AFTER SPENDING ONE WEEK IN the intensive care unit at Karolinska University Hospital, Viktor was transferred to the children’s psychiatric ward.
A group of doctors with different specialities and experience had failed to agree on a diagnosis. This meant that a decision on the choice of treatment was delayed.
A psychiatrist concluded that the child was suffering from post-traumatic stress disorder. With the right therapy there was a good chance he would recover.
Another doctor contradicted this finding, stating that the boy was in a catatonic state.
“I advise against giving the boy’s relatives too much hope. From experience I know that patients in a similar condition seldom fully recover.”
Because of the boy’s condition he had been placed in a large room where there was space to provide an extra bed for relatives. Kristina Borelius-Montana, Viktor’s grandmother, had been spending the vast majority of her time at the hospital. She was deeply concerned about Viktor, agonizing over how she would react and what she would say if Viktor asked about Ingrid.
Did he know that his mother was dead?
“God forbid if Viktor wakes up while I’m not here. What would happen if he asked for his mother?” Kristina’s anxiety increased each day. “At least he’ll see his grandmother,” she thought. That was her only comfort.
Viktor was an extremely sensitive child who was almost completely dependent on his mother. He had little or no contact with his father and was also scared of him. Kristina wondered if there was any possibility of gaining custody of the boy, although she was well aware that the law would favour his father.
“Hi,” whispered Sanna, knocking gently on the door at the same time as she popped her head into the room. “May I come in?”
“Yes, of course,” answered Kristina with a polite but cheerless smile.
“How’s Viktor?” asked Sanna as she walked towards his bed.
The top half of the bed had been raised to facilitate the boy’s breathing. He lay there motionless with his eyes open.
“Hi, little man, how are you?” she asked, affectionately caressing the boy’s forehead.
Viktor showed no sign of recognition.
Sanna took the child’s small hands in hers. “Sweet boy,” she whispered. “What do the doctors say?” She turned to face Kristina
“Not much. The doctors have so many different opinions that they’re having a hard time deciding on how to treat him.” Her voice cracked and the tears started to fall despite her efforts to stop them.
Sanna approached the woman and laid a hand on her back.
“How are you holding up?”
“Not so good. I’ve been here the whole time since Viktor was admitted to hospital. I don’t know what to do – it’s hard to cope alone.”
“Is there anyone else – another relative?”
“Yes, there is, but my son has his own family to take care of.” She dried her tears and blew her nose into a handkerchief. “They have two small children and my husband isn’t much help. He can’t handle it.” She glanced at Sanna. “He isn’t Ingrid’s father. I remarried after the children left home.”
Sanna nodded.
Kristina Borelius-Montana was previously married to Viktor Montana, a Latin American man who owned a consulting firm that dealt predominantly with Latin American IT companies.
For more than ten years Ingrid had devoted herself to her family. She had been a stay at home mother and housewife until the day she learned that her husband was having an affair. That very same day she contacted a lawyer and filed for divorce.
Now she was retired with little financial means. As a housewife she couldn’t afford to save towards a retirement fund and now she survived on a very small state pension.
She didn’t blame anybody. It had been her choice to stay at home with the children.
Viktor Montana had planned well. He had registered all his assets with his company, which, under Swedish law, meant that Kristina was left with very little money after the divorce.
She had been forced to take a number of part-time jobs in order to make ends meet. Since no company was willing to hire an inexperienced business major in her mid-thirties she had to satisfy herself with menial jobs.
However, Montana had continued to support the children financially and demanded that Kristina kept detailed records of how much money she needed and how it would be spent. He made sure the children didn’t want for anything. For their sake he had also allowed Kristina to keep the villa and summerhouse.
They had two children, but the child who was closest to Kristina was Ingrid.
Sanna listened attentively.
“What do you mean, he can’t handle it?”
“I don’t know. My husband has a fragile disposition and I don’t want him to get sick as well. I have enough to deal with as it is, taking care of Viktor.”
Kristina glanced timidly at Sanna but tried to avoid direct eye contact with her.
Sanna looked thoughtful, but said nothing. She struggled to think of something comforting to say.
The women were silent for a few minutes.
Sanna walked towards the window, which overlooked an inner courtyard. She stood there for a while contemplating the view then turned around to look at Viktor.
