An Unwanted Christmas Present

Sara Molin

Norstedts, Autumn 2020, 310 pages Original title: Som en öppen bok excerpt translated from the Swedish by Kira Josefsson

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Chapter 1

Say what you will about chatty old men, but there are times when they provide a welcome distraction. Outside the small airplane window is the country that’s been my home for the past five months, and before long it will disappear beneath us. I have a knot in my stomach, but the feeling of melancholia and nervous expectation disappears when the man in the seat next to mine turns to me. I’ve already overheard his attempts to educate the woman on his other side about the best way to mollify fear of flying (rum and Coke); her subdued enthusiasm has led him to pivot to a new audience. “Truly, at this point I’ve seen enough Maasais to last me a lifetime,” he says. “I’m Sören.” “Diana,” I reply and turn to look out the small window again, watching the airport workers load bags off a conveyor belt. “So, Diana. Are you sold on the hakuna matata stuff now, or are you excited to be back home where people are civilized enough to wait their turn in orderly lines?” Against my will, I turn again to look at him. He’s at the tail end of middle- aged, dressed in a diarrhea-colored shirt that doesn’t quite close between the buttons. He’s combed his few strands of hair to hide a bald pate, and the shine on his nose competes with the gleaming brand-name watch clasped around his ruddy wrist. Not waiting for me to respond, he continues: “Sure, their landscapes are beautiful, and of course you’ve got to take into account that it’s an underdeveloped country so they haven’t gotten as far as we have when it comes to technology, education, and equality. But when you can’t

even produce a decent timetable for the bus and then stick to it, well, you can’t help but wonder if they’re even trying. The other day I was going on a day trip to Arusha, and...” I lean my head back against the seat and close my eyes and let Sören’s talking turn into background noise behind my own thoughts. Encounters, events, and impressions from these past months flicker by. Patients. Lots of patients. Most of them I only vaguely remember and soon I won’t remember them at all. Some of them I still think about every now and then, like that dour man who started crying helplessly when he saw his newborn twins and got to hold one of them. And then there are those I know I’ll remember for the rest of my life. People come, people go. It’s rare for me to stay for more than a few months at any workplace, and I’ve gotten used to packing up and saying goodbye, even to friends and colleagues. But I’ve made a habit of pausing now and then to bring out memories of the people who have stayed in my heart. They’re like little pearls I’ve collected up along the way. One of the most recent ones is Rose, a nurse I worked with during this most recent period. We shared a home, a workplace, and confided in each other, and both of us were pretty emotional when she saw me off early this morning. “All of that is to say,” Sören concludes fifteen minutes later, by which time we’re already airborne, “I don’t think I’ve ever been this happy to be headed home.” I say nothing, assuming he’ll follow my lead. He does not. “How about yourself, Diana? Are you looking forward to coming home to Sweden?” It’s a question I’ve asked myself multiple times over the past few weeks, and I still don’t have a good answer. I didn’t want to book this flight. Granted, I do try to come home a few times a year, but never for as long as two months. And this time I’m going to celebrate Christmas with my mom, and I’m bracing myself for the expectations that entails. Over the past years Mom’s and my relationship has

3 grown if not worse, than at least more distant, and I have a hard time picturing the two of us having a joyful, relaxed Christmas together. Staying in Tanzania, where I know my life and where nobody wants anything from me, would have been easier. But after insistent invitations from my mom and the encouragement from Elisabeth, my boss, to take a longer break—your family must miss you terribly, was how she put it—well, here I am. “Yes,” I tell Sören, with a pale smile. “I’m looking forward to it. It’s the first time seeing my mom after a long time abroad, and I’ll spend the holidays at home for the first time in a few years.” I adjust my seated position and fiddle with the safety belt. “I see.” Sören nods, looking pleased that he got me speaking. When a stewardess walks by, he lifts his hand to order two rum and cokes. “Because you want one, right?” he says and looks at me. “It’s the best cure for fear of flying.” “I’ll have one, thanks,” I say. “But I’m not afraid of flying.” “No?” Sören observes me. “And yet you keep fidgeting like you thought we were about to crash at any moment.” I’m about to protest, but then I stop myself. It is a relevant question. But it’s not the flight that’s on my mind—sitting in a metal cylinder thousands of feet up in the air doesn’t scare me the least. The thought of landing on Swedish territory, however, that makes me nervous. Seeing Mom. New beginnings, water under the bridge. All while adjusting to a new job and finding my place with my new colleagues. Two challenges at once. “Sure,” I say and accept the glass the stewardess hands me. “I guess I’m a little afraid of flying.” “I could tell, couldn’t I,” Sören says, satisfied. “Cheers!” We drink up, he swiftly and I more slowly, and at last his flow of words begins to slow down. I lean back and try to catch some sleep, glancing at Sören who is distractedly flipping through a magazine. People come, people go, and most of them you don’t ever think of again.

Mom stands in the front row of the crowd of expectant families and friends in the arrivals hall. Her stance is wide-legged and her elbows flexed, as though she’s afraid someone else would snatch me up if she didn’t get there first. “Diana!” She waves and smiles broadly as I walk up to her. And there we are, face to face again for the first time since last summer. Mom gives me a quick, hard hug and then brings me with her in the direction of the exit. “How was your flight?” “It was fine... How are you?” I look at her out of the corner of my eye. She’s as bright and perky as ever. “Good, good,” Mom says. “How could I not be, now that you’re finally at home for more than just a few weeks!” “Yeah, I’m excited,” I agree. It’s not a lie. I have looked forward to this. Of course I want to spend time with Mom. I just hope I won’t disappoint her, either during my stay here or when it’s time for me to leave again. “I’ve set up your room,” she says. “There are a few cans of paint in a corner, but hopefully you can live with that. And of course if you decide to stay longer I’ll find a different place to put them.” There is something hopeful in her eyes. “I have Kenya waiting for me in January,” I say. “But two months is a long time! We’ll have lots of time together. Christmas and all.” Mom nods. “Yes, you can’t imagine how happy it makes me. And of course I know you need to leave again. You know I’m proud of you and your big heart.” My big heart, or my rootlessness, sure. I assuage myself by the knowledge that the patients receive the same care regardless of my motivations. I load my bags into the small trunk of the car and then I get in next to Mom. She backs out of the parking spot and steers her way out onto the highway.

“Have you realized this is our first Christmas together in three years?” Mom says as though she’s just thought of it. Personally I’ve thought about it quite a lot since we made the plan. Last Christmas I was in Tanzania, and the year before that in Uganda. Two years ago Mom was in Thailand with a friend, but I actually don’t know what she did last year. Hopefully she was with her brother and his wife. Everything is gray. The tires drive up old slush on the highway and the cars whizzing by are dirty. The sky is invisible. I quell my impulse to ask Mom to turn around and drive me back to the airport. What exactly was my reasoning when I decided to spend November and December in Sweden? The worst possible season for it. But of course, I won’t have time to enjoy the weather much since I’ll mostly be working anyway. We don’t talk a lot during the near half hour it takes to arrive at Mom’s little row house in the suburbs. She asks a few questions about the weather in Tanzania and if I’ve slept on the plane and what I want to have for breakfast tomorrow. It’s almost like she’s nervous. And then we’re there. Mom parks in her little spot, and I drag my suitcases the hundred meters to my childhood home, a smallish one-story house at the end of a row that’s otherwise all larger two-story houses. “Welcome home,” Mom says and opens the door. “Or well, however you look at it. Welcome, in any case.”

