taste in her mouth.
“Use the wheelchair to get her downstairs.”
“I can do it. She doesn’t weigh more than a four-page letter.”
“A wheelchair is more appropriate.”
The nurse adjusted the knot under Flora’s chin.
“Flora,” she laughed. “You look just like an Easter witch.”
She took the elevator down with the wheelchair. Two women in white dresses stepped in at the same time. “Oh, how nice it will be to get outside for a little while.
Don’t you think that will be nice?”
“She can’t speak,” said Justine.
A sound came from Flora’s throat, a gurgling noise. But the women were already talking about something else. They stepped out now, and one helped maneuver the wheelchair out of the elevator.
She left the wheelchair in the foyer while she went to get the car. She drove right up to the glass doors. She placed her hands under Flora’s body and lifted her into the passenger seat. She fastened the seatbelt around her. Flora’s eyes wandered randomly; her shawl slipped down on her forehead.
“It’s been a long time since you were outside, right? Have you ever been outside since you…”
She stepped on the gas and skidded immediately.
“Whoopsie! This can be a little risky. Where do you want to go? Not home, though, you’ve been there too much. No, let’s go on the highway instead. I have to check how fast this baby can go.”
On the curve entering E-18, right past IKEA, she had such a major slide that the car turned and stopped facing backwards. There was a hiccoughing sound from Flora. Flora’s hands were lying like wilted leaves in her lap. Justine touched them; they were ice-cold. She hit some buttons; the heat came on. Then she turned the car and swung out onto the highway.
She turned on the radio, same channel as at the nursing home, Megapol. She recognized the melody, something from the time she had been together with Nathan, and a blow hit her in the stomach. She turned up the volume and he was with her now. He sat in the back seat and he leaned over towards her; his hands caressed her breasts. Everything was like it had been before they got on that airplane; he was good to her, and kind.
No. Flora was here… Justine had zoomed into the left lane and she whooped as if she had to override the sound of the motor. As if the snow and wind could have made her weaker.
“It’s the first time that I’m driving it. Really driving it. I wanted you to be here, too.”
Pedal to the metal, all these lousy small cars, she was on the Autobahn now, why not. She signaled them, but they stayed where they were like stoppers; she swung to the right and passed them. Stepped on the gas some more, felt how the car took over.
“My High-Wire-Artist!” she yelled.
The salesman explained that it was called turbo-power. He had a special kind of voice which he used just for women. She noticed he was married, imagined him throwing himself on his wife, driving his turbo in.
“Power,” he said and opened the hood. Everything was new and clean in there. He stroked the motor; his hand was pink and common.
When he handed over the keys, he took her wrist and held tight.
“Here’s my business card,” he said. “If you need anything, just call.”
The woman beside her had bowed her head, as if she was sleeping. A weak odor was streaming from her pores, melting into the new car smell.
“How fast do you think we can go?” yelled Justine.
The speedometer was trembling at 180 now, zigzagging. It was before noon; there was a great deal of traffic. Exit signs, fields. She stayed in the left lane, no one was ahead of her any longer. But someone was behind her. The police? No. A white Mercedes, driven by one lone man. He hugged her tail, wasn’t letting go. She hit the gas pedal again, noticed his round mouth in her rearview mirror.
He was tough, swung to the right, ready to pass. No way. The High-Wire-Artist could not be passed. She sped up, he gave her the finger. Then she saw his car careen off the road right into a barbed-wire fence.
She loosened her grip on the wheel.
She moved into the right lane, and stayed there until they got to Enkoping; turned into an OK gas station. Parked. She heard Nathan’s wild laugh behind her: my dearest, my Amazon.
She lifted Flora’s head, stroked her cheeks with her sleeve. The deep holes of her eyes, as if they had flooded.
“Don’t worry,” she said. “It’s just the speed and the wind.”
When she let go, Flora’s head fell back to her chest.
“Do you want anything? Coffee or something? We are on a day out. Think about what you want, Flora. I’m going in to use the bathroom for a minute.”
As soon as she entered the gas station, her legs started trembling.
No! Nathan was not supposed to see that!
She found the restroom and went in, locking the door. Someone had scrawled graffiti over the walls, threatening words.
She took some headache medicine, drank water straight from the tap. She stood there for a minute and pulled herself together.
She saw her own eyes in the mirror, her face rigid and terse. She looked like herself, but then again not.
“You bitch,” she said, and the woman in the mirror began to laugh.
Chapter TWELVE
Berit filled the tub and took a long warm bath. She was freezing from the inside out. She lay in the bathtub and thought that every small bone in her body had turned completely to ice.
They had eaten supper, she and Tor, one small take-out pizza per person. She was not hungry, ate just a bit from the center. He noticed her plate when she cleared the table, but he didn’t say anything.
She said, “We should have gotten a dog, don’t you think?” He shrugged his shoulders.
Then he went to his little room on the second floor which he liked to call his office; the room had been the boys’ playroom. A car track had run from one side of the room to the other, and the boys and their playmates had sat in there and built Lego sets. They managed to build an entire city. Now everything was packed into boxes and stored in the garage or in the basement. She couldn’t remember. One of these days they’d be taken out again, she surmised, when the grandchildren started coming.
Tor had made the room into his own and she had nothing against it. There were always papers he had to deal with, or phone calls he had to make. They had driven out to IKEA and gotten the Kavaljer desk, the Kristofer desk chair, and the computer table Jerker. They spent one Easter vacation painting the room white and nailing plasterboard to the ceiling. Berit found a remnant of cloth that was just big enough to serve as a length of curtain. Then it was finished, the little home office.
After dinner, he usually went there. He was able to ignore all kinds of discussions that way. He couldn’t deal with problems; she’d learned that during all their years together. Everything was supposed to flow easily and smoothly, and if it didn’t, he made a face and complained that a migraine was coming on.
Berit’s mother insisted that she had noticed this trait early on.
“I don’t want to make you upset, sweetheart, but I think you have to get used to the idea that you will be the strong partner in this marriage.”
“But Mamma, how can you say that?”
“Mothers see these things,” she answered cryptically.
Mothers see these things. Berit was also a mother, and what did she see in Jorgen and Jens and their girlfriends? Who was weakest there?
In many respects, Berit’s mother was right. Like the time that she was in labor with the boys. Tor had come with her to the hospital, but couldn’t stand sitting and waiting; the hospital smells went into his sinuses and made
