Her skin is sore, her mouth is sore. They stay up at night, sleeping long into the day. Yesterday they did not get up at all, but remained in bed, talking, making love, nodding off and waking again. It was not until nine in the evening that they grew so hungry they got out of bed. They went to town to eat a kebab and afterwards walked back to the student halls in Kringsjå, through the Palace Park, up Bogstadveien, past Marienlyst and through the university area over to Sognsveien. At Café Abel they stopped for a beer. They drank and could not stop, they laughed the entire time, at what she does not know, everything. Erik’s stories about growing up in the suburb of Jar, with three brothers, football, ice hockey, skiing and the kindest mother in the world. As kind as hers. Maybe they should start a Facebook group, Erik said, they could call it the Kindest Mothers’ Association. Yes, instead of talking about someone behind their back, talking them up in front of everyone, I’ve seen something like that on Facebook. We can good-mouth our mothers instead of bad-mouthing them. And then they laughed, it was completely stupid, just nonsense, nothing really.
But what is a kind mother, imagine if she actually is not so kind? Erik said.
That made Beate uneasy. Why did he have to mess around like that, she did not like it, did not want to speak badly of her mother, that was where she drew the line. My mum is everything to me, she said, imagine how horrible it must be to have a mother who isn’t kind. The thought made her cry, and then Erik’s eyes watered up. Out of sympathy, he said, they’re tears of sympathy, and again they began to laugh.
But now she is crying from her very depths. Erik is still asleep. There will be no lectures today either, it is way too late and she is much too tired. The tears will not let up, because she feels things are coming undone, that she is losing her grip, the days are going by and how is she to pass the exam? She is nauseous or hungry, dizzy when she stands up. All the same, she does not say no to Erik when he wakes up, not to kissing, not to sex, not to his suggestion of going to the swimming pool.
Erik makes porridge, but she cannot face eating, just drinks a little coffee instead. Her fingers look fat. Maybe Erik thinks they are ugly. Everything about him is so perfect. His back, shoulders, upper arms beneath his T-shirt, his hips and bum in his jeans. Large, strong hands, with long fingers and wide fingertips. He takes hold of everything with such assurance, but is gentle when he needs to be, when her hair has caught on the catch of her necklace, but takes a solid grip when he is lifting something heavy, unscrewing something, holding her tightly. He can do everything and he does not cry. She can only do girlie things with her fingers, and today they cannot do anything, but lie like white sausages on the table, and tears roll down her face. He becomes worried, thinks he has said something wrong. She does not know what it is, she says, there are just so many feelings.
She is daft and girlish. So many feelings, my arse. And he is so nice all the time. It is too much, all this, all too much. What is she going to make of herself, Jesus, what is she going to make of herself in this world, nothing?
She stands at the edge of the pool, freezing, cannot face jumping in, the water is only eighteen degrees. Erik comes out of the changing room, sees her, smiles, dives in and swims the front crawl back and forth once, before swimming over to her, taking hold of the edge and looking up:
You coming in?
But she cannot get in. It is not possible. She starts to cry and says she needs to be alone. Can we talk on the phone tomorrow instead? she asks. Erik gets a sad look in his eyes, but she begins to walk towards the changing room. The floor is slippery and cold. Dear God, he must not let her leave this way.
He does not. He comes after her, puts his arms around her shoulders. It is unpleasant, he is wet and cold, yet at the same time it feels too warm to stand like that, his skin sticks to hers, she wants to break free. He asks if she does not like him any more. Of course I do, she answers, of course, and rests her cheek against his, even though her body does not want to. She just needs to get some sleep, she says, be by herself for a bit. He says he understands, that it is probably a good idea. But she does not know. Is it a good thing that he is all right with it? That he says, okay, fine, then he can read a bit in the meantime, he cannot put his studies on the back burner either, after all. Not a word about her studies. And afterwards he just dives right back in. He is going to swim 1,500 metres before he starts studying, he says.
The tears continue to flow in the changing room. She cannot see what she is doing, attempts to put the key into the padlock on the locker door, but cannot make out the keyhole through her tears, does not notice the puddle on the floor and slips, puts her hands out but loses her balance, banging her knee on the bench.
He manages everything. Being together with her, sleeping, eating, swimming, laughing. And studying. While she is just falling apart. Studying is the last thing in the world she could face right now. She does not want to do anything. The shampoo bottle is wet and slips out of her hand, falling to the floor. She cries about that too, about everything.
Going home on the underground she calms down. Things seem more normal. Men look at her as usual, so she has not become ugly all of a sudden. She can have anyone she wants, if she wants. But she does not. She wants to go home. She wants to go home, but she goes to Bea Britt’s.
