Slowly We Die

CHAPTER

THREE

PHILIP ENGSTRÖM STARED at the ceiling light, thinking about the strange dream he’d just woken up from. He had been in a museum, looking at a man dressed all in white who was standing completely still in a glass case. The disturbing part was that the man looked exactly like him.

He reached across the bed, grabbed his cell phone to check the time and saw that it was already five in the afternoon. He also saw a text from Lina, read it quickly and got out of bed.

He put on his pants and pulled a shirt over his head as he left the bedroom and walked into the kitchen. As usual, the refrigerator door refused to open until he jerked the handle with both hands. He surveyed its contents: butter packets, ketchup bottle, jar of pickles.

Just as he picked up the milk carton to check the expiration date, he heard Lina’s voice from the entranceway.

“Hello? Sweetie, are you home?”

“Yes, I’m here,” he answered. He heard the front door close as he took a mouthful of milk from the carton and put it back in the fridge. When she came into the kitchen, he was standing quietly by the kitchen table.

“Great that you’re already up,” she said. “Did you sleep well?”

“Yeah,” he mumbled.

She caressed his arm, gave him a light kiss on the cheek and set a white plastic bag on the table.

“I got takeout.”

“Oh, nice.”

“Red curry.”

“Are we celebrating something?” he asked

“No, I just didn’t want to waste time cooking dinner. I thought we could use the time for something better.”

Philip felt her hand slip around his arm, and he looked at her. The text message she’d sent earlier had been just three words: Snuggle time tonight.

It meant that she wanted to have sex at least once if not more in the next few hours before he had to leave for work. Their wedding three years ago had marked the beginning of a long struggle with infertility. He was now in his thirties, and she was only twenty-five, and it felt as if they already had tried everything. Their specialist could not find any medical reason why they couldn’t get pregnant on their own; they were told they probably just needed to relax.

Lina eventually devised the current plan, a schedule to have sex as often as possible around when she was ovulating,

Today happened to be three days before, and so they should have sex. Not necessarily because they wanted to—just because that was how their life was now.

“We have to,” she said.

“I know, I know,” he said. But he didn’t want to think about routines and schedules. Not today, and especially not now. He hoped the stiffness of his smile wouldn’t give him away, but it did.

“Don’t you want to?”

“Of course I do.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes!” he said, much more emphatically than he’d intended.

She jerked away and refused to look at him, instead staring into the bag at the aluminum containers with their steaming lids.

Philip didn’t know what to say. He hated the goddamn plan. Hated to have sex on schedule like a stupid robot.

One day several years ago he had been told by his own father that he was a coward, a loser, for choosing to be an ambulance nurse. He hadn’t spoken to his father since that day, but what if he had? What would his father say to him if he found out that his son wasn’t even capable of getting his wife, the love of his life, pregnant? Would he call him a double loser? Or something even worse?

Fortunately he would never know. He made a promise to himself never to speak with his father again. But even so, his father’s words had affected him. He actually felt like a loser all the time, but he tried not to show it or speak of it. Not even with Lina. He didn’t want to let her in that close. Didn’t want her to think of him as both inadequate and weak.

“Look...” he said. “I’m sorry.”

“It’s okay,” she said, shrugging her shoulders in disappointment and pulling one of the containers out of the bag.

Suddenly he felt dizzy and closed his eyes when he realized he was seeing double. When he opened them again, she was looking at him questioningly.

“Maybe we should just eat,” she said curtly, taking out the other container.

Now it was his turn to stop her.

“Come on, now...” he said.

She shook her head so forcefully that her light brown hair fell into her face. He went over to her, lifted her chin and kissed her softly on the mouth. Then he let his hand travel over her cheek and around the back of her neck. He looked at her with a smile in his eyes and knew there was only one way to make her happy.

He pressed his lips against hers again, and this time, she responded in kind. His hands found the small of her back and her skin underneath her clothes, her soft breasts, her panties.

They might just as well make love right there on the table, or standing against the wall, or on the kitchen floor. He didn’t care, and he knew she didn’t, either. Nothing else mattered as long as they had sex.

