It was the sea. She sat in the chair and felt the sun warm on her face through the window pane, it was spring now. The windows should have been cleaned. But she closed her eyes and pictured the sea, it seemed warm. She saw it from above, as it were, stood on deck peering down while the ship moved astern, the water foaming and churning far below, a dizzying pull. Mama’s back at the railing, in a white blouse, some strands of hair had come loose from under her hat and stretched out straight in the wind. The sunlight was so harsh she had to squeeze her eyes closed.
A draught was coming from the half-open veranda door and she struggled up from the chair to shut it, she wanted only warmth now, to sit inside this cocoon of light. When she closed her eyes once more it was dark, the waves moving slower, the ocean a warm little animal. She was not on the ship now, no, they were in the rowing boat, her and some friends, home on the south coast of Norway, in Sørlandet. Alice was there too.
She felt her long plait dangle against her back. How they laughed. Rowed and laughed, each with an oar, but they were unable to move in a straight line like that, and that made them laugh even more.
How foolish they all were, they thought she was old, but look, she was not, she was sitting in the boat, they rowed slowly alongside the large sea-smoothed rocks that disappeared down into the sea, crabbing with light, Alice holding the lamp. That is me, she thought. Cecilie, fifteen years old. They were free to think she was ninety, and nag about all the things she had to remember, first and foremost to eat. And she opened her eyes and looked around the room, the pictures on the walls were hers, yes, pictures from all periods of life. There was the portrait of her. She was four years old and placed in a chair in front of a burgundy drape. A little girl with a white ribbon in her hair, dear me, of course she could see it, she remembered it too, how bored she was, sitting and sitting in that chair, not being allowed to turn her head and ending up with such pain in her back. Now it was only a picture. But there it hung, beside the photographs of the children and grandchildren, the painting of Mama and Mama’s childhood home, she saw it all plainly and clearly. But what was even clearer was the white light penetrating the room, an extremely cold, harsh light, it told her what those nagging people did not know, that the room was on loan. Utterly random the lot of it. All the trouble that went into keeping everyday life and events in place, but something else seeped through, the vivid moments, every single one, just as detailed and intense, for ever. Mama on the deck of the ship. The warm sea. The straw hat with the cord that chafed her under the chin.
I will soon die. I am returning. To myself. It is only me, you see, I am the only one who is me, and am for always.
The sea could roar. It filled her head, foamed, bubbled and boomed, the beating of the waves, the rippling sound of shells and pebbles being sucked out, and hurled in.
There was a lot about the sea.
Mama loved the sea.
Her and Mama and Finn. Her beloved brother. His eyes, only kindness to be found in them. They collected shells at low tide, at Granny’s and Granddad’s. One day it rained and she slipped and fell on some stones, cutting her knee. It was not deep. She was placed on a chair in the living room. Mama bent her head down to bandage her knee. Cessi looked down at Mama’s dark hair. A bun, curls and clips. The lilac outside, rain falling on them, their smell carrying through the open window, the pane covered in raindrops. Oh no, she is not old. After all, she is where it all started, she is always there, at the beginning.
Do you want coffee, Mum? A voice from the kitchen. She does not drink coffee. Blackcurrant juice is what she wants. Not coffee either now, someone beside her chair mumbles, she hears them, the children, even though she is unable to make out a word. They cannot get over her not smoking any more. She may well have smoked at one time, but not really, not at all, in which case it was a mistake. There were many mistakes.
Those resentful children.
Do they not understand they have their mother to thank for life? Without her they would never have existed. What is it they say? Love and praise. Honour thy mother and father.
But life has been hard. She is resentful herself.
Dearest Mama, bring me home.
The way the images get mixed up. Did she have children or was she a child? Naturally she remembers being in the family way. But was that actually her? She begins to doubt more and more. The grown-up children do not smell like her children, they smell of salt, privates and sweat, yes, and perfume and deodorant, naturally.
This warm, warm feeling. So marvellous and tender. It is called love, is it not. But was it actually directed anywhere? Was it not just being filled to the brim by the children? By being a child. Did it really make any difference if she was the child or the child was hers, did the emotions not stick together so closely that no one could separate them, selfish love here, motherly love there?
Mean. She was mean and ungrateful a lot of the time.
Because there is nothing meaner than being self-centred, is there? Knock that out of her, Papa said, knock that right out. Egotistical and quarrelsome, we do not want any of that. So he said, he, who was not much more besides.
A storm at sea. She never saw that, but she had experienced strong winds, on the open sea, on the voyage to Norway, waves steep and deep, grey mountains the ship rolled between, was thrown about, she was scared to death, and the sea must have been like that when it took Finn, only worse, darker, fiercer, and the explosions and flames on top of it, God grant he did not know he was drowning, that he disappeared the same moment it hit, blown to pieces, gone. That was the Germans, that was. And they might not know that out there in the kitchen, but after that nothing was as it had been before. Jesus Christ does not help anyone, no help is given for that kind of loss. Lose Finn. He was good as gold. They made up their own alloy, she and him, the Cessi-Finn-alloy. Against Papa.
It was only on loan.
It was only on loan.
It was only on loan.
But it was mine.