Grandma—sixteen or seventeen in the photo—is no surprise beauty, as elderly relatives can so often seem in photos of them from their youths. She has a square jaw and slightly flyaway hair, as well as that powerful, competent look that she would still have in her seventies. What always surprised me about that photo is that beautiful smile; how she seems to be laughing straight at the camera. She has the open aura of a teenager with boundless self-confidence and a future that seems to promise the world.
Staffan and Elsa stand behind them, in a classic familial pose. He is tall, with a fairly undistinctive face except for his wide, charming smile. His arm is wrapped around Elsa in a way that feels surprisingly affectionate, and his head tilts in toward her, as though his entire being is striving to be near her. He isn’t a handsome man, my great-grandfather, but he definitely has a certain charm. Elsa is the photo’s unmistakable axis, the person the entire family seems to be built around. Like my grandmother, she doesn’t seem a great beauty: a stout woman of just over forty, she is wearing a skirt and blouse which, with their girlish fifties silhouette and mismatched florals, make her look like a child playing dress-up. She looks as though she would be more at home in pants and practical shoes, clothes to help her where she had to be going.
Her face has the same distinctive squareness as Grandma’s, with surprisingly full lips in the middle of her face—the same lips that, on closer inspection, you can see an inkling of in Aina’s. A small, almost mischievous smile plays on Elsa’s lips, which stands out because it feels so at odds with the rest of her appearance. Her hair is styled in stiff curls that seem to be there for the sake of the photo alone, and below her fluffy fringe her light, steady eyes look straight down the camera, firm and direct. Her hands sit on Aina’s shoulders. My great-grandmother’s hands, almost identical to my grandma’s, with a simple, silvery wedding ring on one finger.
Those very same fingers marked every bill paid with a neat little “paid.” May 1958. July 1958. November 1958.
Then other notes start appearing.
“Late.”
“Deferred.”
“Deferred.”
“Cancelled.”
On the final two bills there are no notes at all.
I sit and stare at the thin, sepia-brown sheets of paper spread out on my lap. My fatigue is making reality throb.
Below the bills are the three sheets of paper I found in the underwear drawer. They’re in pristine condition.
The handwriting on them is the same as the small notes from the bills, but it looks different. The letters are smaller but more spaced out, the lines are flurried and uneven, and the ink is smudged in a few places.
There’s no date at the top of the page, nor any greeting, so it’s only when I hunch over to squint at the words that I realize it’s a letter.
Margareta, I’m writing this to you for I feel I must. I see no other option.
I know that you are busy and have a lot on your plate, with a baby on the way. I know that you don’t have much space. But please: take your father, your sister, Birgitta, and me in with you in Stockholm. I hope it will only be for a short while, but I am asking you, as your mother, to help us in our time of need.
The situation here is worse than I could ever have imagined. The entire village is all but entranced, your sister included. They are treating the pastor as though he were God the Father himself, although I’m starting to suspect he’s more a demon in human guise. He has stirred up the congregation to the brink of madness. I have heard them speaking in tongues during services, and every evening at sunset the drone of their songs rings through town.
There are only a few of us left who have not fallen in thrall to him. Your sister is his right hand. I’m losing her. She has moved in to the church, where she now sleeps. I fear that the venom he has filled her ears with has turned her against us completely. I must get her out of here before it is too late.
I understand that you must have your concerns about Birgitta. I know that it’s an additional burden, especially given the way she is, but I refuse to leave her here. Pastor Mattias and his congregation hate her. They say that she is a witch and succubus, that she is possessed by demons and serves the devil. I fear what they will do to her if I leave her here. She would never be able to defend herself. God knows if any of the rest of us could.
I’m not even sure if they follow the Christian doctrine anymore. They have started holding mass in
Here the letter comes to an abrupt end. No period, no sign-off. As though she were interrupted mid-sentence, then shoved the letter at the bottom of her underwear drawer and never cared to finish it.
Or never could.
THEN
She hesitates, her pen poised, before lowering it again.
I’m not even sure if they follow the Christian doctrine anymore, she writes. When the words finally come, they do so in a swinging, flurried hand that is quite unlike her own. She doesn’t know how much she should tell Margareta.
Margareta has always been like Elsa: decisive. If Elsa says too much she fears it will bring Margareta storming up to Silvertjärn herself, but at the same time she has to say something. She must tell someone what has been happening. She can’t take this anymore.
Until