Now he felt her eager hands pulling at his shirt. Her breath quickened as he pressed her against the wall, felt her body trembling in excitement. He kissed her again.

“Come with me,” he said, holding out his hand.

“Aren’t we going to eat?” she said, taking it.

“Yes, but let’s start with dessert.”

* * *

Jana Berzelius watched as her father held his fork clumsily, bringing it to his mouth with great concentration. But his hand seemed to have a mind of its own and the food ended up on his cheek and chin. She was sitting with him and his nurse in the kitchen in Lindö.

Her mother had told her that meals took time and that her father had finally begun to eat by himself, but Jana had never imagined that she would see him eating like a child, undignified, a bib around his neck and food around his mouth.

He dropped the food again, then lowered his fork to scoop up another bite when the nurse stopped him. She smiled, took the fork from him and picked up a small mound of mashed potatoes.

“Open your mouth,” she said softly.

But he refused, turning his head away and pressing his lips together like a defiant child. She bumped the mashed potatoes against his mouth.

“Come now, open your mouth now, Karl.”

Jana had no desire to sit there any longer and watch him struggle with his meal. She left the kitchen soundlessly.

She went up the stairs and through the hallway, opening the door to her father’s office. From the doorway, she surveyed the shelves, desk and paintings on the walls.

It had all happened in this room.

Jana had tried to stop him that day from shooting himself with the pistol. The bullet had traveled diagonally, injuring the left side of his brain, which meant that he couldn’t walk or move his body properly.

She stepped into the room now and walked around the desk. She saw the mess of papers and thought how nothing was like the old days. Her father’s strict order was gone, the sense of control that had been his signature all these years.

She paged slowly through bills for water, electricity, trash collection. Various dates, all out of order. Dozens of papers in no organization whatsoever.

She had just begun straightening them into a neat stack when she heard someone clear their throat behind her. She looked up and saw the caretaker standing in the doorway.

“Yes?” Jana said curtly, irritated at the woman’s curious gaze.

“You’re the daughter, Jana, right?” she asked. “I didn’t have the chance to greet you properly in the kitchen. I’m Elin Ronander.”

“I didn’t want to disturb him while he was eating,” Jana said.

“And I’m sorry to bother you now, but I’m just wondering where Margaretha is...?” Elin said. “She always leaves a note on the kitchen table if she is going somewhere. When we came home early this morning from the overnight stay at the rehabilitation center in Örebro early, she wasn’t here. I was surprised and there wasn’t a note. I called her cell, but...”

Jana looked at her. “How long have you been taking care of my father?”

“Since he came home from the hospital. Your mother hired me because she was feeling overwhelmed. I work twenty-four-hour days.”

“So how well do you know Karl?”

“Well, I take care of his physical needs,” she said. “But I don’t know much beyond that.”

“I want your objective opinion. I need to know exactly how he’s doing and what his prognosis is.”

Multiple wrinkles appeared on Elin’s forehead as she took off her glasses and polished them on her knitted cardigan.

“Karl has made considerable progress in recent weeks,” she said.

“And what about the future?”

“That I can’t say. You’d of course have to ask his doctors.”

Jana picked up the stack of papers, tapping it twice against the desk.

“But do you think he might make a full recovery?”

Elin sighed and put her glasses back on.

“I imagine it’s going to be a long and difficult rehabilitation for him, but I’m seeing distinct improvements all the time. Just a week ago, he couldn’t get out of his wheelchair without help. This morning he not only got out of it, but took a few steps all by himself.”

“So the answer is yes?”

“Look, it’s very difficult to say for sure, but if everything goes well, he should eventually be able to walk in the garden here.”

“And his speech?”

“He will need to work on that regularly, too. Every day. He needs that stimulation in order to learn to speak again,” she said. “And it’s important that family members help as much as they can.”

“I can’t come here that often,” Jana said.

She walked around the desk, past Elin.

“Then your mother will have to bear a heavy load. My contract is only for two more months.”

Jana froze.