Chapter 2

The house looks the same, aside from a couple of rolls of wallpaper, paint cans, and tools strewn about. I’m trying to locate that homecoming-feeling, that sensation of warmth and comfort that I always imagine you’re supposed to feel when you come back after a long time abroad, but I can’t quite find it. Maybe thirteen hours on an airplane isn’t quite enough to let go of the place that’s been your home for the last few months. Sure, everything is familiar here, but I’m used to a very different routine before going to bed. Washing sandy feet, arranging the mosquito net over the bed. Falling asleep to the sound of wild dogs barking in an otherwise compact silence. “Can you stay awake for a bit of tea and toast before going to bed?” Mom asks from the kitchen. “I imagine you must be starved.” “I’d love to,” I say. “Have a seat!” she says and puts a well-stocked bread basket on the table before she opens the fridge. “Hard cheese, right? Or is there something else you’ve been missing? Like roe paste?” I look around in the kitchen. Take in the bright light from the IKEA ceiling lamp, Mom’s kitchen poetry magnets scattered across the fridge door, the white curtains she will soon swap for the deep red ones. “Hello, sweetie? Did you fall asleep?” “I’m sorry. Cheese is great. Thanks Mom, you don’t have to stay up for my sake. It’s late, you must be exhausted.” “Don’t be silly,” is all she says.

I sit down, take some bread and am just about to reach for the butter when Mom puts a small gift, wrapped in red Christmas paper with silver string, in front of me. “Just a little welcome home present,” Mom says when she sees my puzzled face. One of the many things I’ve never told my Mom is that gifts tend to make me uncomfortable. Maybe it’s just bad luck, or maybe I’m reading too much into it, but they often feel like little nudges for me to change how I am or what I’m doing. Or they lead me to feeling indebted, like my loyalty is expected in return (Mom is innocent in this category; it has more to do with men). Not to mention giving presents. Nothing is harder than buying gifts. I turn the present over in my hands and then I loosen the string. Once I’ve removed the wrapping paper and discovered what Mom’s gotten me, I twist on my chair. “Make-up. Thanks, Mom.” Mom pours steaming water into our mugs. “Oh, like I said, nothing big. Something I ...came across. That primer is a miracle worker, it really improves the elasticity of the skin. And the eye cream makes it look like you’ve slept through the night.” I shouldn’t be surprised. Like I said, I’ve never grasped the point of gifts, and Mom is an expert at buying things that produce in me a feeling of needing to change somehow. Like when she bought the book Vacation in Sweden the first Christmas I spent abroad, or a food processor another Christmas (“for when you get your own apartment in Sweden”). I place the items on the table and decide not to be offended. After all, part of my mom’s job as a dermatologist is wanting to help improve people’s skin health. And she might have a point—I could probably use the help if I’m going to reacclimatize overnight. “Thanks so much,” I say. “How nice of you.”

“It’s just some base products, nothing special,” Mom replies. “But I’m sure they’ll be enough for you. Well, unless you’re going to go to a party, of course. In that case you can use my stuff.” She picks up her teabag and rolls it around a spoon to squeeze it out. Then she looks at me. “Your hair looks great still. I wish mine would stay that brown and shiny. Is it possible to get good products in Africa? And good hairdressers?” I lift my hand to touch my hair, holding back a smile. “Sure,” is all I say. I’ve been washing my hair with something that has a suspicious resemblance to dish soap, and Rose has been cutting my hair with the kitchen scissors, but I don’t have to tell my mom any of that. She nods softly. “When is your first day at work?” she asks. “The day after tomorrow. I’m going there to pick up my door pass and that kind of stuff tomorrow. And I’m going to buy a warmer jacket, I think.” Mom looks at me, clearly displeased. “To be honest I’m not thrilled at this notion that you’ll be working. Isn’t the idea that you’ll get some vacation?” I have a sip of tea and smear butter on another piece of bread. “Sure, but volunteer workers don’t exactly get paid vacation. It’s kind of as bad as the regular monthly salary, actually.” I try to mollify her by smiling as I chew, but it’s no use. She just mutters something while she crumples up the gift paper and the string into a ball in her hand. “It doesn’t sound healthy. To wear yourself out like this on your time off just so you can afford working for free for the rest of the year,” she says. “If that’s how it’s going to be I’d prefer it if you’d let me help you a little. Anyway, how are they able to pay so well here at home? I thought the health care system was in a crisis?” “I guess that’s exactly it. They’re in desperate need of people.” “I see. And you’re not in desperate need of some rest?”

I drink the last of the tea and look out the window, but of course all I see out there is darkness. The truth is that I don’t know what I’d be doing if I couldn’t work while I’m here. It might sound sad, but my job is my life. “Actually, no,” I say. “And I promise we’ll spend some quality time together when I’m not working.” “Don’t worry about me, sweetie. I’m fine, just as I’ve always been.” Indeed. My mom has dedicated her entire life to precisely that task—doing fine, bringing me up alone, not depending on anybody else. She’s got a job she enjoys, colleagues, neighbors, and other friends who fulfill her social needs, and a profile on a dating site that she activates every once in a while when she needs a bit of excitement. So yes, my mom is fine. And thank God for that, since her only daughter has spent the last seven years abroad with only short breaks in between. I’ve never had my own permanent living situation or a steady job. My most continuous activity has been the training to be a nurse, and during that time I still lived with my mom. I graduated at age 22, and after a short substitute job at the ER I packed my bags and went to Tanzania. Since then I’ve lived there and in Uganda, Kenya, and Burundi, with small breaks for trips to Sweden. These trips were always as brief as possible, but long enough that I got to see Mom and could keep up to date with the Swedish emergency care system through short substitute jobs or gig work. I get up and clear the table in silence, while Mom appears deep in her own thoughts. “Thanks, Mom,” I say. “I’m going to bed, and we can talk more tomorrow.” I hug her before going to brush my teeth. My childhood room looks exactly the same, aside from the paint cans Mom mentioned. The bed is neatly made and Mom has placed two candies in gold wrapper on the pillow. As though I’m a hotel guest. Still, that sweet gesture finally gives me that sense of having come home. Mom’s care and her desire to make me feel welcome warms just as much

10 as the comforter when I collapse in bed, pulling in the familiar scent of Mom’s sheets, closing my eyes.

Chapter 3

The next morning I open the front door and walk out into a November-cold Sweden. Mom had already left for work by the time I managed to get up for breakfast, but she had tacked a note on the hall mirror, wishing me luck. I am going to stop by my new job to pick up the door pass, and then I’ll go shopping for winter clothes. Shivering, I lock the door and start walking, and then I notice the next-door neighbor bent over her mailbox. Siv is her name. She and her family have lived here for as long as I can remember. Her daughters, Fia and Mimmi, are my age and never missed a chance to brag about their new rollerblades, bikes, skateboards, and pogo sticks when we were kids. The only thing I ever envied them was their sister-bond, but I obviously never told them that. Not that I would ever have wanted one of them as my sister, but it was always so clear that it was kind of...two against one. They always had each other’s effortless company, while I had to struggle for every relationship. “Hello there,” Siv says when she notices me. She waves with the newspaper she’s just fished out. “Hi,” I nod in response, slowing down. Should I keep conversing? Introduce myself, in case her memory has worsened or if I’ve changed? It turns out that I don’t have to, because suddenly she blurts out: “Oh but isn’t it? It’s you, isn’t it? The lost daughter?” “I am Vivi-Anne’s daughter, yes. Diana,” I say and offer my hand. She shakes it with a soft grip while she nods slowly. “I know that of course. But it’s been so long since I laid eyes on you. When were you here last?”

