‘I’m sorry,’ he whispered. ‘Forgive me. To lose a child… And here am I…’
‘You have nothing to apologize for,’ said Adam. ‘Grief is not relative. Your grief is deep enough in itself. In time you’ll learn to live with it. There are brighter days ahead, Lukas. Life has a blessed tendency to heal itself.’
‘Yes, but I mean she was only my mother. You lost-’
‘I still wake up sometimes in the middle of the night, thinking that Elisabeth and Trine are still alive. It takes a second or two for me to realize where I am in terms of time. And the grief I feel at that moment is exactly the same as the day they died. But it doesn’t last as long, of course. Half an hour later I am able to sleep, the best and most secure sleep of all.’ He gave a faint smile. ‘But now I must go.’
The raw cold struck him as he walked out on to the low stone steps. The rain came lashing at him from the side, and he turned up his collar as he headed for the gate without looking back.
The only thought he could cope with was that one of the photographs on the shelf in the so-called guest room had disappeared. On Christmas Day there had been four photographs there. Now there were only three. One of Lukas as a child, on Erik’s knee. One of the whole family on a boat. The third was a photograph of a very young, serious Erik Lysgaard in his student cap. The tassel resting on his shoulder. The cap at an angle, as it should be.
When Adam opened the gate, pulling a face at the screeching of the hinge, he wondered if it had been stupid not to ask Lukas what had happened to the fourth photograph.
On the other hand, he probably wouldn’t have got an answer.
At least not one he would have believed.
The idea that anyone could believe such stories was completely incomprehensible.
Johanne was sitting with her laptop on her knee, surfing aimlessly. She had visited both the
Ragnhild was already fast asleep, and Isak was putting Kristiane to bed. Although she didn’t really like it, she caught herself hoping he would stay. In order to shake off the thought, she checked her e-mail. There were three new messages in her inbox, two of which were irritating adverts; one was for a slimming product made from krill and bears’ claws. There was also a message from someone whose name didn’t ring a bell at first, until she trawled her memory.
Karen Ann Winslow.
Johanne remembered Karen Winslow. They had studied together in Boston, two marriages and an eternity ago. At that time Johanne still thought she was going to be a psychologist, and didn’t know that she was going to ditch her prestigious education in favour of an FBI course that would almost cost her her life.
She opened the message which came from a private address, and didn’t say anything about where Karen was working.
Dear Johanne – remember me? Long time no see! We had some great days back at school and I’ve thought about you now and then. How are you? Married? Kids? Can’t wait to hear.
I googled your name and found this address – hope it’s correct.
Listen, I’m going to a wedding in Norway on January 10th. A dear friend of mine is marrying a Norwegian cardiologist. The wedding is taking place in a small town called Lillesand, not far from Oslo. Are you still living there?
Johanne realized that Karen’s American idea of what constituted ‘not far’ would encounter the grim reality of the winding, lethal E18 to Sorlandet.
I’ll have to go without my husband and three children (two daughters and a son, gorgeous kids!) due to other family activities. I arrive in Oslo three days before the wedding, and would be absolutely thrilled to meet you. Any chance? We have SO much catching up to do. Please get in touch as soon as possible. I’ll be staying at the Grand Hotel, by the way, in the center of Oslo.
Lots of love,
Karen
At least she was right about the location of the hotel, thought Johanne as she closed the message, launched Google and typed Karen’s full name in the search box.
Two hundred and six hits.
There were obviously at least two Americans with the same name, because a lot of the articles were about a seventy-three-year-old writer of children’s books. As far as Johanne remembered, Karen was due to start studying law the same summer that she herself had gone to Quantico. If she knew Karen as well as she thought, she would have passed her exams with flying colours. Many of the hits concerned a lawyer working for an Alabama-based firm called the American Poverty Law Center (APLC). This Karen Ann Winslow – who, a quick glance at several articles confirmed, was the same age as Johanne – had among other things led a campaign against the state of Mississippi to close the huge prison for underage criminals after serious breaches of the most basic rights for children had been proved.
When Johanne looked at their website, she remembered that she had been there before. APLC was one of the leading firms in the United States when it came to prosecuting hate crimes. Apart from offering free support to needy victims – mostly African-Americans – it pursued wide-ranging campaigns on behalf of those who were poor and without means. It was also behind an impressive information service aimed at mapping hate groups all over the huge continent of America.
Johanne clicked around the packed home page. There were no pictures of the employees. For safety reasons, she assumed. However, after reading for ten minutes she was convinced that Karen Ann Winslow, the lawyer at APLC, was identical with her old friend.
‘Perfect,’ she murmured.
‘I agree,’ said Isak, flopping down in the armchair opposite the sofa where Johanne was sitting. ‘Both the kids are asleep, and if you don’t mind I’ll take a look in your fridge and see what I can put together.’
Johanne didn’t even look up from her laptop. She had clicked her way back to Outlook.
‘Carry on,’ she said. ‘Those sausages weren’t exactly filling.’
Dear Karen,
Thanks so much for your message. Of course I want to see you! I live in Oslo and you’re more than welcome to stay with us for a couple of days. Have to warn you, though, I’m blessed with two daughters who are more than a handful!
Her fingers flew over the keys. She wasn’t even thinking. It was as if there were a direct line between her hands and everything she had experienced in the past seventeen years. It was as if nothing needed to be amended or considered, as if she didn’t have to work anything out, she simply told her story. She wrote about the children, about Adam, about her job. Karen Winslow was far away on the other side of the ocean – her old college friend didn’t know anyone here and there was no need to consider anyone’s feelings. Johanne wrote about life as a researcher, about her projects, about her fear of not being a good enough mother to a daughter that no one but Johanne understood. She didn’t understand Kristiane either, if she was honest. She wrote without any inhibitions to a woman with whom she had once been young and free.
It felt almost like making a confession.