“I’ll renew the contract if you will take full responsibility for his rehabilitation. Is that acceptable?”

Elin nodded yes.

“Good,” Jana said. “And one more thing.”

“Yes?”

“Tell Father that his wife is dead.”

* * *

Anneli Lindgren stood on the staircase landing and raised her hand to knock. It felt odd standing there like a stranger outside her own front door. She unzipped her jacket as she waited and ran her hand down over her shirt in an attempt to smooth out any wrinkles that had formed over the course of the day.

Gunnar opened the door but wouldn’t look directly at her. He hadn’t last time, either.

“It’s all in the bedroom,” he said, leaving the door ajar as he walked back into the kitchen.

She noticed the odor of fried food and saw an empty frying pan on the stove. A jar of lingonberry jam and two empty plates sat on the kitchen table.

“Don’t you use the hood vent?” she asked.

“There are six boxes,” he said, ignoring her question and putting the lid back on the jam jar. “They’re right by the door.”

“Does Adam know I’m here?”

“Adam!” Gunnar yelled at the top of his lungs.

“Well, he certainly does now!” Anneli said, smiling in an attempt to lighten the tense atmosphere.

But Gunnar didn’t smile. He didn’t say anything. She felt her cheeks begin to flush, and she shifted uncomfortably.

“I guess I’d better get started,” she said.

“Yes, do,” he said.

As she went toward the bedroom, she noticed how unkempt the apartment was. The bathroom faucet was dripping. In the living room, the remote control had been tossed onto the floor, with the batteries alongside.

The boxes were stacked up next to the closet. Four in one stack, two in another. The first box hardly weighed anything; it was probably only light clothes. The second was heavier, and she was panting by the time she got it to the car.

She didn’t want these boxes, actually. She didn’t need what was in them and felt annoyed that neither Gunnar nor their son, Adam, offered to carry them to the car for her.

She stopped to catch her breath and rested her hand against the cold car window. Closing her eyes, she felt the chill spread through her fingers.

A voice inside her blamed herself: It was your fault! All of it was your fault!

She knew it was. If only she hadn’t given in to Anders that time.

It was still her own damn fault. She had been cheating on Gunnar, and now she had to move out of his condo. It wasn’t the first time she and Gunnar had lived apart. Actually, she couldn’t count how many times they had separated and then gotten back together again. The one thing she could be sure of was that they had been together on and off for twenty years. The other thing she could be sure of was that she had screwed up big-time.

She had thought it would be easy to find a new place to live, but the housing market had heated up. Condos were hard to come by, and rentals were in high demand. It had never been so difficult just to rent a place.

She hadn’t dreamed she would have to call her mother and ask if she could live with her, even temporarily. Sure, she’d done this before—but that was when she was twenty years old, maybe twenty-two.

Now she was fifty-four.

Her son, Adam, was waiting for her in the hallway after she stuffed the last box in the car.

His skin was broken out in acne, and his bangs were combed to the side, covering his entire right eye. A white headphone cord hung around his neck, his cell phone in his right hand.

“Are you ready?” she asked.

“Yeah,” he said wearily and walked past her.

“Bye!” she called into the apartment, but all she received in response was silence.

She walked down two steps but then stopped, thinking she should go back and say something, explain to Gunnar that it wasn’t really fair, that this was her home, too. She should be able to stay.

She wanted to stay, to start over, forget her misstep and move on from it.

“Mom?” Adam’s voice echoed in the stairwell. He was standing a few steps below her and was holding one headphone out from his ear, looking at her questioningly.

“Are you coming?”

“I’m coming.”

She sighed, cast one last glance at what was no longer her front door and continued down the stairs.

* * *

Jana Berzelius crossed the street and continued on to the narrow lanes of the Knäppingsborg shopping district. The shop windows displayed a crowded jumble of hand towels, pillows and cookware decorated with branches and leaves, featuring every imaginable shade of blue and green.

