A Nearly Normal Family(74)

He bent over and his tie dangled between my breasts as he kissed me.

“The door locks automatically. You can just pull it shut when you leave.”

Once he was gone I tried to fall back asleep, but even though I’d hardly gotten a wink I felt wide awake. My skin was crawling; my feet itching to move. I gave it fifteen minutes or so, tossing and turning and fluffing my pillow at least a hundred times. At last I gave up and slipped to the kitchen with the comforter wrapped around me.

The fridge was full to bursting with delicacies and I set out a hotel-level breakfast for myself. Then I ate with my feet up on a chair and listened to Lund awakening through the half-open balcony door.

Linda’s words echoed in my head. The big cabinet, the top right drawer, the key in the bottom left.

I walked into the hall. Stood before the mirror for a moment, considering.

I needed to pee. In the bathroom I snooped quickly through his medicines. Nose spray, allergy pills, pain relievers. Nothing exciting.

I washed up and went to the room Chris called his office.

Next to the window was a desk. On the wall hung an impressive painting; it must have been two meters wide. It was impossible to tell what it was supposed to be, but I had no doubt it was worth more than a year’s salary at H&M.

The facing wall was taken up by a large filing cabinet. This was what Linda had been talking about.

I turned to look out the window, realizing that this was a betrayal of Chris. But it would be stupid not to check what was in that drawer. If only to do away with the minor doubts I was having. Chris would never know.

I crouched down and pulled out the bottom left drawer. Inside were two plastic boxes with lids. The first was full of little stuff: bracelets, key rings, old swimming-achievement badges. Keepsakes he apparently hadn’t had the heart to toss.

The next plastic container was slightly smaller. The lid gave me some trouble, but at last I managed to pry it off. At the bottom were a dozen or so keys.

I considered the drawer at the top right of the filing cabinet. There were two keys that might reasonably fit that lock. I tried the first one, but nothing happened when I turned it. I decided to try out the other one too. There was a click from the lock as I turned it.

I pulled out the drawer and stared down into it.

What had I expected?

I stood there, gawking, unable to get my thoughts in order.





65


“Why did you react so strongly at our meeting the other day?”

Shirine pulls her colorful infinity scarf up to her chin and looks at me. She confronts my stubborn silence with question after question.

“Is it upsetting to think about? Do you think it might help to talk about it?”

I sigh. I don’t know why I’m back here again. I could keep playing sick; I could protest wildly, physically resist.

“Are you familiar with the concept of thrill seeking?” Shirine asks.

I cross my arms and stare at a spot on the wall behind her. I don’t want her to think everything is just fine now, back to normal quick as a wink. She promised not to have a bunch of preconceived notions about me, and yet she assumed I was talking about Chris when I asked about control freaks.

“Researchers have shown that some people need extra stimulation to experience joy. We often call them thrill seekers,” she says. “For example, a person might pursue extreme sports like mountain climbing or bungee jumping. But it might also be the case that someone seeks out risky relationships and enjoys conflict.”

I struggle to look as blasé as I possibly can, even though I’m actually listening attentively.

“Was he exciting, Christopher Olsen?” Shirine asks.

This time she is much more cautious about mentioning his name—her back is straight and her finger is probably on the panic button.

“Oh, lay off.” I sigh.

“You like excitement, right? Isn’t that true?”

I give a loud snort.

“I like your analyses. For real. If I ever need a therapist, I’m sure I’ll be calling you.”

I look her in the eye.

“Your sense of humor…,” she says.

“A defense mechanism, right?”

She doesn’t respond.

Finally, I think. Finally, she’s giving up.



* * *



Before leaving, I snap Thérèse Raquin shut so hard that Shirine glares at me. At first I identified with Thérèse quite a bit—her frustration over how bored she is and how nothing ever happens. Thérèse gets, like, married off to Camille, who isn’t a girl, like I thought at first. Thérèse likes dudes, obviously, we’re talking the 1800s here. Anyway, soon she meets another guy, Laurent, and she falls in love and has an affair with him. All three of them rent a little boat and the lover Laurent throws the husband Camille overboard and he drowns.

After the murder, Thérèse and Laurent argue about which of them is at fault. Both of them totally lose it and end up wracked with guilt and planning to kill each other. In the end they commit suicide together.

“I didn’t like it,” I say, mostly to annoy Shirine.

“It didn’t make you think?”

“It did,” I said. “That was the problem.”



* * *



After lunch, I have an hour to myself at the gym. I increase the resistance on the exercise bike and pedal my thighs full of lactic acid, letting the sweat trickle off my forehead until it forms a little puddle beneath me.