herself? And then the next question, more of a realisation: would there actually be any big difference?
Out of the corner of her eye she saw something move in the corner of the yard, close to where the common began. The deer were certainly getting bolder. Soon she would have to start locking the doors to keep them out of the house.
She walked by the dishwasher on her way back and put in her empty coffee cup, then went and sat at the computer again and read one more time the names on the two printouts from the Tax Authority.
Hellstrom, Johanna Rebecca.
Eight years and three months she had lived.
She had a bright idea and typed in ‘+Varberg’.
One hit.
Evening News: ‘Father accuses ex-wife of daughter’s death.’
She raised her eyes and stared out the window in front of her.
Then she returned to the screen and clicked on the link to the article.
A photo of a gravestone and a man standing in front of it with his back to the camera.
And then the caption: ‘She’s lying.’ The father of drowning victim Rebecca Hellstrom is full of sorrow and bitterness. ‘I know that the accident could have been prevented.’
She raised her eyes and stared out the window again. She tried to identify what she was feeling. She had found what she was looking for – no, more than that – but instead of celebrating she was briefly able to take a step back from all the blackness inside her and observe herself sitting in front of the computer. As if a remnant of the old Eva deep inside demanded to make herself heard, tried to warn her.
Think carefully now.
She looked at the screen again.
If you make your bed, you’ll have to lie in it.
She got up and went to the kitchen, opened the refrigerator, then closed it again without remembering what she was looking for.
Then she picked up the cordless phone from the kitchen counter and called Enquiries.
‘I’m looking for the number of Varberg District Court. Could you please connect me.’
The sound of keys clacking and then the ringing tones.
‘Varberg District Court, Marie-Louise Johannes-son.’
‘Hello, my name is Eva. I’d like to check on the verdict in a trial that took place in November of 2001.’
‘What’s the case number?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘I’ll need that to be able to find the court disposition.’
‘How would I find it?’
‘What type of case was it?’
‘A drowning accident. An eight-year-old girl who drowned, and the woman accused was married to the father.’
‘Oh, that one. She was acquitted, I can remember that verdict without a case number.’
‘Never mind, then. So she was acquitted?’
‘Yes.’
‘Thanks a lot.’
She put down the phone on the counter and opened the refrigerator one more time without knowing why, closed it and met Axel’s gaze from the photo that was hung up with one of his refrigerator magnets made of magic clay. She remembered that he said it was supposed to be a dinosaur, and it did look like one.
Blue, innocent eyes that believed everything they saw.
Convinced that everyone was good and utterly trusting that they meant what they said. Such as his beloved day-care teacher. Whom he trusted blindly and who looked after his welfare in the daytime but who in actuality was about to destroy his world.
The probability that Henrik was right now planning to make her Axel’s new part-time mother effectively slammed the door on the soul-searching that had suddenly overcome her. Never in her life! It wasn’t enough that he was going to rob her of half of Axel’s childhood without her having the least say in the matter; on top of all that she would be forced to agree to let Axel live every other week under the same roof as
Was there any parent who would want to turn over responsibility for their child to such a person? Would the other parents in the day-care group think it was suitable to have a teacher who was accused of causing the death of an eight-year-old because she would rather talk on the phone?
She realised that this was an interesting thought, and something that she ought to explore.
With her gaze fixed on Axel’s eyes she made her decision.
Made her choice.
All she had to do was write the name ‘Linda’ as a note of explanation at the top of the paper when she printed out the article. Then she stuffed it in an anonymous envelope, looked at the day-care list, and addressed it to Simon’s already enraged mother.
A year.
The mere thought was like a punch in the stomach. Each time the thought recurred its effect penetrated even deeper. During their holiday last summer when they drove to Italy. During all the dinners together with their friends. When he accompanied her to London on that business trip and they had made love. Both before and after that, that motherfucker had been there. Making him look like a bungler who was completely inadequate. A mediocre husband who could simply be exchanged and replaced by anyone.
He was sitting on the built-in sofa attached to the wall and looking out the porthole of the luxury cabin. The quay at Nyckelviken slipped by, and Nicke and Nocke towered above the horizon like twin exclamation points over all that meant home.
His bag stood unopened on the floor. From the bathroom he could hear her moving about, how her hand kept rummaging at regular intervals amongst all the necessities she had brought along.
A year.
The bathroom door opened, and she stood expectantly just outside the threshold. He registered that she had on a thin, light-yellow silk dressing gown and that her hair was done in a way he had never seen before.
He returned to the view out the porthole.
Out of the corner of his eye he saw her go over to her opened suitcase on the bed.
‘Did you call for more towels yet?’
Her tone was brusque and irritated.
He turned his head and looked at her again.
‘No.’
It hadn’t been a conscious choice. Of course, they had ascertained when they came in that more were needed, but out of well ingrained habit he had waited for her to take the initiative. She was the one who would ring and arrange it.
Just as she always did.
For the first time it struck him with undeniable force how all the years with Eva had marked him. How restful it had been to be able to hide behind her energy. And it suddenly occurred to him how paralysingly threatening it felt to be forced to let go and leave behind everything he was accustomed to. Who was he then, without all that?