“This summer. But I was just home for a few weeks then,” I add, as if to admit that I’ve neglected Mom before this woman can seize the opportunity to point it out. “I see, I see. Well, we’re still here as you can tell, Antonio and me. Fia and Mimmi have fled the nest since long ago, of course. I remember that the three of you spent quite a lot of time playing together when you were little.” “Right, yes,” I say, and refrain from adding if by “playing” you mean playing the game where she with most stuff wins. “You’re a nurse these days, is that right?” Siv asks. “Yeah, exactly.” “That’s timely. Antonio has a mark that I’d love for you to take a look at whenever you can. It looks like you’re on your way somewhere right now..?” “I am!” I say, a little too loudly and sharply. “I’ve got a few errands today.” “We’ll do it another time in that case,” Siv decides. “Come by whenever you do have a moment to spare.”

The hospital building stretches out before me like it’s opening its arms in a welcome, and though I’m a little nervous, it feels like coming home. I look at the staff walking past, their pace brisk and their eyes alert, and can’t wait to become one of them. I feel comfortable and competent whenever I’m wearing scrubs. Without them I sometimes wonder about my place in the world, especially when I’m in Sweden. It’s hard to put a finger on it. Ever since I was young I’ve observed others and noticed all the things that make them different from me. Fia and Mimmi who enjoyed being sisters. Once I tried to steal one of their lines and used it on my friend, or sort of friend, Anna. “Stupid,” I sighed, “You’re the worst.”

Anna didn’t shove me the way Mimmi had shoved Fia, she didn’t tell me to stop, and she certainly did not pull me close in a rough, but warm, sisterly hug. I guess I should mention, in Anna’s defense, that we were hardly more than superficial friends, not at all besties like many of the other girls in our class. They all paired up during middle school and I, well, I was sort of left over. When Anna’s other half Fatima moved away I gravitated towards her. We spent a fair bit of time together but I never managed to play Fatima’s role with enough conviction and with time Anna turned her focus to the boys instead. And that’s how it went. In junior high I switched schools and at first I did all I could to keep up. Clothes, make up, music, boys. But I never really became one of the gang. At least that’s how I felt. The others probably sensed my lack of true interest for all that stuff. But what they didn’t know was that my favorite pastime was sitting at home in front of the TV, watching Doctor Quinn and The Flying Doctors, dreaming about being someone who whizzed around coming to people’s assistance. I enjoyed high school. The health care program was the first time in my life I found myself surrounded largely by kindred spirits, but I was probably too socially untrained—or too engrossed in my studies—to make anything but temporary connections with the others in my class. During my nurse training I got along well with some of the other students, but our friendship was largely constituted of group projects and a bar outing now and then, where our topics of conversation included our hopeless teachers and various exciting job training prospects. When we graduated all of that dissolved pretty fast, and it wasn’t long before I’d lost touch with all of them. People come, people go. It was something I learned even before I started splitting my life up in episodes of a few months at a time. Sometimes I think that my life up until my twenties were simply training for the nomadic existence that was to follow.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t catch your name?” The young guy at the human resources department looks at me with a friendly face, ready to start typing on his computer. “Diana Jonsson,” I say. “I’m going to help out as a substitute in November and December.” “A savior in the nick of time, in other words. We like that!” The guy sets me up to have my photo taken and gets me a temporary pass card and locker key with an enthusiasm I’ve only ever seen in commercials. Maybe that’s what’s required in order to lure people to the health profession these days, I think. He also gives me a quick tour of the emergency room, and then concludes by saying: “Of course you’ll get a proper intro by a colleague over the first few days so you have a chance to learn all the routines. Well—we’re glad to have you!” I thank him and head toward the exit again. It’ll be good. I try not to think too much of the fact that the situation will involve me being thrown straight into a group of colleagues, an already tight gang who are all strangers to me.

The shopping center is fairly empty, and I’m grateful to have a free Monday before I start working. Everyone else in here seems to be in a great rush. They all walk with determination, something goal-oriented in their eyes. In contrast I’m strolling down the aisles, pondering which store to enter. Christmas is here already, at least if you look at the shops, which have started to advertise string lights, angels, Christmas stars, and red textiles. It feels surreal to imagine that just 48 hours ago I was walking around in 25-degree heat, buying mango and papaya from the fruit merchant outside our house. The thought of Christmas lingers. What is Mom expecting, anyway? The last time we spent the holidays together we were at Mom’s brother Urban and his wife’s house. It was ironic that both of their children—my cousins—were abroad at some luxurious vacation spot. So Urban and Annelie were both happy and relieved to celebrate with Mom and I even though we don’t normally come

15 together like that. I don’t remember the day itself, but I think that Mom and Urban’s primary interest in each other’s company was some kind of alibi. Just in case the Christmas cops were to show up and demand a report on how many relatives they saw over the holidays, or something. When I was a kid, Christmas was my favorite thing. As opposed to summer it felt acceptable that I wasn’t hanging out with a big group of friends, but spent my time with Mom instead. Before Grandma died, when I was ten, we would celebrate with her in Sandviken. It was just Mom and I, and we had our own traditions. The evenings consisted of arts and crafts, making Christmas crackers, lanterns, and paper snowflakes. On Lucia Day we would wake up early and settle in front of the television to watch the concert, eating saffron buns and ginger crisps for breakfast. The third Sunday of December was a self-care day(after all, my mom is a skin therapist, and passionate about it). Already as a ten-year-old I got to join my mom as she set up a home spa with face and hair masks and foot baths while Bing Crosby sang out his dreams of a white Christmas. Out of all our traditions, the spa weekend was my favorite. On the fourth Sunday we decorated the tree, and when I had gotten a little older Mom added a new tradition: candle making. You could say there’s a bit of a precedent. I pick one of the shops I recognize from before—it’s familiar enough to feel like a sure bet—and start browsing the outerwear. Considering how cold it is already I’ll need something sturdy not to freeze. Many of the coats are black, and I’m averse to buying anything in that color. For the past months I’ve mostly dressed in colorful, patterned dresses, and though I don’t want to stick out too much I still have no desire to wear black. It just feels too sad. I keep going through the heavy jackets until I come across something that resembles a teddy bear. Feeling increasingly hopeful, I locate one in my size and hold it up to get a better look. Fluffy and off-white. I try it on and know it immediately: this is the one. It might not be particularly practical in terms of rain and other kinds of downpour, but it’s far nicer than all the cheap

16 down jackets that would make me feel like the Michelin Man’s fiancée. On my way to the cash register I come across a large-checkered scarf in pastel colors, and pick it up without hesitation. Then I add a loose-knit gray hat and matching gloves and head to the register. I’m ready for winter now.

Chapter 4

By 6:45 the next morning I’m in my scrubs, pausing to take a deep breath. I’ve successfully found both scrubs and the locker the enthusiastic guy showed me yesterday, and I’m full of nervous anticipation. Above all, I’m jittery and excited thinking about the work ahead, and my scrubs are a kind of shield against my anxiety over meeting my new colleagues and learning their routines. “You’re hourly?” A nurse with her brown-silvery hair in a bun enters and walks straight to the computer terminals, logging on. “Uhm. Yes. Or, well, no, I have a short-term substitute gig. I’ll be here through the end of the year. My name’s Diana.” I put my hand out and she shakes it with warmth. “Gunnel, one of the RNs,” she says. “We’re glad to have you, Diana. Give me just a second and I’ll find out who’s accompanying you today. You’ve worked with us before, right?” “I haven’t,” I say. “After graduating I worked for a while at the emergency room at the Karolinska Hospital. And since then I’ve mostly worked in East Africa, with a few shorter stints back at Karolinska. But this is all new to me.” Gunnel is looking increasingly confused. “What in the whole wide-?” “Is there an issue somewhere?” I ask, my anxiety mounting. Did they think they would get a more experienced colleague? I know it will take a minute for me to get used to their processes, and I definitely don’t want to be a burden. “It seems like you haven’t been assigned a supervisor,” Gunnel says after a moment. “I know you have experience in urgent care but you still have the right to a proper onboarding with us.”

