My Grandmother Asked Me to Tell You She's Sorry(107)

“They have to be ready this afternoon, though!” says Elsa, and Dad promises they will be.

They actually end up being ready in March. But that’s another story.

Elsa is about to jump out of the car. But since Dad already seems more hesitant and stressed than usual, she turns his stereo on so he can listen to his crappy music for a while. But no music comes out, and it probably takes two or three pages before it really sinks in for Elsa.

“This is the last chapter of Harry Potter and the Sorceror’s Stone,” she finally manages to say.

“It’s an audiobook,” Dad admits with embarrassment.

Elsa stares at the stereo. Dad keeps his hands on the steering wheel, concentrating. Even Audi has been stationary for a while now.

“When you were small, we always read together. I always knew which chapter you were on in every book. But you read so quickly now, and keep up with all the things you like. Harry Potter seems to mean such a lot to you, and I want to understand the things that mean a lot to you,” he says, red-faced, as he looks down at the horn.

Elsa sits in silence. Dad clears his throat.

“It’s actually a bit of a pity that you get on so well with Britt-Marie nowadays, because while I was listening to this book it struck me I could have called her She-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named at some suitable opportunity. I had a feeling that would make you laugh. . . .”

And it is actually a bit of a pity, thinks Elsa. Because it’s the funniest thing Dad has ever said. It seems to set him off, as he suddenly becomes animated.

“There’s a film about Harry Potter, did you know that?” He grins.

Elsa pats him indulgently on the cheek.

“Dad. I love you. I really do. But do you live under a stone or what?”

“You knew that already?” asks Dad, a little surprised.

“Everyone knows that, Dad.”

Dad nods. “I don’t really watch films. But maybe we could see this Harry Potter one sometime, you and me? Is it very long?”

“There are seven books, Dad. And eight films,” says Elsa carefully.

And then Dad looks very, very stressed again.

Elsa hugs him and gets out of Audi. The sun is reflecting off the snow.

Alf is trudging about outside the entrance, trying not to slip in his worn-down shoes, with a snow shovel in his hands. Elsa thinks about the tradition in the Land-of-Almost-Awake of giving away presents on your birthday, and decides that next year she’ll give Alf a pair of shoes. But not this year, because this year he’s getting an electric screwdriver.

Britt-Marie’s door is open. She’s wearing her floral-print jacket. Elsa can see in the hall mirror that she’s making the bed in the bedroom. There are two suitcases inside the threshold. Britt-Marie straightens a last crease in the bedspread, sighs deeply, turns around, and goes into the hall.

She looks at Elsa and Elsa looks at her and neither of them can quite bring herself to say anything, until they both burst out at the same time: “I have a letter for you!”

And then Elsa says “What?” and Britt-Marie says “Excuse me?” at the exact same moment. It’s all rather disorienting.

“I have a letter for you, from Granny! It was taped to the floor under the stroller by the stairs!”

“I see, I see. I also have a letter for you. It was in the tumble-dryer filter in the laundry room.”

Elsa tilts her head. Looks at the suitcases.

“Are you going somewhere?”

Britt-Marie clasps her hands together slightly nervously over her stomach. Looks as if she’d like to brush something off the sleeve of Elsa’s jacket.

“Yes.”

“Where?”

“I don’t know,” admits Britt-Marie.

“What were you doing in the laundry?”

Britt-Marie purses her mouth.

“I was hardly going to leave without making the beds and cleaning the dryer filter first, Elsa. Just imagine if something were to happen to me while I was away? I’m not going to let people think I was some sort of barbarian!”

Elsa grins. Britt-Marie doesn’t grin, but Elsa has a feeling she may be grinning on the inside.

“It was you who taught the drunk to sing that song when she was on the stairs, yelling, wasn’t it? And then the drunk grew completely calm and went to bed. And your mother was a singing teacher. And I don’t think drunks can sing songs like that.”

Britt-Marie clasps her hands together even harder. Nervously rubs the white streak where her wedding ring used to be.

“David and Pernilla used to like it when I sang them that song, when they were small. Of course they don’t remember that now, but they used to like it very much, they really did.”

“You’re not a complete shit, Britt-Marie, are you?” says Elsa with a smile.

“Thanks,” says Britt-Marie hesitantly, as if she’s been asked a trick question.

And then they exchange letters. On Elsa’s envelope it says “ELSA,” and, on Britt-Marie’s, “THE BAT.” Britt-Marie reads hers out without Elsa even having to ask. She’s good in that way, Britt-Marie. It’s quite long, of course. Granny has quite a lot to apologize about, and most people haven’t had anywhere near as many reasons over the years to be apologized to as Britt-Marie. There’s an apology about that thing with the snowman. And an apology about the blanket fluff in the tumble-dryer. And an apology about that time Granny happened to shoot at Britt-Marie with the paintball gun when she had just bought it and was “testing it out a bit” from the balcony. Apparently, one time she hit Britt-Marie on the bum when Britt-Marie was wearing her best skirt, and you actually can’t even hide stains with brooches if the stains are on your bum. Because it’s not civilized to wear brooches on your bum. Granny writes that she can understand that now.