February 7, 2019
Ingvar escorts his mother into the room, leading her with his uninjured hand on her elbow. Today, Júlía’s wearing an overly large sweater and a pair of slacks, but she takes small, uncertain steps as though she were wearing a narrow skirt. Despite her son’s solicitousness, she seems stronger today. There’s something in her expression that straightens Agnes’s posture, as she and Nora come to standing for the woman’s inspection. Júlía scans Nora first, mouth set grimly. She lingers on the younger woman’s neon-pink glasses, whether out of disapproval or interest, Agnes can’t tell.
Agnes braces herself, waiting for the recognition to dawn in the old woman’s eyes.
But when Júlía turns to Agnes, she doesn’t jump in surprise. She doesn’t say, You again, and she doesn’t lose her composure. Something in her expression softens.
“Marie,” she says. Then, frowning: “No.”
Ingvar nods. “Magnús’s daughter,” he tells her. “She’s from America.”
“Yes,” Júlía says. She appraises Agnes with a keener eye, with no indication that she remembers yesterday’s conversation. Instead, she pushes past her son, past Nora, the better to see Agnes. “Where is he?”
“Magnús?” Agnes asks, relieved. “California.”
“So far away,” Júlía marvels, though again, Agnes isn’t sure if she’s approving or criticizing. “Good. Go back there and tell him hello from Júlía. He was a crazy boy, but always kind. Is he a kind man?”
“Yes,” Agnes says. When he isn’t raging against his daughter’s choices, yes.
Júlía nods once, hard, as though physically storing that information somewhere important. “Einar?” she asks.
“He passed away. A year ago.”
“He lived longer than Marie,” Júlía says. “Every day was borrowed against hers.”
He killed her. We all knew.
Ingvar takes advantage of Agnes’s silence to beckon his mother to sit. She chooses the chair closest to Agnes’s position at the couch. Agnes sits, too. Nora cuts in between them, giving Júlía her most dazzling smile while she introduces herself. “I don’t want to interfere,” she says, “but with your son’s permission, I would love the chance to hear more about your memories of Marie and Einar.”
“You don’t need his permission,” Júlía rasps. “You need mine.”
“Of course,” Nora says. She’s blushing—that’s a first. “I misspoke. Can you tell me more about Marie, as you knew her?”
“Her husband murdered her and her child.”
Agnes can’t help her reaction. The reflexive flinch, like she’s been hit. She’s here to find out more, she knows that. She’s tougher than this, isn’t she? But no one in this town, other than Nora, has expressed even the slightest bit of doubt about her grandfather’s guilt. It’s a common fact that he killed his wife and child, described in brutal nonchalance.
Júlía notices Agnes’s discomfort. “This upsets you? It should.”
Agnes takes a deep breath to steady herself. “What makes you so certain?” she asks, trying to keep her tone polite, measured.
There’s no answer. There’s only that flinty gaze, impenetrable and faintly disapproving.
Nora persists, “What was Marie like?”
“A fine woman,” Júlía says. “But she had no spine. She had this way about her.” A swipe of one gnarled hand, left to right, as though she were clearing the air of a foul stench.
“What way is that?” Nora asks.
“Silly,” Júlía says. “Passive.”
“Why do you say that?”
“She was so young,” Júlía laments. “She didn’t know how to take care of Magnús. Karl and I tried for so many years. I wanted a child, she didn’t. Magnús became my own boy, until Ingvar. Then I had two boys. I showed her how to be a mother. It was okay until the baby came, and then she became funny.”
“Funny?”
“She gives birth to Agnes in August,” Júlía says. She turns to Agnes on the couch beside her, squinting, trying to keep the two names straight. She says, “Not you. You are Magnús’s daughter. This was Marie’s daughter.” She touches a finger to the wrinkles between her eyebrows, eyes fluttering closed. She takes a long beat to sort through her thoughts. Ingvar prompts her gently, and although Agnes can’t speak a lick of Icelandic, she can imagine he’s getting his mother back on track.