“Yes, I see,” I say. “I did my interview with Vanessa, the head nurse, over video link, since I’ve been abroad until very recently, so I understand if it creates problems for you all that I just show up like this all of a sudden...” Gunnel looks perplexed. “What in the whole world are you talking about? You are new here. We are responsible for taking care of you. But no worries, you’ll just go with me.” The way she says it makes it seem like it’s no trouble, and I’m immediately grateful for her. “Thank you,” I manage to say. “I’m just going to get set up here, but I’ll have someone show you around in the meantime.” She cracks the door open and leans out, looking for something. “Blaze!” she then calls out in the hallway. “WILL YOU COME HERE FOR A SECOND?” A little while later the door opens wide and a man in his fifties steps in. He’s got thin, gray hair and a large, gray beard. He gives me his slender hand. “Hey, sweetie, welcome! We met in the elevator earlier.” “Ah yes we did,” I smile, embarrassed that I don’t remember. “Blaze, Vanessa hasn’t assigned Diana a supervisor,” Gunnel says. “Is Vanessa even here today?” Blaze bends down and rummages for something in a locker. “She’s at a training,” he says and pulls out a bag of cookies. He offers them to me and I take one. Then he serves himself. Gunnel’s only comment on this new information is a scoffing sound. “Alright, so you’ll show her around.” “Naturally,” Blaze says with a wide smile. “I am but a humble assistant nurse, but I am going to teach you everything I know.” “You know what I mean though,” Gunnel says. “Just because we have staffing shortages doesn’t mean we shouldn’t take good care of the staff we do have.

Quite the contrary, right? How does Vanessa think she’s going to be able to keep her staff if she can’t even offer them a simple hello and welcome?” “Honey, I’m not arguing with you,” Blaze says and pats Gunnel on the shoulder. “Save your ammo for Vanessa.” Then he turns to me. “Are you ready for a tour of the emergency room?” Am I ready? My legs are shaking and part of me wishes that I was still by Rose’s side at the Tanzania hospital. Friendly Rose, so wonderfully easy to work and live with. At the same time I’m slowly filled by that feeling only a new workday can produce, where I know that I’ll encounter lots of patients with varying needs and that I am here to help them all.” “Definitely,” I say, looking at Blaze. “I’m ready.”

A week later the emergency room feels like I’ve known it my whole life. Okay, maybe not all my life, but still. It doesn’t feel like it was not even two weeks ago that I was sitting on a dirt floor in a village at the foot of the Kilimanjaro, eating cornmeal at the home of a woman who wanted to thank me for having taped up her three year-old’s head. The thing that I’m still getting used to here is the medical records system and the processes and bureaucracy—they’re totally different from the way things were done in Tanzania. It’s not enough to just do the work here, we also have to document that we’ve done the work (a reasonable demand, certainly, and of course we did that in Tanzania too, though not in the same way). Furthermore, we’re supposed to reflect on how we do the work, and plan for the way we want to shape our future work. It’s all pretty dizzying to me, but it doesn’t diminish the wonderful, familiar feeling of being dressed for work and talking to patients in need of care. This is my place in the world. This day, even with the hectic tempo, my colleagues are full of jitters. Giggling RNs, eager assistant nurses and ostentatiously nonchalant doctors sneak around,

20 all secret smiles over the fact that there’s a big post-work drinks thing happening tonight. And at the same time the patients keep streaming in just like on any other day. Kids with a broken arm or leg, persons with trouble breathing, stomach pain, dizziness, or infected wounds. Older folks with double vision and loss of sensation and that bracing seriousness you see in every person afflicted by a serious disease. Unspeakable pains that must be threshed through and shipped on like the luggage thrown around at an airport. I’m at the computer going through the documenting routine when Gunnel shows up by my side, leaning in toward the screen. “You’re coming right, Diana?” she asks and hums a little as she moves the cursor aimlessly across the screen.” Her graying hair has been arranged in a carefully plaited braid today instead of the usual bun. I make a few notes in a medical file and shake my head, hesitant. “I’m not sure.” Gunnel lets go of the mouse and furrows her brow. “What do you mean? Are you not feeling well?” I lower my shoulders and decide to speak the truth. “No I’m fine, it’s just that parties and mixers and that kind of stuff... Well, it’s not really my thing,” I admit, choosing my words carefully. “Especially not when I’m all new and not quite part of the gang yet.” Gunnel looks at me from the side. “I don’t know that we’re a gang, exactly,” she says after a while. “What do you mean?” “There are many of us working here. Some of us are closer than others, but some I don’t think know each other at all. After three days of onboarding you I can probably say I know you better than that pair who always make sure to work the same shift.” Her words make me feel warm, even though I know it’s impossible for her to know me since I haven’t told her anything about myself, aside from the fact that

I’ve worked abroad a lot. I’ll always be grateful that she took me under her wing during those first days. “She’s talking about Semra and Filippa,” Blaze adds. He’s snuck up on Gunnel’s other side without me noticing. “Sure enough, they’re basically their own little pod, even though I’m sure Filippa would love it if Ramil joined them.” “Come on, Blaze!” Gunnel says in an admonishing tone. “What are you trying to say?” “Oh no, not like that, all I’m saying is that she would probably like to get a little...closer...to him, so to speak,” Blaze explains. “You might be right about that,” Gunnel says. “Though I don’t know if the allure is in him or his status as a doctor.” These status and hierarchies, a phenomenon of this world that doesn’t exactly put me to ease. It’s the same thing everywhere, with the same positions valued most highly, and all over the same lowest caste of healthcare. It’s more than I can fathom, how this system has been upheld for generation after generation. After all, we all have our own area of responsibility, our own job to take care of. “Speaking of desirable doctors,” Blaze says, lowering his voice, “here comes Dr. Milton.” I look up and see a man in his thirties approaching us. His hair is strawberry blond and his face signals self-confidence and humility at once. I don’t think I’ve met him before. He looks focused, like he has some urgent business to deal with, and I hope I’m up to speed enough to answer any potential questions. I quickly turn back to the screen to scan the status of our patients, but I don’t have time before he arrives. “How are you, Gunnel?” he says. “Great, thanks!” Gunnel says. “How about you?” “I’m fine. Blaze, my aunt can’t stop talking about your lentil soup recipe. She wouldn’t let me rest before I promised to ask you for more vegan recipes.” Surprised, I observe them, listening to their relaxed conversation.

“Sure, I can do that, of course,” Blaze says, looking proud. “I’ll send over a few favorites.” Then the doctor turns to look at me. “Hi, I don’t think we’ve met yet? I’m Erik.” “Diana,” I say and shake his hand. “Subbing until the end of the year.” “Welcome!” he says. “Just let me know if you have any questions. And do join us for post-work drinks tonight by the way, we’ll introduce you to the others!” How I wish that I were as quick-witted as the rest of them, but all I can do is stand there like an idiot without anything smart to say. Nothing dumb either, apparently. “Maybe you’ve already acquainted yourself with everyone?” Erik corrects himself. “In any case, it would be nice if you came.” “Thanks,” I manage to produce. Then he’s off. Our conversation has reached the maximum duration for an emergency room chat. “Promise me you’ll at least think about coming,” Gunnel says before she runs off. “Sure, I will,” I say and smile. Do I want to go into the city and attempt to socialize with a bunch of unknown people who all know each other already, or do I want to hang out with Mom at home, watching reruns of Grey’s Anatomy? Considered, and done.