“Has a curator contacted you?”
“Yes. She basically just informed me what was going on and that she would be in touch again soon.”
Sanna was becoming emotionally involved in this case. She couldn’t shut off her feelings just because the rulebook dictated it. She was first and foremost a human being – a person with feelings and a conscience. A person who knew what it meant to lose someone you loved under circumstances like this.
“I… I don’t have anyone to take care of… I live alone. I would like to help you. I could relieve you for a couple of hours a day until we find someone else. Someone who can be here when you have to run errands,” suggested Sanna tentatively.
“Absolutely not! You shouldn’t need to concern yourself with my problems; you have your job to focus on. I’ve heard that the police are overworked as it is and have no private life… Thanks anyway, it was very thoughtful of you,” answered Kristina gratefully, touched that someone had stretched out a helping hand when she most needed it.
“I have one day off every other week and occasionally I finish at five or six. I could come here… Actually, I could come tomorrow. I’ll be here at nine o’clock. How does that sound?”
As soon as she got to work she would contact Patricia Nikita and ask if she would consider making an exception and help Viktor’s grandmother a few hours a week.
In a flagrant breach of the rules, Sanna decided to continue her hospital visits. She was aware that a traumatic situation like this could have a negative impact on the mental health of the mourning relative and she felt she just had to help in whatever way she could.
Kristina graciously accepted Sanna’s offer.
“I don’t know what to say or how to thank you, you’re really too kind…” She held Sanna’s hand in a gesture of thanks.
AT EIGHT O’CLOCK ON Friday morning Sanna Johansson borrowed a children’s book from the hospital library and took the elevator up to the ward.
The scene before her was unchanged. Viktor lay half propped up in bed with a vacant expression.
As agreed, Kristina wouldn’t arrive before eleven o’clock.
Sanna sat on the visitor’s chair next to Viktor’s bed. She placed one hand in his and with the other she held the book.
“I’m going to read The Moomins. I hope you like it,” she said, glancing at the book cover. “I read it myself as a child and loved it.”
She began to read out loud.
She glanced at Viktor occasionally, hoping to see a reaction. She had been a little unsure before starting to read. She didn’t know if he would be listening.
She had searched the Internet for information on catatonic states. On Wikipedia she read about cases where the patient could hear everything in their immediate surroundings. One of the conditions described was locked-in-syndrome where a patient was conscious but couldn’t move or communicate. Sanna didn’t know if this was Viktor’s condition but she hoped that, regardless of what had happened to him, he was aware of what was going on and listened when people spoke to him.
This wasn’t new to her. It was routine. The problem in this case, however, was that she didn’t have any idea what to talk to Viktor about. A children’s book seemed a good solution under the circumstances.
As she read, Sanna cast her eyes back and forth between the book and the boy, searching for a sign – anything that might indicate he was listening.
She stared at his expressionless face.
Her thoughts involuntarily drifted back in time to a period she would rather forget – her childhood.
Her whole body ached with the memory.
A time when her daily life was filled with violence and abuse. Abuse that occurred in her own home. A father who was cruel and selfish – an iron-fisted man who relentlessly mistreated Sanna’s mother.
Despite her valiant efforts she couldn’t shake off the memory.
It was a memory that would never release its grip.
She loathed him. She could never forgive him for the damage he had caused her family.
Although he never laid a hand on them, he was culpable of inflicting even deeper pain. An invisible wound that couldn’t be bandaged or treated by a doctor. Or transplanted like a decrepit organ.
The only treatment was to administer powerful drugs and many of these were considered narcotics – preparations that would anesthetize the patient’s senses. It was an effective method of shutting off the victim’s emotions.
The three siblings had been scarred for life but it was her younger sister Malin who was the worst affected.
Markus, who was also emotionally damaged, was often on sick leave. He took medication to treat anxiety disorders – drugs that were typically prescribed for psychiatric illnesses. He had never been able to work through his grief or accept that his health issues were caused by the trauma he and his siblings had experienced as children.
Sanna had fared better. She believed it was because she had confronted her past and allowed herself to grieve. She had made an effort to retrieve the memories she had deliberately relegated to the back of her mind. She realized how important it was to remember and relive the traumatic events that had shaped her childhood. The fear that was prevalent in their everyday lives and the mother who screamed in pain when Sanna’s father hit her. The hours they had spent huddled under the stairs, in the wardrobe, or anywhere there was room for the three of them to squeeze into.
