in front of shelves full of milk cartons, effectively preventing people from getting past. I back away to take the call. When I see Markus’s name on the display I briefly feel a gentle flutter in my stomach. A feeling that passes so quickly that I’m not sure I even really felt it.

“This is Siri.”

“Hi, Siri, it’s Markus. I have the night off and, well, since your refrigerator was so empty and I’m a pretty good cook, I thought that maybe I could invite you to dinner? You know, a real dinner. I can come to your place and cook, I mean, if you’d like.”

My spontaneous reaction is delight. Another person in the house. Someone cooking dinner. A man who doesn’t mind cooking at my stove. I answer yes without really thinking. We agree on a time and hang up. I put back the two cans of tomato soup in my basket and walk toward the exit.

•  •  •

Markus rings the doorbell at seven thirty. I’ve cleaned things up a bit and even run the vacuum cleaner once around the house. I’ve made an effort with my clothes and general appearance, for once. A skirt and tight top instead of jeans and a knit sweater.

I am nervous and happy, and have a bad conscience. Markus remains standing on the steps and I can tell that he is surprised, that he is taking it all in. Suddenly I feel overcome by insecurity. What if I misunderstood the whole situation? But Markus smiles and walks past me through the hall and into the kitchen. I pad after him in my stockinged feet. Masses of groceries are lined up on the kitchen counter as well as two bottles of wine.

“I’ll cook. It will be a surprise. You can set the table in the meantime. And pour some wine.”

Markus looks happy as I open a bottle of red wine and pour two glasses. It’s a strange feeling. This is not an interrogation, not a questioning, not a conversation. This is a date. A real date. As I set the table, we talk about Vijay and Olle. Markus is curious about their relationship and whether Vijay is Hindu and how his culture views homosexuality. This is something I really can’t answer.

When dinner is ready, I sit at the table while Markus serves. He made saltimbocca with sage sauce, and my whole kitchen smells of spices. Once again he has baffled me, challenged my prejudices: I never would have thought that he could cook—really cook.

We sit across from each other, and when our eyes meet it is as if they cling to each other. We act relaxed around each other but are also nervous, and perhaps a little self-conscious.

“Why did you become a policeman?”

Markus looks surprised at the question, as if being a policeman were an obvious choice.

“I became a policeman because I wanted to drive fast and catch crooks,” he says, grinning.

“Is it that simple?”

“Well, I was really young when I got into the police academy. I had thought about studying criminology and law at university, but… I went to the academy instead. I wanted to try it out for real. And I had clear principles and ideas about what was right and wrong. Good and evil.”