MONA

9.55 A.M.

The tears were still stuck in her throat, like an immovable cork. For the first time in a very long while, she was reluctant to take part in the Sunday service.

She was tired. Exhausted. Even though it was almost ten o’clock, she wasn’t yet dressed. On the table in front of her was today’s newspaper. She hadn’t even opened it. The picture of Lycke on the front page frightened her, the headlines screaming so loudly she wanted to cover her ears.

It was all so terrible, and the most tragic thing was that no one really cared. Except her.

Amid disturbing articles detailing misfortune and darkness, the newspaper had distastefully chosen to place an article on Mother’s Day and the best way to celebrate your mother. She pushed the newspaper away and reluctantly thought of her own mother.

According to the doctors, the drug abuse had rotted her from the inside. This was not a person you celebrated on Mother’s Day. There were many mothers who didn’t deserve to be celebrated. For a moment, Mona wondered if that was what happened to bad people, that they rotted from inside. She almost hoped it was true.

She took a gulp of her tea, which by this time was cold. The wall clock was ticking. Laboriously, she pushed herself up from the kitchen chair. Her legs felt heavy and every movement was an effort. But she had to make herself go to church and pray for little Lycke.

As she went out the front door, she opened her umbrella. The storm hadn’t let up during the night. It was a nasty downpour; she could hardly remember when it had rained so much, and it added to her worry.

The ribs of the umbrella splayed in all directions, and water dripped through some small holes in the material.

With every step she took, the pain tormented her, but she couldn’t decide where exactly it hurt — it felt as if the ache could be felt in every part of her body.

Her red Golf was parked on the hill on Abrahamsbergsvägen, and she fished her car keys out of her pocket as she approached.

As usual, she chose to drive past the house on Leksandsvägen in Nockeby and stopped among all the beautiful 1920s villas, farthest up in the turnaround area. She got out of the car and opened the umbrella again, looking down the steep hill. This was no street for little kids to learn to ride a bike on, but for her purposes it was perfect. From here, she could see into the garden.

The memories were strongest during the summer months. In summer, it was easier to picture how it had looked when she’d peered into the garden that day in June forty-six years ago. She could still remember the rush of happiness that passed through her body when she saw him for the first time.

He was lying in the hammock, reading the newspaper, and it creaked as he rocked back and forth. He looked stylish. The most gorgeous man she’d ever seen.

She’d watched as a young woman served lemonade to a little boy, who sat with his legs dangling from a chair that was part of a set of outdoor furniture on the verandah. In the shade of the apple tree was a stroller.

It had all been so beautiful and so wonderfully idyllic. Exactly like she’d dreamed her life would be. She had a strong desire to jump over the fence and embrace the man, become a part of the whole — but instead she did as the social services woman had told her.

She would remain in the background. And there she had stayed. Some wounds never heal, though, and even today she could feel the pain of it.

It was cold and the wind was strong. She had to hold firmly onto the umbrella. The garden was still just as beautiful, with the same blossoming apple trees. She could sense a faint aroma of bird-cherry, even though the rain had deadened most of the spring smells. The bird-cherry tree grew bigger and more magnificent with every passing year.

Many different families had lived in the house. The facade had changed colour a number of times, and the curtains and outdoor furniture had been replaced, but nothing could make her forget.

She shook her head, closed the umbrella, and got back in the car to drive to the church in Bromma.

***

After the service, she stayed behind to pray and gather her strength. She remained seated all alone on the church pew.

Here she felt secure. She’d been coming here all these years. Ever since her mother had passed away.

The wind howled outside, but the forces of nature did not reach her. Not here.

When she closed her eyes, she could see Lycke’s innocent face.

Mona wrung her cold, chapped hands together, and murmured quietly to herself:

When the daylight hours cease

Let me take my rest in peace.

Send to our abode an angel

To protect us from all danger.