To process the time when she had found her mother lifeless in the bathtub, she had written a diary about what had happened during her childhood.
By reaffirming to herself what had happened she hoped, in her foolishness, to close the book forever one day. Put it in a locked drawer and never open it again. But life was never that simple. She didn’t need the book to help her remember – the memories were there, in her soul, in every cell of her body.
The psychologist had repeatedly told her that forgiveness was an important step, but could someone who had never experienced trauma like hers really be in a position to judge?
There was a huge difference between academic theory and the reality of a situation. To see your own mother die under such circumstances was an experience not even a psychologist could fully comprehend or help anyone else come to terms with.
Markus, for his part, had been seeing a number of psychologists and psychiatrists through the years, with no noticeable results.
He had finally given up. All those years of fruitless treatments that had cost both time and money, and made him feel more and more demoralized.
But time had been compassionate. He was lucky enough to meet a woman who understood him. A woman who was patient and supportive, who nurtured him through his periods of depression, which would strike without warning. Despite years of treatment he still hadn’t learnt to read his body’s signals.
Markus stubbornly suppressed his emotions. He refused to talk about the day their mother died. He had blocked it out completely.
He never visited her grave. Whenever Sanna suggested he go with her he would come up with a range of different excuses.
THE DAY WAS CLEARLY ETCHED in her mind. It was a Friday, 22 years ago. The 11th of June. She had arrived home from school at three o’clock to find the front door unlocked. Sanna was surprised that her mother was already home because this was the day that she usually fetched Malin from preschool at four o’clock.
Sanna was transported back in time to that dreadful day. She remembered every detail; every word that was said, the exact sequence of events. The day when their lives changed forever.
“Hello! Anyone home?” she shouted from the hallway. The ominous silence. She walked through each of the downstairs rooms and continued upstairs, pausing in her bedroom, as usual, to drop off her school bag.
“Strange that Mummy forgot to lock the front door. Maybe she went to the store with Malin.”
She had heard a splashing sound from the bathroom. The scenes were replaying in her consciousness as if it was happening again, here and now…
“Are you in the bath?” she asked cheerfully.
“You’re scaring me,” she continued. But no one answered. She opened the bathroom door.
Her whole body froze.
The bathtub was overflowing with crimson water. Malin was cradling her mother’s head close to her body and rocking her, as if comforting a child.
Sanna’s eyes filled with tears.
Their mother’s arm hung bloody and lifeless over the edge of the bath. “What happened? MAMMA!” Screaming hysterically, Sanna tried to pull Malin away. The little girl was holding on so tightly it was as if they were clamped together. The little girl was beside herself mumbling: “Mamma’s hurting, mamma’s hurting!”
“Please Malin, I have to help her! Let go!”
Her mother’s face was white and covered with bruises. When she touched her skin it was cold.
In a desperate attempt to stop the bleeding, Sanna bound her wrists with a couple of towels and called for an ambulance.
“My mother is haemorrhaging… please come, please, please…”
Sanna was crying aloud now but she held her hand in front of her mouth to stop the sound coming out. But the memories continued…
Their mother had instructed them to ring the hospital directly if there was an emergency. She also told them that under no circumstances should they ever call the police. Those were their mother’s strict orders. She had taken Markus to one side and showed him where she kept her black notebook with all the important names and telephone numbers.
Sanna never thought to question her mother’s instructions.
A few years later, when she was eighteen, Sanna’s grandmother explained that their mother’s death wasn’t an accident – as they had been led to believe. The truth was she had committed suicide.
At the autopsy the pathologist stated that death was caused by severing of the femur artery in the left thigh. The wound was deep enough to almost drain the body of blood.
Sanna found this information devastating. She should have paid more attention to where the blood was coming from instead of trying to stop the bleeding by bandaging her mother’s wrists.
The pathologist also revealed that the woman had suffered years of physical abuse. During the examination he had discovered evidence of poorly healed broken ribs and old scars that were typical in abuse victims.
RAPID FOOTSTEPS APPROACHED Viktor’s room from down the corridor and Sanna was jolted back to the present. She dried her eyes and picked up the book again.