When Júlía opens her eyes again, though, there’s something fuzzy in her expression. “Agnes was a healthy baby,” she says. “A sweet thing, like a kitten. Einar, he was so proud of Magnús. Always bragging about how smart he is. But with this beautiful baby girl, he says nothing. Marie gives her to me, almost the same day she gives birth. ‘Can you take her?’ she asks me. ‘The crying bothers Einar.’ Babies cry. I tell her this. She knows this. Magnús wasn’t a quiet baby. She says, ‘No, no, take her. I just need some time. Please.’ She and Einar, they hated the child. I had Agnes in my arms. Marie’s telling me she can’t stand it. Not her life. Not with this baby. I tell her to calm down. To look at her baby.” Júlía’s hands lift from her lap, curled underneath the armpits of a phantom child. “‘Look at her,’ I tell her. ‘Find your peace in her.’ Marie can’t do it. She says she sees her and feels a sense of hatred. There’s something wrong with her.” Júlía’s hands sink back to her lap, the child gone.
“Something wrong with the baby?” Nora asks. “Or with Marie?”
In answer, Júlía shakes her head. Either, neither, both.
“Did she say what she hated about the baby?” Nora persists.
“I told her to go home and sleep. I would take the baby that night, like she wants. She says no. She takes the baby and she goes.” Those hard eyes, unforgiving. Agnes pities her grandmother. Seeking help and finding only judgment. This, she knows all too well.
Nora asks, “Why do you think she felt this way?”
“Einar,” Júlía says, as though it were obvious. “The baby cried at night. Babies cry. But he was losing sleep and they were fighting. Always fighting. He hates the baby, so Marie must hate her, too.”
“Have you heard of postpartum depression?” Nora’s leaning forward, hardly sitting on the cushions anymore. “After giving birth, often the mother will suffer from depression, a new sense of anxiety. It’s chemical. Hormonal. Sometimes this can be dangerous, to the mother or the child. Especially if it goes untreated.”
Agnes bites the inside of her lip. She knows what Nora is doing. Covering all her bases. Following rumors to their sources. It would be irresponsible, Agnes tells herself, if Nora didn’t investigate the postpartum psychosis theory.
Still, it makes her sick.
“I had this,” Júlía says, and this gives her son a jolt. “No matter how much I wanted my baby, after he came, there was no happiness left in the world. It took months, but I made it through, and I didn’t blame my baby. This was not that. I saw Marie at the fishmonger’s, laughing with the boys working. In town, taking care of the other children. This was not depression. This was hatred.”
“Tell me about Einar. Her husband.”
“Soulless.”
The sun takes its last breath, then vanishes behind the hills, leaving the room in a sudden, incomplete darkness. The fireplace casts the room in what should be a cozy haze, but it seems like all the color has drained from the room. Soulless. The man who raised her. Agnes should be demanding answers from this woman who seems to know everything about her grandparents’ marriage. But she’s incapable of speech.
She sees her grandfather’s hand, reaching for her own. Weeks to the end. He’d said he could feel it coming. It’ll be okay, he’d told her. He was the one who was dying, and he was comforting her.
“When you spoke to Hildur,” Nora continues, as though Agnes’s heart wasn’t breaking next to her, “you said he doted on Marie. He brought her cinnamon buns from the bakery. You said it was obvious he loved his wife.”
“After they fight,” Júlía says, “he brings her gifts to keep her happy. To keep her. Any man would take her in a second. He knows this.” She considers the women in front of her. Then she turns to her son, speaking in a whisper.
“This visit is over,” Ingvar tells Nora. There’s a hint of a smile on his face. “The mention of cinnamon buns has made my mother hungry.”
Júlía watches closely as Agnes comes to standing, as she thanks her for her time and promises to tell Magnús hello. The old woman says, “Goodbye, Marie,” and no one corrects her.