Upon entering her apartment, she took her phone out of her coat pocket, hung up the coat and went into the bedroom. She noticed that Per Åström had called, but she didn’t bother listening to his message. She was sure he was wondering why she’d left the office so hastily today, and she had no desire to explain it to him. Her mother’s death was a private affair. She had all she could handle just thinking about having to make the funeral arrangements.

She tossed the phone on the bed, stripped down to her underwear and wrapped herself in her bathrobe. She had intended to heat up some tomato soup for dinner, but now she didn’t have any appetite. Instead, she took out a bottle of white Bordeaux from the refrigerator and poured herself a glass of wine.

After two sips, she held the cold glass against her forehead. She wanted to cool herself down, repress the thoughts that had again begun running through her head. She was filled with rage, a rage that usually made her feel invincible and strong, but right now was making her feel weak—because her mother’s death made her think about the death of a different woman. The woman who had actually given birth to her.

Jana took the glass from her forehead and gazed into it, at the concentric circles created on the surface by the vibration of her trembling hand. She took another sip of wine and tried to push her thoughts away, knowing that if she didn’t stop them, they would take her to the painful memory of her real mother.

Her biological mom. The one who was murdered so many years ago.

She didn’t want to think about her real mother. She hadn’t in many years. But now she couldn’t stop where her mind was racing.

She raised the glass to her lips but hardly noticed as she swallowed. She had already been dragged down into her memories and found herself back in that tight, stuffy metal shipping container as it made its way across the Atlantic. She sat huddled up next to her mother, kept asking her over and over if they would be there soon. Her dad had told her to be quiet like everyone else packed into that airless space.

They had been on their way to a new land, to Sweden, to the promise of a new and better life.

She remembered how her heart had been pounding as the shipping container was eventually opened. Three men stood outside. With weapons in hand, they selected seven children. She was one of them. She could still feel the harsh grip on her arm as she was yanked out into the light, away from the mother and father she loved and who had protected her.

That was the last time she saw her birth parents alive.

The men pointed their weapons directly into that tight, stuffy space. She would never forget the deafening sound of shots being fired. But the worst part came when everything had fallen silent and the men took a step back to admire their work.

Jana swallowed hard and rubbed the back of her neck. She drew her fingers over the welted letters that were carved there long ago, K-E-R.

Maybe it had been a mistake to start digging up her past. Maybe it would have been better to just let it be once she escaped and was adopted by Karl and Margaretha. Once she was educated and had a safe new life—even if she had no clear memory of what had come before.

But she was haunted by those carved letters K-E-R—and was determined to discover what they stood for. So she set out to collect information over the years, filling journal after journal, writing and drawing her memories from dreams and nightmares. And from all of these notes, a terrifying picture of her childhood had formed.

She had been forced to train with the other trafficked orphans as a child soldier, a mercenary whose only purpose was to kill.

Her adoptive mother, Margaretha, had never known any of this. But her adoptive father, Karl, knew everything. As it turns out, he had been a part of it. To protect himself, her father found out where she had hidden her boxes that contained all of her journals and notes, and he had stolen them from her, had put them in his own secret hiding place. But now he was incapacitated. She needed to find out where those boxes were stored. Was anyone guarding them? Making sure they didn’t fall into the wrong hands?

Who? Jana thought, raising her glass to her mouth again.

* * *

Henrik Levin carefully closed the front door behind him. He left his shoes in the hallway, hung up his jacket, then stepped into the kitchen. He could hear his infant son, Vilgot, screaming and his wife, Emma, talking softly to him in the bedroom upstairs. She was shushing him gently, saying it was time to go to sleep.

Henrik smiled to himself and walked up the stairs, peeking quietly into the bedroom and seeing Emma standing there with Vilgot in her arms. Her delicate face was pale, and her hair, which was almost always in a large topknot, hung loose. He nodded to her quietly, then continued silently to his son Felix’s room, stroked his hair and whispered good-night. Then he went to his daughter Vilma’s room, where he accidentally stepped squarely on a Lego.

“Shit!” he said.

“Daddy, you swore.”

“Why aren’t you asleep?” he asked, leaning over the bed and meeting Vilma’s large, blinking eyes.