Chapter 5

It’s only when I wake up at 5:30 the next morning that I realize I should have offered to swap my evening shift with somebody’s morning shift. There’s probably more than one colleague who would’ve loved to not report to work at 7 in the morning on the day following drinks. But there’s not much I can do about it now. And there might be more chances, at least if Gunnel is to be believed. She was clearly excited about last night, but she really lit up when she talked about the upcoming Lucia and Christmas parties. We’d go out for beers in Tanzania too, but here they make such a big deal out of everything. It’s something I’ve reflected on during my Sweden visits over the past few years: it seems like it’s not enough for people here to do something spontaneous. Ideally there should be so much talking about an event that you’re almost sick and tired of it before it’s even happened. Outfits, gossip, planned flirts, it should all be considered and debated, and afterwards you’ll go over everything that happened and didn’t happen again. It’s not too unlike those eternal routines for documenting and evaluating the work at the hospital, in fact. The thought makes me laugh—the Swedes party like they work. “Have you seen my lip balm?” Mom shouts from the kitchen. I get up and pull on my old fleece bathrobe. It feels a bit wrong that my old room is still full of my old stuff—after all, I’m not home for more than a few weeks a year. But I still don’t want to scrub every trace of myself. The homesickness that rears its head every now and then when I’m abroad is always soothed by the knowledge that I have my home base at Mom’s, and even though that home base is just a combined old childhood room and storage space, I’m still not ready to let go.

“I don’t think I’ve seen it,” I say as I enter the kitchen and start making myself a toast. “Uh....What does it look like?” I ask, not able to think of anything else helpful to say. Mom looks away from the bottom drawer, which is where she stores cutting boards and where it’s highly unlikely that she’s misplaced a lip balm. I start when I notice her eyes. There’s something harried and glassy-eyed about her. “I don’t know Diana, what do you think it looks like? It’s letter-format with an orange koala on the front page.” I pause, butter knife in hand and half the toast buttered. This is not like my mom at all. Sure, maybe my stupid question deserved the acerbic comment, but it’s very unlike her to answer like that. Clearly, something is wrong. Last night she seemed tired and distracted, and she went to bed already at 9:30. “Do you want to borrow one from me?” I ask. “I have one of those regular chap sticks.” Mom closes the drawer, gets up, and heads to the fridge where she takes out a Tupperware. “Diana, you’re not supposed to share those. But thanks anyway,” she adds, her tone softer. “I hope you have a nice day,” she says and goes out to the hall where she puts on her coat. I follow her and lean against the wall as I study her, feeling concerned. “How are you, Mom? Did anything happen?” “I’m fine,” Mom answers, quickly. “Good luck today, and I’ll see you tonight.” With that, she disappears out into the dark, dreary morning, and I return to the kitchen to finish my breakfast. Once I’m done, I walk to Mom’s bedroom, cracking the door open. The bed is unmade and the blinds are down. If I hadn’t already noticed the obvious signs that there’s something on her mind, this would have been a clear warning signal. An unmade bed equals a lapse of morality in Mom’s world; she made sure to teach me this at a young age. I think it’s a mix of general cleanliness and fear of what any presumptive visitor might think.

There’s a tub of spackling paste, a few tools, and some rolls of tape in the corner. Apparently she’s planning to paint or put up wallpaper in here too. When I look at the old wallpaper it’s not hard to see that something new is desperately needed both in here and in my room. The bleeding hearts that have decorated the walls in Mom’s bedroom ever since I was a tot make me nostalgic. It’s obvious from the faded color that they’re from a time long gone. A time when Mom and I were close, when we did most things together and would talk about everything. But that kind of relationship always comes to an end, doesn’t it? Whether it’s because of a conflict or something else, you inevitably grow apart and find new roles. I return to the kitchen and sit down with the newspaper. Outside the window I notice Siv sneaking around, and I instinctively lean back to be out of her sight. It seems like she’s retired and spends a lot of time on the walkways between the houses, even though it’s freezing and truly gray outside. In the short span of my time here I’ve already run into her several times. After a half-hearted attempt to skim the front-page headlines I put the paper down again. I can’t stop thinking about Mom. Seeing her like that, irritable and out of sorts, makes me feel guilty. Because even though I’ve kept telling myself that I’m in the right, that she’s the one who did wrong and not I, I still sometimes hear a voice saying that maybe I could have approached things in a different way. We could have talked it out, maybe there’s an explanation for what happened. She is my mom, after all. But I also know there’s no way I could have had a heart to heart that time seven years ago, when Mom went from representing love and comfort to lies and betrayal. I was 22 years old, and my dad was dead. He died in the Bosnian War when I was just three years old. Mom would always tell me, with great conviction, about what a heroic and honest man he’d been. A real tear-jerker, I know, and one of the many feelings that overwhelmed me when I learned the truth was shame over how stupid I’d been to believe that story.

When I was 22 years old, the heroic soldier was miraculously resurrected as Mom decided to reveal the truth. He lost his heroic aura in the process. My mom’s efforts to paint him in a flattering light were suddenly all gone; now it was like she was trying to compensate for the years of lies by serving me nothing but dry, sparse facts. Name: Andrej. Country of birth: Croatia. Relationship to Mom: A few months of romance during a year when he was working in Sweden. Status: probably alive, but who knew? It didn’t matter much to me. I’d never had a dad, and Mom’s disclosure that a Croatian man shared my DNA could hardly change that. For Mom and me, however, it changed everything, of course. We’d been so close—we were the only family we had. So it was a heavy fall when I realized she’d betrayed me my whole adult life. Perhaps my reaction would have been softer if I’d had any close friends to bolster me. One thing I know for certain, and that is that she chose the worst possible occasion to tell me. I’d just begun a relationship with Jim, a nurse who worked at the addiction treatment clinic where I had done my work internship, and I’d started to think that my years of alienation were over. That maybe I too could belong somewhere. Just make sure to protect your heart, Mom said. It’s lovely when it flutters like that, but it hurts when it breaks. And then she told me how deeply she had loved my dad, and how empty she felt when he left her for someone else. In fact it wasn’t the lies about my dad that pushed me away from Mom and made it unthinkable to even try to figure the whole thing out. Rather, it was her complete lack of understanding of the many ways she was destroying my life. How could she come stomping into my newfound happiness like that and destroy it on purpose? How did she not see how much it meant for me to have found someone to love, someone who loved me back? That she didn’t know me better—this was what was so difficult for me to forgive. Thankfully I had finished my training by then. I’d worked for half a year at the emergency room at Karolinska, and I’d originally planned to stay there for a

27 while. But after all this happened I needed to get away, and when a colleague put me in touch with the organization that worked in East Africa it wasn’t a difficult decision. From that day on I feel like I’ve kept moving away from Mom, one step at a time further and further from what we once had. That’s why I’m always anxious when I go home. And now we’re spending Christmas together. Compared to the holidays of my childhood, this year’s versions is gearing up to look like a bad charade.

Chapter 6

Gunnel is almost cross-eyed when she reports to me. She’s worked since 7 am, which means she’s one of the people I could have offered to swap shifts with today. Blaze is working tonight just like me, and knowing that makes me feel safe. Most of my colleagues are really nice, but Gunnel and Blaze have functioned like my life buoys during the onboarding period. Stable, friendly, unpretentious. They also seem to have a warm and open-hearted relationship, making me comfortable enough to ask questions without feeling stupid. “My dear Gunnel, you must remember that you’re not 20 anymore,” Blaze teases her. “At our age it doesn’t matter if you stick to non-alcoholic beverages; you’ll be hungover no matter what.” “Ah,” Gunnel says, “I’m just a little tired. Anyway, you don’t look so fresh yourself either, if you excuse my saying as much. What have you done with your hair?” Blaze lifts his hand, passing it through the unruly tufts, which really do look even more messy than normal. “You know, I took the chance to go to the hairdresser this morning.” “The hairdresser?” Gunnel asks, dubious. “I hope you didn’t have to pay much for that thing.” She giggles, and I can’t help but do the same, but Blaze doesn’t seem to be hurt. “Listen, it was an absolute bargain. 15 bucks, including a scalp massage from heaven. How was I supposed to know that the result would look like a distracted horse had grazed on my locks?” “The bargain prize might have given you a clue,” Gunnel grumbles.

