“MUM, WHY DON’T you want me to fight?”
Sandra was sitting in the armchair in her son’s room trying to read while Erik fell asleep. Not because he was afraid of being alone or the dark or needed company, but for her own sake. Sometimes it took a while for him to relax, in which case they would talk. About the book they had just read, or about something that had happened during the day. Sometimes about bigger things like outer space, the sea, and poverty, and often about everyday but equally fascinating things like buses, scarecrows, and electricity. Now it was apparently crime and punishment.
“Because hurting other people isn’t allowed,” Sandra replied. “It’s a crime that you go to prison for.”
“Igor isn’t in prison,” Erik retorted.
“We don’t put children in prison in Sweden.”
There was silence for a while before Erik continued.
“I don’t think it would be that bad to be in prison.”
Sandra had to stifle the laughter about to erupt within her. Goodness—where on earth had he gotten that idea from?
“It’s probably best if you avoid ending up in prison,” she said with a smile, pinching his cheek fondly. “Sleep tight, darling.”
Erik had a lot of thoughts and was good at expressing himself. He was early in many ways: he had already been walking by nine months and started talking at thirteen months. And he liked to talk a lot, bubbling with enthusiasm to say everything he thought and felt.
What a joy to have a son like this, Sandra often thought to herself. Reflective and empathetic, free-spirited and expressive. Rather a long way from her own personality, fortunately. She was uptight and scared. Didn’t look like much to the outside world: fat and clumsy, dull mousy hair and protruding teeth. The boys weren’t exactly queuing up, and it was something her parents refused to see and understand, whilst at the same time it disappointed them.
She didn’t get much reading done. Her thoughts wanted to stay in the real world with its many drawbacks as well as its bright sides. Erik was one of the best of these, and without him life would be barely worth living. She closed the book and studied him by the light of the reading lamp. What had she really given him? Apart from love and care? His colouring wasn’t hers, nor the body shape or the extrovert nature. But he’s good-natured, she thought, taking each day as it comes. And he wants the best for people.
Erik had fallen asleep now, so Sandra turned off the light and left the room. She tidied a little in the hall and the living room, having cleaned up in the kitchen after dinner. Then she sat down at the kitchen table with a cup of tea and a magazine, expecting her mobile to ring.
She was completely different on the phone. There she pretended she was someone other than who she was. First and foremost, she dared to think aloud and talk. She might not be that talented at keeping a conversation going, but periods of silence were also permitted. For most people, it was her ear that was most important, her patience and the brief comments. No one knew who she was or what she looked like; she hid behind a voice that sounded empathetic and experienced all at the same time. Or perhaps it was the opposite, that she didn’t need to hide behind that voice because it was her own.
This was something she often thought about. Whether, with a little mental effort, she could disregard her appearance and take the sting out of her anxiety when around people, instead playing the role of a woman standing on a cliff in the wind. She cared and supported, with mild admonishment recalibrating people who had ended up in spiritual imbalance.
But no—no one could consciously suppress their fears and the knowledge of their own weaknesses.
Her mobile vibrated. Ellen was first up. Wonderful, cheerful Ellen, who most often saw the bright side of life. It was the same today, and her mood was infectious. There was a long account of a visit to the swimming baths followed by a request that Sandra talk about her day. She did—albeit taking care to maintain her privacy and being careful to avoid disclosing any identifying details about where she worked or lived. In Ellen she had nothing to fear, but sooner or later she was bound to be saddled with a psycho.
Then there were two calls from the same person about an hour apart. He introduced himself using different names and talked about completely different issues, however. Sandra pretended not to notice, approaching the problems with enthusiasm. The first was to do with a cancer diagnosis and the crisis that had followed it, the second about anxiety relating to something he feared might be considered domestic violence in the eyes of the law, but which was really just physical contact of the rougher kind.
Sandra thought she dealt with all of it well, particularly the second call when she strove not to judge but simply to get the man’s feelings about the whole thing straight. Strengthened by faith in her own objective therapeutic abilities, she took her second call from Kerstin just before midnight.
“I’m glad you’ve called again,” said Sandra.
She really did mean it; she had been looking forward to this call since their last one had ended. Kerstin said nothing.
“How are you?” said Sandra.
“So so,” said Kerstin with some hesitation.
“Do you know why?”
“What do you mean ‘why’?”
“Why don’t you feel all that good?”
“I have a sore throat,” said Kerstin.
“That sounds annoying. But it will pass,” said Sandra, who didn’t believe that Kerstin was calling Friends-on-call to discuss streptococcal infections.
“I cry a lot,” said Kerstin unexpectedly. “My husband died.”
“That’s very sad. Did it happen recently?”
“No, but it comes in waves. I think about how old I’m getting and how empty it will always be here in the house.”
How to answer this kind of statement? Loneliness was what callers to Friends-on-call had in common. But loneliness took on many different guises. Some felt lonely in a bad relationship, others were frozen out at school or work. Then there were those who were lonely in all ways—those who had no one to share their life with, no work to go to, no children or grandchildren. Some perceived themselves as lonely because they couldn’t think straight, or were unable to open up and let other people in.
“I could say things like ‘you’re no older than you feel’ or ‘there’s plenty more fish in the sea,’” said Sandra. “But I don’t know anything about you and your situation, so they would just be empty words. But perhaps you would like to tell me something about your husband. What was he like?”
“You still wouldn’t understand,” said Kerstin.
“When did he die?” Sandra asked instead.
“Four years ago. I waited and waited, but he never came back. I knew he was in the car, knew something had happened. I had spoken to him just before the accident, and he was supposed to be home soon.”
“A car accident? How terribly tragic.”
Indeed it was. But Kerstin was talking. She had uttered several sentences in a row of her own volition, talking about something that was surely the worst thing she had experienced. Just as Sandra had guessed, painful tragedy lay behind Kerstin’s broken voice and inability to share her thoughts. However, Kerstin was not alone in having lost a loved one, her life partner, in dramatic circumstances. She was one of many, and ought to be able to find support and comfort from people with similar experiences. But she had turned to Sandra—Sandra who had no comparable experiences of her own. Absurdly, she felt honoured, and was overcome with inexplicable tenderness towards Kerstin.
“He was missing for four days,” said Kerstin. “Do you understand?—for four days.”
“Missing?” said Sandra, who didn’t quite follow this.
“There was black ice and the car crashed into a ravine. He was stuck there for four days before someone found him.”
Now Sandra didn’t know what to think. If Kerstin had spoken to him just before the accident then the police with all their resources must surely have been able to locate him. What was more, surely the smashed-up car must have been visible from the road—another motorist must have asked themselves why there was a car down in the ravine.
“It took several hours for him to die,” said Kerstin, and Sandra now heard her voice cracking.
“How awful,” was all she could bring herself to say.
“According to the police, he was stuck there with a cracked skull and difficulty breathing for more than two hours before he died. And it was four days before they found his body.”
“Despite them searching?” said Sandra, who was beginning to feel physically sick as the picture of the horrible accident emerged with increasing clarity before her.
The receiver fell silent. The only thing audible were stifled snuffles.
“Despite them searching?” Sandra repeated, who really couldn’t believe the four days being mentioned.
“The car was quickly covered in snow,” said Kerstin. “It wasn’t visible from the road until it thawed four days later.”
“But still,” Sandra couldn’t stop herself from persisting. “You must have had some idea about roughly where he was, and the police have dogs and thermal cameras. I don’t understand why it took four . . .”
But Kerstin was gone. And Sandra was sat there with the mobile in her hand, staring blankly into space.