“NOT BLOODY LIKELY,” said Jeanette, rejecting Lubbi’s offer to sit down with her on the bench.
“Are you in a bit of a mood today, Jen?”
“You stink,” she hissed. “I can’t bear the stench.”
“Why thank you,” said Lubbi staring further into the vodka bottle.
“Got out of bed on the wrong side?” asked Micki.
“Stop asking fucking questions and you’ll live longer.”
“You should sit down and rest a while dear,” Nanna said cautiously. “You aren’t well.”
“You’re not my mother.”
Her friends’ care was missing the mark; just as pain causes more pain so anger causes more anger. But it was only when Kat opened her mouth that it truly backfired.
“Delirium tremens,” she said, attempting to make eye contact with the other woman.
Kat said it quietly, in a way that meant everyone could hear her, but not as loudly as if she had been directing it at anyone in particular. She wasn’t speaking to Jeanette but about her, and it sparked Jeanette into firing on all cylinders. She spat out insolent invectives that belonged to a vocabulary she didn’t normally use. Puffed out her chest and made a brutal gesture towards Kat, who involuntarily pulled herself back.
Jeanette then moved around the benches in agitation, muttering long tirades to herself. It was as if the thoughts bubbling up in her head weren’t fully thought through until they were spoken out loud. Not because they were especially meaningful—even she realised that—but she had to get rid of them somehow, they had to get out. That was why she was babbling away, stalking from bench to bin to planter. Occasionally, she would bump into someone, and shout and harry them even though they backed away without protest. This aggression was foreign to her—but right now she was in no position to stem the stream of emotions that she barely recognised as her own.
They were all on to her: Micki, Lubbi, Nanna, a young, shy lad called Jimmy, some older worn-out blokes, and even Kat. Everyone was trying to get her to sit down, to cool off, but she waved them away, whirling her arms and answering with abuse. Something got in the way—someone, because she felt the back of her hand touch a face, and she heard the shout. But she rushed on, trying to run away from the ten thousand thoughts that were tearing her head apart and gushing out of her mouth in a long and garbled flood.
Suddenly she was surrounded. They were coming at her from every direction. They looked threatening as they towered above her, and this made her even more angry. She prattled on, swearing, gesticulating, and dashing about in smaller and smaller circles. Then they got hold of her, capturing her, bending her arms against her back so that she couldn’t move and get free.
They must have planned her capture without her noticing, because right beside her was a taxi with its back doors open. She screamed and raged, tried to resist but didn’t succeed. They pushed her into the back seat—a burly bloke on either side—and slammed the doors before the car pulled away.
She couldn’t remember what happened next, but when she came to her senses she was lying on her own bed wearing her shoes and all her clothes. Jimmy was sitting at the foot of the bed and Lubbi adjacent to her head. He carefully brushed the hair from her forehead and held out a glass of water. She took it, and realised at the same moment to her despair that all the evil thoughts that had been chasing her were still there. She lifted her head and tried to drink the water, but her hand shook so much that most of it ended up on her.
Lubbi took the glass and put it down, put his arm around her neck and lay down next to her, holding her hand and trying to calm her down. But it was no good. Her breathing was shallow and very fast, and all the while words were once again tumbling from her mouth. But these were not hurtful words any longer, just a long torrent of emotions—emotions that were actually her own.
It was about the joy of having a child, the spiritual torment as you cared for it, the pain of losing the most important thing in life, the eternal grief afterwards, the betrayal of the person you had promised to love, the shame of letting oneself go and leaving, the feelings of guilt, the rash and fateful decisions, the suffering of living on after everything that had happened and everything she had done, the tragedy that she was still alive even though she didn’t want or deserve to be.
It was incohesive and probably incomprehensible, but they listened without interrupting. Jeanette knew there were things she shouldn’t talk about, shouldn’t even touch on, and she tried to stop herself on several occasions, but she couldn’t. Throughout the monologue she lay there coiled like a spring, but Lubbi never relaxed his grip on her. It warmed her and stopped her from shaking, and after a long time—hours perhaps—the words ran out and Jeanette’s body relaxed. Only then did Lubbi change position, but still with his arms around her.
“You smell good, Lubbi,” she said, her nose in his hair. “Sorry.”
“So you remember?” said Lubbi, and she could feel him laughing.
“I’m so sorry,” said Jeanette.
“Don’t be. We’ve all been in that state of panic and despair.”
“I don’t know what happened.”
“Delirium tremens, as Kat quite rightly said.”
“I was awful. I didn’t mean any of what I said.”
“No one believes you did.”
“You sure?”
“Absolutely sure. But the most recent stuff was perhaps more relevant? Since we got back?”
“Yes,” Jeanette admitted. “But you’ve heard it before.”
“Not all of it. Can I ask you something?”
“Of course,” said Jeanette without feeling convinced she was ready for it.
“I get the feeling that there’s something that you’re especially ashamed of, something that you regret enormously. Shame and guilt are the worst emotions to carry around—worse than grief and longing, hate and anger and unhappy love. Do you agree?”
Jeanette nodded hesitantly, sensing that something unwelcome was about to follow.
“Based on what you’ve said,” Lubbi continued, “there’s nothing in your life that is in proportion to your self-contempt.”
Jeanette didn’t say anything, holding her breath and waiting for him to continue.
“You can’t just carry around those feelings of guilt. It destroys you. You say you don’t deserve to be alive, and that you don’t want to be. You can’t feel like that. It makes your friends sad and worried.”
It was nicely put, and perhaps he would stop there. But Lubbi wasn’t done.
“You had an affair, betrayed your husband. That’s okay—you know that? You’re allowed to be unfaithful without going to jail. Or being pilloried. You might not feel great about it, but it’s hardly a reason to commit suicide.”
Jeanette exhaled. But then the clincher came, the thing she had been worried the conversation would lead to.
“It makes me think,” said Lubbi seriously, “that there’s something worse. Something you really don’t want to come out. And I dare say that’s why you’re in the position you are now. That it’s the reason why you can’t bear to go on, that you have panic attacks like the one today. Am I on the right track here?”
Jeanette nodded. Reluctantly, but she had to give him his due.
“In that case I suggest you say what it is. No matter what it is, you’ll feel better if you tell us. And it goes without saying that we won’t tell anyone else.”
Jeanette lifted her head and glanced at Jimmy, who was still sitting on the foot of the bed. He shook his head intensely. Jeanette lay down again and sighed.
“Okay,” she said. “You’re probably right. It might be a relief to be rid of this burden. But you’ll hate me.”
“I doubt that,” said Lubbi pacifyingly. “We’ve all done things we regret, things we’re ashamed of and would prefer not to talk about. Things we should be inside for.”
“I hate myself,” Jeanette said with a sigh. “What I’ve done is so awful, so selfish and cynical and totally fucking dumb. Unforgivable.”
Then she took a deep breath and began to tell them.
“It was four years ago, in winter. During the brief period that I was seeing that man I told you about. The one who went missing.”
She didn’t get further before the doorbell rang. A long, peremptory sound—she couldn’t guess who it might be. She closed her eyes and breathed out, grateful to have been saved by the bell.
She heard steps going along the hall, the front door opening, and a voice asking for her. Robust shoes approaching and entering the bedroom. She opened her eyes and saw two uniforms.
“Jeanette Wretberg? You’re under arrest in relation to a fight at the East Gate earlier today.”