“Ach, just the massage itself was worth the money. You should go home and get some sleep now my dear, so you can return to your regular sweet self.” Gunnel mutters a little and quickly wraps up her report before taking off. As for me, I get settled at the triage station, where I’m tasked with receiving and admitting patients, trying to determine how to prioritize them. Being assigned this task is a sign of confidence that I’m grateful for. Vanessa, the head nurse, initially hesitated since I haven’t spent much time in Swedish emergency care over the past years. Triage requires a certain clinical judgment; it’s less about administering tests and measuring vitals, and more about using your eyes to assess how a patient is doing and immediately assign them a green, yellow, orange, or red code. But I’ve spent a lot of time doing urgent care in Africa, and after a few shifts with Gunnel she’s convinced Vanessa to train me in triage as well. So here I am. The patients come in and I observe them, noting their cold sweats or whether their breathing is affected, whether they have a hard time speaking or if they look pale, or, sometimes, fairly unaffected. “I’ve been waiting for two hours,” a middle-age woman says, her voice despondent. “What do I need to get help around here?” “Unfortunately I can’t say when you’ll get to see the doctor,” I answer, apologetic. “Among other things it’s because some patients need to be seen first.” The woman folds her arms across her chest, pursing her mouth. “Saying you have chest pains, does that grant you direct access to a doctor? If I tell you there’s a pressure over my chest, can you find someone who has time for me then?” “Please have a seat, and I promise I’ll let you know when it’s your turn,” I say. But the woman hangs on, stubbornly. She looks toward the exit. “Two of your colleagues just went out, did you see that? They’re standing there, smoking.” “I need to receive the next patient now, so I must ask you to step aside.” “Is it reasonable that I have to wait more than two hours while the staff is smoking outside? Are they doing that on the clock, if I may ask?”

“No, you may not. And I’m sorry, but if you don’t step aside now I’m going to have to call security.” Finally the woman leaves, and I turn my attention to the next patient, a 25- year old man whose face is scrunched up as he leans on a girl in knee-high boots. He’s halfway through a description of how his back cracked when they were making love when Vanessa suddenly shows up. I sit up straight, thinking this is my moment to prove myself. But Vanessa doesn’t look like she’s about to scrutinize my work. Instead she leans over and places a hand on my shoulder. “I’ll take over here, Diana. Why don’t you go with Blaze.” With a mixture of confusion and ill premonitions I look at Blaze, who is waiting for me some distance away. I walk up to join him, and he takes me by the arm and leads me to the medication storage closet. He closes the doors and says, apologetically: “Uh, there’s nowhere else we can speak without being interrupted, so...” “Just tell me what’s going on,” I say, anxious, though my voice sounds steady, almost hard. Blaze puts a hand on my arm and explains, his voice low: “Your mom was brought in by an ambulance a little while ago.” I gasp, and a million thoughts dart through my head. Mom’s distractedness, her harried face and that sharp tone. Oh no. No, no, no. “Chest pains and difficulty breathing,” Blaze says. “She’s in the ER right now. I think it was the EKG from the ambulance that made them give the warning.” I shake my head. Heart attack? No, it doesn’t make sense. It’s something else. Something linked to Mom’s confusing behavior over the past 24 hours, something I might have noticed if I’d been more attentive. I look up at Blaze. “Panic attack?” I blurt out, and Blaze opens his hands. “I guess we’ll hear soon,” he says. “At least they just took her to the angiography.”

I collapse on a chair outside the examination room. My efforts to gain clarity in what happened, to arrive at some kind of diagnosis even though I’ve not even seen Mom, fades behind a heavy darkness. I focus on breathing, in and out, looking at the small clock I keep in my chest pocket, watching time pass with infinite slowness. Finally the door opens and Erik, the doctor I was introduced to yesterday, appears. My first thought is the recollection that he was going to the work drinks. Is he tired? Hungover? Does he have a grasp of the situation, or is there a risk that he’s missing something? He comes and sits on the chair next to mine. “Your mom came in with an ambulance a little while ago,” he says. “Something isn’t right,” I say, quietly. I’m pursued by the feeling that there’s something I’ve missed, and moreover it’s difficult to keep my frustration in check over the fact that Erik went partying last night and now he’s supposed to keep my mother’s life in his hands. “She had many of the symptoms of a heart attack, but...” He’s quiet for a short moment and I chime in, my voice subdued: “I think she’s been unwell for a while. Not with chest pains in particular, but...it seems like something’s happened.” Erik gazes quietly at me. “Yes,” he says. “It’s not a heart attack. Your mom has takotsubo. It means that the left ventricle grows...” “I know what it means,” I say, my voice shaky. Relief that it’s not a heart attack spreads through my body, dissipating the darkness that’s overtaken me for the past hour. At the same time new questions are taking shape. “She’ll need to stay at the hospital for a few days,” Erik continues. “We need to make sure that she improves, and get her on medication.”

I nod. “Also,” Erik adds, “We’d like to put her in touch with a therapist. You said you’re familiar with this diagnosis?” “Yes,” I whisper. “Broken heart.” “Let me know if there’s anything else I can do,” Erik says and gets up. As soon as he’s gone, Blaze shows up again like he’s a guardian angel watching over me. He sits down on the chair Erik just vacated and lets me lean my head on his shoulder. “There, there,” he says, stroking my hair while tears fill my eyes and drop onto his scrubs.

Chapter 7

Two days later I’m seated next to Mom’s hospital bed, fiddling with the sleeve of my shirt. I’ve just finished my day shift. Mom is already doing much better, but so far we’ve stuck to innocuous topics of conversation, like medications and blood pressure and whether she wants me to raise the head of her bed or not. And with each passing moment, the elephant in the room is growing in size: the question about why my mom has been afflicted with the illness also known as broken heart syndrome, and which is often brought on by strong physical, psychological, or emotional stress. There are instances of older people who have gotten it after the death or their partner, for example. “I had planned to spiff up the house for Christmas,” Mom says quietly. “And now they’re telling me I have to rest and recuperate.” “Of course you need rest and recuperation. You shouldn’t be painting walls right now. In any case, those walls aren’t going anywhere, are they?” “Yeah, I know. But I’d hoped this would be a special Christmas, with you here and all. I was going to ask Urban and Annelie if they wanted to join us.” “Ah... But we can invite them anyway, right? It’ll be fine.” When was the last time I saw my uncle? It must be at least a couple of years ago. It might be kind of strange to celebrate Christmas with them now all of a sudden, but all I want right now is for Mom to be happy and relaxed. “I feel like it won’t be the same,” Mom says. “Those same old walls and a heart-sick hostess. Takotsubo—what an unusual name for an illness.” “It’s Japanese,” I say. “Japanese? The more you know. I thought your world dealt in Latin.”

