I remember how hard it was for me to settle into life in Helsinki. The feeling of relief after my successful escape passed in a heartbeat, and the winter became one long, dark, sleepless night. In the end, I didn’t know why I’d bothered to flee or why I dragged myself to work only to return to an apartment echoing with longing, where the coffee cups were always in exactly the same place I’d left them in the morning and where there were never anyone else’s smells, never anyone’s messes but mine. I hadn’t known I could miss such things.
My old passion for studying languages had disappeared, and reading required too much concentration, but something of my former self still remained. My ears worked like before and automatically picked out new words from passersby. And that’s how I remembered the dog park family. I was on the tram, and a couple sitting behind me was talking about luxury properties in the city. One word rang in my ear like a spoon in a teacup: Siltasaari. I recognized the name of that neighborhood. My old clients had been from Siltasaari. I pressed my finger into the side of the bench. By the time the family returned to our office for their second child, I was already a coordinator, and as I handled their paperwork, I finally learned their name and address. The Internet told me the rest. The man was a successful engineer, and the woman was the marketing director of a large company. Their life seemed perfect even then. I had studied a map of Siltasaari, admiring pictures of Töölö Bay without guessing that one day I would be here, too, and that they would live barely a stone’s throw from my own tiny apartment. After the couple had rounded out their family with our help, I decided to forget them, and my decision had stuck.
But now I could run into them at any moment. The thought made my mouth go dry.
I got off at the next stop, shivering uncontrollably as if I’d just climbed out of a frozen lake. I had a Finnish passport and a new life in a city that smelled of the sea, but my carefully constructed ice castle was in danger of melting. I could already feel it cracking. I called information despite the cost and hoped that the family had moved. My hope was in vain, however, and my fragile peace was gone. I couldn’t go out without wondering whether I would run into them, whether I would end up in the same checkout line, whether we might arrive at the post office or the tram stop or the corner store at the same moment. Would I even recognize them? Would the parents remember me, and if they did, what would happen then? Was the woman the kind of mother she had made us believe? Was she still blond? Did she still wear the same kinds of camel-hair coats? Was she home with the children or did she work in an office? Did the siblings run or do gymnastics as their mother had hoped? I had to see what they looked like.
Once the thought had taken root in my mind, it burned like a mustard poultice left too long on the skin. I knew the burning would only go away when I tracked down the family. As I investigated their social media, I convinced myself that I was only concerned with my safety. I had to recognize the children so I could avoid any pitfalls. Ceaselessly I reviewed possible ways we could meet, and my imagination knew no bounds. I understood that it would be wise to move farther away. However, people like me were in a weak position in the housing market—the rent for my two-room apartment was cheap because it was in such poor condition, and my current neighborhood served my needs: it was anonymous and populated by immigrants. I would have trouble finding a similar situation.
I spied on the family online without discovering anything about their life beyond a taste of what they wanted everyone else to see: updates on the boy’s hockey team, the girl’s riding lessons and gymnastics classes, pictures of a dog in a park, pictures of a dog on a training field, pictures of a dog at dog shows and the rose bouquets won at said shows, Easter grass and the Scandinavian-style pale interior decoration of a home. Lots of birch, rag rugs scattered like summer clouds, windows without drapes—the family loved natural light. I went walking in Siltasaari and looked at the upper floors of their building, but the lack of curtains in their home didn’t help: the family lived on the top floor, and all I could see was the light that flooded from their windows. That made my hunger worse.
Still, I didn’t dare move forward and had to content myself with tracking their movements online. I even created a fake social media profile to try my luck at getting just a little closer. The family’s social life seemed lively. I guessed that they wouldn’t pay much attention to a friend request from a woman they didn’t seem to know, that instead they’d approve it out of hand, and I was right. Without attracting any notice, I disappeared into their crowded friend list and gained access to pictures of their children’s faces, which hadn’t been public. I also learned their names: Väinö and Aino. I told myself that this had to be enough. I had gotten what I’d come to get. I would recognize all of them, and I could avoid them. I now knew that the boy was fine and just as he appeared. To my surprise, he resembled my father more than me: the shape of his eyebrows, how his nose sloped, his dark hair.