But then, on yet another late night spent scrolling hopelessly through Facebook, I noticed a photo on Hélène’s timeline. It was right down near the bottom of her page, one that she hadn’t posted—someone else had tagged her in it. It showed a gray-haired woman with a severe ponytail and a stiff, vacant smile, her arm around a girl in her late teens.
“Hélène and her beautiful daughter brighten up my birthday dinner! <3” read the caption.
The girl was tagged as Tone Grimelund.
Two years on, I still haven’t met Tone’s mother. I don’t know how much Tone has told her about this project, and I haven’t asked, either. From what little Tone has said and what I’ve read into Hélène’s radio silence, my guess is she isn’t too keen on the idea of digging up the Silvertjärn story.
My friendship with Tone is one of my life’s more unusual relationships. For the longest time Tone didn’t want anything to do with the project, either, beyond telling me what little she knew. But even from that very first day, when we made awkward small talk over cheap coffee, I could detect a reluctant curiosity there.
Would she have let herself act on it if it hadn’t been for what happened?
That I don’t know.
THEN
When Elsa nears the church doors, she is surprised to find them wide open. It’s a cold day even for late November, less than thirty degrees, and over the course of the day only the odd isolated snowflake has sailed down from the bright sky. From midday onward the sun had started to break through the clouds, and as she walked to Agneta’s house Elsa could even start to see signs of life on the streets. Elisabet Nyman had been out on an afternoon walk with her little girl, looking healthier than she had in a long time. After the birth, Elisabet had been bedbound for so long that Elsa had raised the matter with Elisabet’s mother and the school nurse, Ingrid. Together they had agreed to help her out with the little one.
When Elsa had seen Elisabet earlier today she had looked genuinely happy, with rosy cheeks and a lovely winter hat. The baby was wearing a homemade crocheted hat, cooing through a toothless grin. Elisabet had said that they still didn’t have a name for her, but they ought to get on with it: the girl is almost three months old, and children can’t go on without a name forever. Elsa had offered to talk to Pastor Einar about a christening for the little one, since she would be passing by the church anyway.
It’s never easy, the first child, especially when you’re as young as Elisabet. Only eighteen years old, and four months along when she and Albert got married. Barely older than Elsa’s Aina, and already a mother herself. It’s no wonder she became a little melancholic when the child was born, especially with Albert being unable to find any work. As they have no ties to Silvertjärn they really ought to move, much as the thought pains Elsa. What will happen to Silvertjärn when all the young people just up and leave?
It has already started to happen. Just weeks ago the Engelssons moved up north to Kiruna in search of work. They didn’t even wait to sell the house, so desperate were they to leave. It’s just standing there in the middle of the village, its windows dark and its doors shut, like a bad omen.
Elsa briskly climbs the church steps, adjusting her hat with her free hand as she goes. If his drinking is so bad that Einar can’t remember to close the church doors, then it’s high time they took action. It’s true he’s always enjoyed a tipple—including one memorable evening when they were young, when he got it into his head to strip off and run into the lake—but he has always kept it somewhat under control. He’s never had a wife nor children, so all he has is the church to tend to, but if he can’t do that anymore …
“Einar?” Elsa calls through the open doors. “It’s me, Elsa.”
It’s dark inside. The pews are cast in long shadows, and the carved Jesus above the altar looks unusually severe on his cross. Despite the gloom, she can make out movements up near the altar. She tries to discreetly kick the dirt off her shoes before stepping inside.
“Einar?” she calls again, but it doesn’t look like Einar. He lacks Einar’s shuffling gait and bulky figure.
The man now walking down the aisle toward her is neatly dressed in a casual shirt and well-ironed trousers. He’s considerably younger than Einar—can scarce be more than thirty—with short blond hair that curls slightly over his forehead. A shy smile plays on his face.
“Fru Kullman?” he asks, taking Elsa’s hand. His grip is steady, cool, and slightly dry, and as she shakes his hand Elsa tries to place him, but she has never seen his face before.
“I don’t believe we’ve met,” she says.
“Oh, I do beg your pardon,” he replies, shaking his head. “But you are Elsa, are you not? Elsa Kullman?”
Elsa nods, extricating her hand from his.
“How…?”
“Einar has told me so much about you,” he says with another smile, wider this time.
“I’m pleased to hear that,” says Elsa, a certain sharpness to her voice. “But you still haven’t introduced yourself.”
He blushes slightly, seemingly embarrassed; this says something good about his upbringing, at least.
“Oh, I do beg your pardon,” he says. “Sometimes in my