She is cold from being outside with wet hair, from all the crying, from a lack of sleep. She asks if she can have a bath to warm up. Stands on the warm floor tiles and undresses, lies down in the bathtub, dozes. Her pubic hair sways in the water. It is her hair, her privates. Or are they Erik’s? Do our genitals always belong to someone else? Mum and Dad took responsibility for her entire body while she was growing up, and now someone else has taken over.
She had love. That is what she remembers. Mum and Dad’s hands. Warm bodies. The feeling of her arm around a neck, of hair between her fingers, of her lips when she rubbed them against Mum’s cheek.
Compared to that, Erik is unfamiliar, a stranger, will always be a stranger. But she misses him, and is suddenly afraid because of what she has done.
Erik. The way he walks. His eyes. His voice. His smell. As though he is her. How could she go from him? How can she lie here calmly? She has to get up, right now, has to get a move on. Imagine he does not want her any more? Her heart beats hard and fast. She needs to see him right away, to make sure everything is all right, tell him she did not mean it, whatever it was, she did not mean it, it was a mistake and she needs to put it right as quickly as possible.
How can he have been with other girls? To think that he has. His penis inside someone else. His arms, smell, skin – with another. It could happen again, why would it not? Why should she be a better choice than anybody else? She is not. But now, right now, she has been chosen, and she must not let go, how could she have been so stupid?
She does not have the time to dry off properly and her clothes stick to her skin, wet hair dripping onto her blouse. Imagine he dumps her. She has shown how weak she is. He could not be bothered with that kind of crap, not Erik. After all, he can have anyone he wants. How could she take such a chance? She is spoilt. They have been waiting on her hand and foot constantly, her mother, her father, Bea Britt. Her, the only child. Beautiful and gifted. But they have not noticed her failings, no, how immature she is, governed by a need to be taken care of. Needs that surface when she least expects them.
No missed calls. Will she seem nagging if she rings? She does not know, simply does not. No matter what she does it will be wrong. It was wrong of her to leave. But wanting too much is also wrong. She calls him up all the same. He does not answer the phone. Bea Britt comes into the hall. Her arm brushes against the key hanging on a string from the wall lamp, making it dingle back and forth. The light shines through the sheer material of her blouse, Beate can make out the contours of Bea Britt’s arms inside.
That was a quick bath, she says, looking at the mobile in Beate’s hand.
He’s not answering, Beate says, and starts to cry.
Beate sits at Bea Britt’s kitchen table. How is she able to eat? The tears flow but the jam fills her mouth. Strong and sweet, with big clumps of strawberry that Bea Britt bought at the pick-your-own farm last summer. She makes all kinds of buns. These ones are wholemeal, with pumpkin seeds on top and wholegrain inside. With the different tastes and consistency as she chews, Beate finds herself not thinking of anything other than what is in her mouth. Soft yeast, leavened bread, chewy seeds, sweet runny red taste, salted butter sliding over her tongue. She eats four halves, all with jam. As she gets up from the table to place the plate on the worktop, she starts sobbing once more. It was only while she was sitting eating that she was able to keep her anxiety in check.
Bea Britt walks into the kitchen with Beate’s mobile in her hand. It is ringing, Erik and the heart symbol she has saved beside his name is glowing on the display.
I was asleep when you called earlier, he says. I cried myself to sleep. I thought you didn’t want me any more. Do you think I’m childish? That I don’t take anything seriously enough?
No, no, no, she says, but is that a warning sign, she thinks at the same time, something I need to watch out for? Is that maybe how he is, laddish and superficial? Seeing as he asks?
Can I come round? she asks, I’ll come over now if that’s okay.
But I’m on my way to you, he says, I’ve just hopped off the number twenty bus in Thomas Heftyes gate.
She asks him to wait for her in the park by the block of flats, at the top of the hill, there is a bench there, and she will get a taxi.
She does not want him to come to Bea Britt’s and meet her yet, does not want Bea Britt to see who she is having sex with, does not even want Bea Britt to imagine that she has sex with anyone. Things should be just as usual at Bea Britt’s. And they are. Bea Britt walks her to the door as normal, stands in the doorway and waits until Beate has closed the gate behind her. They wave to each other. But Bea Britt looks sad, and Beate feels she is doing something wrong by leaving. What is it that is so wrong all the time? Nothing is how it used to be.
She sees his back as she walks up the hill. It is almost like looking at herself. He does not turn around until she draws very close. That childish look on his face. Maybe it is something that will begin to annoy her. No, no, do not think like that. Do not think, just kiss. Hair, fingers, nose against neck, lips, teeth, bone. Chest, ribs, hips. Tears, spit.
I love you, she says. And she means it. For ever. No matter what happens. Right now she means it. Love is the word that fits the feeling. Erik is the opposite of a stranger, the opposite of unfamiliar. He is like her. Or else they are both just as unfamiliar.