“Hello,” said Kristina, entering the room. “Sorry for being late but I had to go to the bank and pay some bills. How’s it going?”
“Goodness, the time’s flown,” answered Sanna, smiling wistfully and lifting up the book to show Kristina. “I was reading a few pages from The Moomins.”
“Do you know if Viktor’s mother used to read to him? It might be therapeutic for him to hear something he’s familiar with. What do you think?”
“Yes, you’re probably right. But do you really think he’s listening?” asked Kristina sceptically.
“Yes I do. If nothing else he’ll feel less alone. It’s far too quiet in here.”
“Viktor has a rucksack at my place full of books. I used to read The Brothers Lionheart to him when I babysat. He loved that story.” She smiled in Viktor’s direction. “He used to wonder about Nangijala – you know, the land people go to in the afterlife… He asked whether he would meet Ingrid there when they died.” She fought against her tears, drying them quickly as they fell.
“Yes, I know,” said Sanna, pretending not to notice that Kristina was crying. “I’ve read it many times. It’s a great story but very sad… It’s certainly a comfort if you believe in life after death…”
THE DISTANT MURMER OF male voices grew louder as they neared Viktor’s room. The door opened.
“Good morning!”
A doctor strode into the room. He went directly over to Viktor’s bed and began to examine the boy’s eye reflexes and pulse. Without a word he turned to Kristina, clearly wanting to talk to her in private. He glowered at Sanna, who was craning her ears to hear their conversation. She took the hint and decided it was time to leave the room.
“I must go now.” She smiled at Kristina. “I’ll be in touch soon.”
A LONG STREAM OF CARS raced by. She leaned her face on the bus window, which was vibrating because of the uneven surface of the motorway. Sanna was riding the bus home. Her thoughts were still tormented by childhood memories. The forensic report hadn’t affected the outcome. Social services had completely disregarded the pathologist’s findings that the scars on her mother’s body pointed to domestic abuse. Sanna and her siblings would continue to live with their father. He would be allowed to keep custody.
Their reasoning was simple. He had never physically or sexually abused the children. Nor was he responsible for their mother’s death. She had committed suicide, and Sanna’s father was inconsolable.
Sanna had hoped that, for once, the gods of fate would be kind to them. She didn’t want to live with the man who had tormented her mother.
The authorities were supposed to have their best interests at heart. She didn’t have to wait long before discovering that this wasn’t the case. The law clearly didn’t apply to everyone.
Sanna had sobbed and begged her grandmother to let them move in with her. And she had promised to do everything in her power to gain custody.
Sanna’s grandmother had hired a lawyer. It hadn’t helped. The lawyer explained that, according to the law, in circumstances where the mother was unable to take care of the children herself, custody was automatically awarded to the father. He was not accused of murder. She had committed suicide and, regardless of the circumstances leading up to her death, their father couldn’t be prosecuted on such flimsy grounds.
Moreover, since their mother had never filed a complaint against him there was nothing that could be presented as evidence to implicate him in her death.
Sanna wondered if her father ever regretted what had happened.
She remembered with sadness how Markus had reacted. He had refused to talk to her about their mother’s death. To her surprise he reminded her of their mother’s insistence NEVER to involve the police or the social services. Those were her wishes and he for one was certainly not going to go against them.
Despite everything, the lawyer had agreed to sue their father for custody on their grandmother’s behalf.
They lost the case. The authorities decided that Markus and her would continue to live with their father. Malin, who hadn’t recovered from the shock of discovering her mother’s body, would remain in hospital under observation.
Sanna had complained bitterly. She had wailed and screamed in anger. She had refused to live under the same roof as the man who was responsible for her mother’s death.
In three years Markus would become an adult in the eyes of the law. This knowledge tortured her. She would have to live alone with her father until she herself came of age.
Eighteen terrible months went by. Finally, her prayers were answered. One day their father met a new woman and, out of the blue, decided that Sanna should move in with her grandmother. He was fed up with her going on and on about the subject.
Sanna packed her rucksack and moved out the same day.
She blew her nose and began to think more about the minors’ situation. To allow a child to witness violence against their mother or other close relative should be considered a crime. That was definitely a cause she could imagine fighting for in the future.