Red hair, red dress.
Karin looked at the image of herself in the mirror. She liked the clash of red against red. A clashy confidence. It seemed appropriate today, her birthday. And not just any birthday; she had made it to twenty-two. At one point, she didn’t think she would.
She wished her mother could see the woman she had grown into. Not just see, but know. The bundle of letters, tossed onto the bed earlier, reflected in the mirror. Still tied with the same string from five years ago. Her mother, Birgitta, had sent them all back, of course, and Karin wasn’t sure why she was still hanging onto them. For several reasons, she ought to get rid. There had been no birthday card this morning. She had known there wouldn’t be, there never was, but Karin had still searched through the pile of post to check. Birgitta had no idea where in the world Karin was and didn’t care. But the money had gone into her account, as promised. Karin had logged in at work to check. Always true to her word. That was the scariest thing of all about her mother.
Someone at work had asked if Karin was okay. Wasn’t she feeling well? Had she received some bad news? She felt dizzy and the pain had come quickly after that. Scurrying down the corridor, avoiding her colleagues, she had burst into Will’s room and quickly shut the door. It shocked Will; he was busy painting the walls, but broke off from his task to sit with her. Because Will understood. He had read every word that she and Birgitta had ever written to each other, and Karin was grateful for this place of sanctuary.
She could feel it coming on again now as she stared at her reflection in the mirror, the cycle repeating itself, and the sight of those letters only added to her distress. It was as if a sharpened icicle was being pushed into her head, boring a hole between the eyes. That’s how it always came, and she couldn’t stop it no matter what she did. Hands over her head to form a tight-fitting lid, as she was doing now; or elbows at right angles, squeezing against her ears to shut out the screams. Sometimes she scrunched up into a tight ball on the floor.
All this so she can never forget.
Even with her eyes closed she is still able to see his legs swinging. Side to side. A human pendulum. She runs down the garden and finds him there. In her log cabin. The steps kicked over, lying on their side. Minutes later she hears Birgitta screaming. Karin has never heard her mother scream like that before. It wasn’t what she did. Normally so cool and composed, this sound is primal and raw, yelling at Karin to help get him down.
But it’s too late.
It was always too late.
The episode passed, gradually, and Karin was used to it now. She just had to let it work its way through and back out again. But it still happened as often, day or night. Night-time was the worst. Everything was worse in those hot, twisted sheets of insomnia.
She raised her head slowly, checking to see whether it really had passed this time, and caught sight of herself in the mirror again; different from a few moments ago. Her cheeks were flushed, as though they had been too near a fire, and she would have to reapply her make-up. Her painted fingernails danced across her face as she wiped the sweat off it, trying to reassure her that everything was going to be okay; she hadn’t been gnawing on them quite so much lately.
How can you miss someone you really hate?
Perhaps that was why Karin had unlocked the box today. On this special day. Releasing cedar wood and iris, and something else, she didn’t know quite what, from beneath the lid, filling the room with Birgitta’s scent. Avocado. Lavender. And a whiff of her homemade Swedish fläderblomssaft. In one of those letters it said that if Karin was to contact her again, she would call the police.
Were there times when her mother felt this way too? Had Karin been on her mind at any point today? Did she wake up this morning remembering it was Karin’s birthday? Probably not. Probably never gave it a second thought. Not when she had sent Karin away to boarding school by the time she was eight and barely seen her since.
She checked the time on her phone then sniffed the letters one last time. Still another forty minutes before she had to be ready. Her heart raced as she began to work quickly on the knot, setting her teeth onto it, and picked out a letter.
A few paragraphs were enough. Too much. That’s why she had chosen never to return to them in all these years. So why was she keeping them? Really, she knew why.
Retying the knot as swiftly as she could, stuffing the letters back inside the box, Karin noticed in one corner was the tiny pebble from Louie. The letter K painted on it in bright yellow, a bobbing seahorse on the other side. She held it in her hand, running her fingers over the pebble’s smooth curves, not quite prepared for the rush of memories that came flooding back with this object either. Strange to think she must have kept it in her pocket for all the time she was trying to hide from Louie. Having moved in here, feeling safe again, she had put it away with the letters.
Karin threw it back into the box and, with trembling fingers, managed to close the lid. She scrambled the numbers on the padlock, but then dropped the box on the floor. It made a loud thud, just missing her foot. She picked it up and returned it to the drawer, covering it with her T-shirts.
It really was time to get rid.
Karin was not that person any more.