“The first scientists to talk about this syndrome were Japanese. Takotsubo is the Japanese word for this pot-like object used to catch squid. That’s what the heart looks like when you have this condition.” Mom’s hand finds its way out from underneath the covers. She locates my hand and pats it. “You know so much,” she says. I shrug. “It’s my job,” I say. Neither of us says anything until my Mom says: “You’re more than your profession. You know that, right?” The comment catches me off guard. Instead of responding I counter with the question I’ve wanted to ask for the last two days, but haven’t asked because Mom’s been so weak. “Did anything unusual happen recently? Well, aside from me coming home, of course.” Mom is silent and looks at the ceiling, so I keep trawling. “These house renovations... have you been doing a lot of prep work for that? Has work been stressful?” “I saw Andrej,” Mom says, her voice flat. The name makes me dizzy and nauseous. The man who is my father, biologically speaking. “What do you mean? Is he in Sweden? How did you connect? Or have you been in touch the whole...?” Mom halts my clumsy questions by hushing me. “I’ll tell you,” she says and takes a deep breath. I don’t need to be reminded that Mom risks a relapse with more stress, so I immediately shake my head. “I’m sorry, you don’t have to. I didn’t mean to pressure you. We can talk about it when you’re ready. Mom raises her eyebrows. “I’ve had seven years to get ready.” “Sure, but that’s not what I meant. I want you to rest and get better, and then we can talk about it.”

Or not, I think. This wasn’t the plan. We were supposed to have two months together without discussing that thing; that might have given us a chance to rebuild a functioning relationship. “It wasn’t planned at all,” Mom says. “And no, we haven’t been in touch for almost thirty years, so as you can imagine it was quite the shock.” “Yes, of course, but... what happened? You talked?” “We saw each other at the shopping center supermarket. Of all places. All of a sudden there he was, by the bales of paper towels. Bizarre, isn’t it? When I thought he was in Croatia.” Mom looks away, but I have time to catch a glimpse of her eyes, which are shiny. Ugh, I really can’t make her upset like this. I immediately lean forward and squeeze her arm. “We’ll talk about it later, Mom,” I say. “If you want to. Or we can just let it go. I won’t–” ...flee to Africa, I think to myself, but I finish the sentence: “...get upset or angry.” “He betrayed me,” Mom says as though she didn’t hear me. He must really have broken her heart. Which probably means she loved him. How much influence can a man have over your life after thirty years? It’s terrifying to think about. And now this. When I look at Mom laid out like this in the bed, seeing what he’s done to her, I want to go find him and hurt him.

When I get home that afternoon I hang up my teddy bear coat (apparently it’s made of pile, according to Mom’s approving comment when she first saw me in it) and make pasta. I add pesto and a few cherry tomatoes, stir it all together and wolf it down in less than ten minutes. Then I walk into my room and start pulling all the furniture into the center of the floor. I find a roll of floor protection paper in a corner and roll it out along the walls. A moment of

hesitation, and then I start pulling down the wallpaper. The gray and white stripes, so familiar, slowly disappear before my eyes, and I can’t help but reminisce over the days and years I’ve spent in this room. The closet, which primarily stores sheets and curtains, and, for the past week, also my few pieces of clothing, used to function as storage for my numerous stuffed animals. I wonder what’s happened to them—I imagine they’re in some box somewhere out in the shed, unless they’ve been shipped off to some flea market or gotten thrown out. Those stuffed animals were my first patients. I would play hospital with them, learning about one illness after another that they came down with until I, with my medical knowledge, was able to heal them. I played that game for many years, long past the point when all the girls in my class had abandoned playing for music videos and boys. Once, when Anna came over for a rare visit, she caught sight of all the animals bedded down with bandages and tubes and pin needles. She didn’t even try to hide her contempt and I felt more misunderstood than ever. All I wanted was to disappear into a hole in the floor. Mom looked at the animals and said that maybe it looked a bit too much like I was doing voodoo with all those pin needles pushed into the limbs of the plush toys, and I explained that they were IVs, helping me to administer medication or anesthetics. Voodoo, I didn’t know what that was. I see, but you do know what an AV is? Mom asked, and noted lovingly that I was a very unusual eleven year-old. It’s past ten by the time I’ve torn down all the wallpaper I can remove, and I decide I’m well overdue for some sleep. But tomorrow, after work, I’ll sand and spackle. If newly painted walls is what Mom wants for Christmas, then I’ll give her that. I’ll even invite Urban and Annelie if that’s still her wish.

Chapter 8

Her back straight, and clearly unhappy about having to accept that I’m carrying her bag, Mom steps through the door. It’s obvious to anyone looking that she is struggling to keep up a strong and energetic appearance, and I’d ask her to stop if it weren’t for the looming threat of a relapse. I don’t want to do anything to cause her more stress. Perhaps the best thing to do is just to join her in her little theater. “Nice to see that you’re feeling better,” I say. “Are you hungry? I can make an omelet or something before I leave.” I have two hours before I have to leave for the evening shift. I don’t feel good about leaving Mom alone so soon after she’s come home, but she is firm when she tells me she’ll be alright. Of course that’s what she says. It’s probably what she would say even if one of her legs were dangling from her hips. “That sounds delicious,” she says. At my door she pauses and looks in. “Oh, Diana! You didn’t need to do that! The whole room is spackled.” I walk up and look over her shoulder at the white-stained walls. “Uh, well. Do you mean that wasn’t the plan? Were you just planning an accent wall?” Mom laughs. “One wall in lilac and three with gray stripes? My gosh, no, I just meant that you didn’t have to do all that by yourself.” “It was my pleasure,” I tell her. “Lilac, that sounds nice.” For the first time it hits me that Mom probably has a plan of some sort for this room. Of course it’s not just a question of spiffing it up because it’s become a little shabby over the years; if she is spending time and money fixing this room up she probably plans to use it for something other than a storage space for my bed and the things I haven’t cleared out yet.”

“Yes,” Mom says, “That’s what I thought. But of course you’ll let me know if it doesn’t feel like you.” “It’s your house, Mom. You decide.” “Sure, but this one happens to be your room.” I’m quiet while the words sink in. So far I’ve only thought of what happened as her betrayal. My disappointment has left no space to consider my own behavior and how she’s been feeling for the past seven years. But now that I’m here in my childhood room, almost thirty years old, and Mom is asking for my permission to paint the walls in her preferred color—well, it’s obvious that something is off. “No, it’s not my room, Mom. It’s yours. And it’s time for me to take my stuff out before I leave again.” “No need!” Mom says immediately. “I– I like it that you have a room here. It makes the thought of how far away you are easier.” “What are you thinking for the room?” I ask, carefully avoiding the thread she just sent out—it’s the first time she mentions her own feelings about the fact that I live and work so far away from her. “What do you mean? I’m going to paint the walls, I thought that was obvious.” “Sure, but then what? What kind of room is it going to be?” Mom opens her arms. “It’s going to be your room, just like it is now. Just a bit nicer-looking.” I look around. “Are you not going to turn it into a home office? Or a guest room? Or a library?” “It already is a guest room, more or less,” Mom smiles. “For my special guest of honor.” “I’m going to remove my stuff anyway,” I decide. “And you can decorate it the way you want. Of course I’ll still sleep in here when I come home,” I add when I notice her tense expression. *

A short moment later we’re seated across from each other, eating. Mom is pretty pale, but at least her appetite seems good. “Promise you’ll call me immediately if you feel worse,” I say. “Don’t worry,” Mom says. “I’m just a little tired, but it’s not that bad.” I glance at the clock, and then I start clearing the table, putting our plates and cutlery in the dishwasher I start clearing the table, putting our plates and cutlery in the dishwasher and cleaning the frying pan. “Alright... I’m off, then. I finish around 9:30 so you might already be asleep when I come back.” “I might. Have a nice day.” Once I’m out on the walkway outside the house I almost collide with Siv. “Oh, I’m sorry,” I say. What is she doing out here all the time? I study her heavy down jacket, a model designed to keep you warm outside for many hours. Hours spent standing in one spot spying on the neighbors, perhaps. The thought gives me an idea. “Siv,” I say, “I actually wanted to let you know that Mom came home from the hospital today. “Oh my goodness! What happened to her?” Siv opens her eyes wide. “Some issues with her heart. Her condition is stable, and like I said they discharged her, but she needs to take it easy. I’m working tonight and I thought...” “Yes?” Am I making this up, or does she actually look eager? She’s definitely at least curious. “Well, I just thought it would be great if you could keep an eye on her. Perhaps I could take your number and pass it to her so she can reach out if she needs anything?”

