Cecilie Mykle had slept so soundly that it almost hurt to wake up. Force of habit made her reach for the alarm clock, but for some reason it wasn’t ringing. Cecilie tried and failed to open her eyes. Her body felt so heavy and comfortable and warm, almost as if she were lying on a soft cloud with another lovely cloud covering her. She pulled the duvet more tightly around herself and turned over onto her stomach. Pressed her face into the pillow. Tried to obey her body. Go back to sleep, go back to sleep. Forget what your head and your mind are telling you. You need to sleep now, sleep, sleep, Cecilie, sleep. It was for this reason that the doctor had prescribed her the pills. Cecilie had been against it; she’d never taken sleeping pills in her life. She did not like medication. She liked to be alert. She hated the thought of something controlling her body. Cecilie Mykle was very keen on being in control. Underneath the duvet her hand reached out again, automatically trying to switch off the alarm clock, at six-fifteen as always, but it had still not begun to ring. A tiny part of her brain wondered why, but it was quickly overruled by the rest of her brain, which could not care less, swayed by the aftereffects of the sleeping pills; she snuggled up under the duvet and pressed her head against the lovely soft pillow.
“This is not a suggestion, it’s an order,” her doctor had said. “You have to take these pills because you need some sleep. You need to sleep. How many times do I have to tell you before you understand?”
The best doctor in the world. Who knew what she needed and was a bit strict with her, who had told her to take care of herself. Something Cecilie Mykle was not very good at. You have to take care of yourself, people told her all the time, but Cecilie Mykle thought that was easier said than done. She had grown up with a mother unable to do that, who had always put other people’s needs first. It was a difficult pattern to break.
She was a worrier. That’s why she was unable to sleep. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d had a good night’s sleep. Her nights were largely restless: she would doze a little, then get up, watch some late-night TV, have a cup of tea, and then perhaps catnap for a few minutes before the alarm went off and it was six-fifteen again. There were always so many things that could go wrong, and Cecilie was the sort of person who worried more than most.
“You’re worrying yourself unnecessarily,” her husband would say, as he had the time they bought the terraced house in Skullerud.
“Are you sure we can afford it?”
“We’ll manage,” her husband had said, and he’d been right. They’d managed fine, especially once he started working on the North Sea oil rigs.
Six weeks on, six weeks off. She missed her husband, of course, the weeks he was away, but the money did come in very handy. And when he was at home, he was at home the whole time. Cecilie Mykle loved her husband. He was perfect; she could not have wished for a better friend or lover. He was not like many of his friends who also worked on the oil rigs, men who would come home with money in their pockets and then hit the town. Six weeks at work, six weeks of drinking. No, he was not like them at all. When her husband was at home, he was at home.
Cecilie Mykle stretched her arms toward the ceiling and finally managed to open her eyes. She decided to stay in bed for a little bit longer while she came around. She felt lethargic, but still also incredibly rested after a good night’s sleep, her skin warm, her body soft and calm. She hadn’t had any dreams last night either, as she had recently—violent, almost feverish nightmares—but last night nothing. Just total relaxation.
She was awake now. Suddenly she surfaced in the dark bedroom and started to feel anxious again. What time was it really? She reached out to switch on the bedside lamp. It would not come on. Why was everything dark? And cold? Had they had a power cut? Cecilie Mykle pressed the button that lit up the small alarm clock and had a shock when she realized what time it was. A quarter to ten? Gosh, she should have been up hours ago. She should have taken Karoline to nursery school by now. Cecilie swung her legs over the edge of the bed but stayed sitting with her head buried in her hands. It felt like a lump of lead. She could barely keep her eyes open. She staggered to the light switch by the door and tried turning on the ceiling light, but it would not come on either. The house was cold and strangely quiet. Cecilie fumbled her way to the window and opened the curtains. Spring light poured into the bedroom, enough for her to see by.
Cecilie stumbled out into the passage. She had to wake Karoline. Her legs were heavy, almost incapable of supporting her down the dark hallway. She had forgotten to put on socks, and the floor was cold. Cecilie felt her way along the wall to Karoline’s room.
“Karoline?”
Her voice was feeble and weak. It, too, refused to wake up.
“Karoline, are you awake?”
There was no reply from her daughter’s bedroom. At a quarter to ten? Karoline was usually up by seven, or at least awake. Often she would pad to her parents’ bedroom with her teddy in tow. Best time of the day, really. Quiet mornings in bed with Karoline and her teddy.
“Karoline?”
Cecilie continued to feel her way around, her eyes slowly acclimating to the darkness. Suddenly she felt something wet and sticky under her feet. What on earth? She stopped and raised her foot. Carefully, she touched the sole. There was something yucky on the floor. But she had washed it only the day before. Cecilie made her way gingerly across the sticky floor and entered Karoline’s room. She pressed the light switch, but again the light did not come on.
“Karoline?”
She quickly crossed the room and opened the curtains. The light poured in, and it was at this point that Cecilie Mykle started to worry in earnest.
“Karoline?”
She could not believe her own eyes. Karoline wasn’t in her bed. There was blood on the floor. Cecilie could not be awake. She had stepped in the blood. So she must be dreaming. She was still asleep. She should never have taken that sleeping pill, but her doctor had insisted. Cecilie Mykle stayed in her daughter’s bedroom while she waited to wake up. She did not like this dream. Karoline was not in her bed. It was a quarter to ten in the morning. There was blood on the floor. There was no electricity. The house was dark. Cecilie had goose pimples on her arms under her sweater. She really wanted to wake up now. The alarm clock will go off any moment now, she thought, and chewed her lip.
This is just a dream.
Cecilie Mykle was in shock. She did not even hear the distant ringing of the telephone.