“Certainly,” Siv says and immediately steps up to our door and rings the doorbell. “I’ll figure it out with Vivi-Anne, and you can head out.” When I don’t leave immediately, worried that Mom will be annoyed that I’ve set the neighbor on her, Siv adds: “I’m not going to fuss over her, if that’s what you’re concerned about. I know Vivi-Anne.” Nodding, I open the door for her before I head to the car, still uncertain if this is a brilliant idea or if I just caused Mom a headache.

I’m surprised to find Mom still up when I come home. The living room is softly lit by the window lamps and the tall floor lamp, and Nick Cave is playing on the speakers with that song about how people are useless. Mom sings along in a loud and slightly forced voice. When I get closer I notice a half-full glass of wine on the sofa table. Shocked, I take the glass from her. Mom startles when she sees me. “Wine is not a good idea right now, Mom.” “You sound just like that doctor. He gave me a whole lecture about the meds. But you can relax, I hardly drank anything. I just needed to feel a bit... more normal, I don’t know. Smell and sip a little.” There’s a sad note in her voice. After a moment’s hesitation I soften and return the glass. “Ok, fine. You can smell, but don’t drink any.” Mom gives me a smile. “The tables have turned, and I’m only 55 years old. Doesn’t this usually happen when the parents are far older and need a caretaker?” “Though I don’t need a caretaker either anymore.” “You don’t have to remind me of that.” Unexpectedly, Mom puts out her hand and strokes my cheek. “It’s usually quite long, that period between after the

41 children no longer need caretaking and before the parents do. It’s a time when you’re more... like friends.” I blink to get rid of the tears that are rising in my eyes. Maybe she did have a bit of wine after all. Or is it the heart condition making her this emotional and pensive? “You know how proud I am of you, right?” she continues. “Just look at you, flying all over the world. My own little Mother Theresa. Or daughter Theresa, I guess.” She laughs a little. “I don’t think you mean Mother Theresa, Mom,” I say. “She was a nun. Maybe you mean Florence Nightingale, even though it doesn’t make me feel comfortable that you...” “Oh yes, the nightingale,” Mom laughs. “That fits nicely too.” At this point I have come to the conclusion that the comparison to a nun might not be so far-fetched either, but since Mom didn’t underscore the fact I’m happy to let it go. It’s been a year since Scott Baker left my life. He held the title of my boyfriend for two years. We met in Moshi, Tanzania, where we both worked as nurses at a small, local hospital. He rapidly advanced from eager courting to loving boyfriend to potential life partner, only to turn into long- distance boyfriend (when we’d finished our work in Moshi), then long-distance boyfriend with sporadic communication, and finally long-distance boyfriend who showed up at my mom’s doorstep without any forewarning and in a desperate attempt to save the relationship by giving me an ultimatum. In this dramatic finale of our relationship he gave me the choice of moving in with him in Amarillo, Texas, get married, “start thinking about your diet” (with a view to the task he meant my body was facing) and commence reproducing; or of refraining and let some other lucky woman accept the offer. I refrained. Nick Cave has finished singing, giving room to Leonard Cohen. As Mom falls in with his crooning I’m trying to figure out how I can best interrupt this little

42 session of hers and get her into bed. Then I’m struck by an uncomfortable thought: what if this is just part of my mom’s regular routine? Perhaps Wednesday nights are for hitting the bottle solo—whenever the meds aren’t preventing her—and singing misanthropic ballads? Half a world away, I’d have no idea. “He wasn’t alone.” Without any preamble, Mom has stopped singing and switched topics. A sense of unease spreads through my body. “He introduced me to his...daughter.” “Are you talking about Andrej?” I ask, shocked. His daughter? Sure, I’ve been vaguely aware of the possibility that I have Croatian half-siblings, but the thought that this apparently real-life person was at the supermarket in Sollentuna Shopping Center just a few days ago is shocking enough for me to feel like collapsing. “Are you ready to learn a bit more about your dad? It’s not a pretty story.” Mom looks straight at me. Not as pretty as the tale of the fallen soldier, apparently. Well, I’ve comprehended that much. Am I ready? As far as Andrej is concerned I honestly don’t really care whether he’s a war hero or an ordinary schmuck, whether he’s dead or alive. It might sound harsh, but he never was and never will be my dad. The thing that wounded me so deeply that time wasn’t the revelation that he was alive. It was how Mom chose to break the news; the timing and the message, and the way she used it to mess up my first ever real relationship with a man. Even today I don’t know if she understands how badly she hurt me that time. “Sure, tell me,” I say. Mom leans forward and grabs the glass, and I ready myself to take it from her, but she just brings it to her nose and inhales, closing her eyes. Then she takes a deep breath and begins. “I was deeply in love with him. I was pretty fresh out of a previous relationship, the kind that’s been running dry for a while, getting increasingly

43 dull and familiar. Andrej was the complete opposite of that man. Passionate, impulsive, very generous with compliments and romantic gestures.” She glances at me like she wants to se how I receive this information, and then she continues: “We’d been seeing each other for five months when I discovered I was pregnant with you.” “And how did you feel?” The question shoots out of my mouth before I even have time to think, like it’s been there all the time, just biding its time. “I was scared. Our relationship was intense, but we had never discussed the future. He had a job in Sweden for a year, and the rest was unclear. But at the same time... I was over the moon, I’d already wanted to have a baby, and it all felt so right.” There’s a pause, and I suppose this would be my chance to ask follow-up questions about what happened next. But I know what happened. Andrej has never been part of my life. “I’d planned to wait until week twelve to tell him,” Mom says. “I wanted to be more sure, but I guess I also needed some time to figure out how I’d break the news.” Mom shakes her head. “But I never told him,” she whispers. “There was someone else. The age-old story. In one fell swoop our relationship was transformed from the most wonderful thing I’d ever experienced to the biggest cliché. I was in week eight and I was surprised he hadn’t figured it out yet. It was impossible to hide the nausea and fatigue. Then one evening, four weeks before I’d planned to share the news, he told me, just like that. There was another woman, and he was leaving me. Of course I understood then how he never wondered why I was so exhausted and nauseous all the time—I guess he’d not even seen me during this time. I think she lived near him too, by Sollentuna Shopping Center. In any case, once he admitted it all upfront and I knew it was over I decided not to tell him about you. I felt he didn’t have the right to know.”

This is actually where I can agree with Mom. And in any case, Andrej is not my interest here. “And...the daughter?” I say. “Who is she? Why was she here?” The room is spinning and my heart is beating hard in my chest. Mom looks hesitant before she says. “There’s not much I know, darling. But...” “Yes?” “She introduced herself as Liv. I lied and said she looked so familiar, and then I asked for her full name. Liv Seger. And do you know what the craziest thing is?” I thought we’d gone well past that, but I steeled myself. “What?” Mom takes out her phone and opens something before handing it to me. “Apparently she lives here in Sollentuna.” The screen shows a Facebook profile picture. A smiling, dark-haired woman with a short cut and the same nougat brown eyes as mine. My heart does something weird when I see that picture. I can’t tell if it’s singing or breaking— all I know that I’ve seen my half-sister and now I’ll never not know that she exists.