Strangers: A Novel(41)

“I didn’t show up five days ago. I’ve been living here for more than six months. With you.”

“Yes, OK. Still, for me you’ve only been here for five days. Come on, it’s not my fault. Erik…”

“What do you want from me, Jo? For days you’ve been telling me to go away. And when I finally realize, after these five shitty days, that it would probably be the best thing for me to do, all of a sudden you’d prefer it if I stayed. I can’t deal with this constant back and forth anymore.”

She reaches for my hand. I’m suddenly aware it’s the first time she’s done that since the start of all this. Is it because she really wants me near her? Or does she have an ulterior motive?

“Stay. Please. Let’s talk to each other. OK?”

“How long for? Until you tell me to go away again? I promise you one thing—the next time I will. For good.”





19

He stays. And if I’m being honest with myself—I wouldn’t have known what to do if he had gone. Apart from, maybe: call an ambulance. Have myself committed after all, but I’m still afraid of that option. I don’t want people feeding me pills to keep me under control; I want to know what’s wrong with me.

The pain in my head is raging. Erik says that if I start to feel sick, we should go to the hospital, because it could mean a concussion. Just the thought of ending up there again is almost enough to turn my stomach.

Erik convinces me to take two aspirin and let him put the cold pack against my forehead. If I’d been even slightly in the mood for joking around, I would have suggested he use the pack of shrimp instead so it’s good for something at least. But I can barely get a word to cross my lips. Again and again, I catch myself taking his hand and holding it tightly. Because, at this moment, there is nothing I’m more afraid of than being by myself.

Perhaps Erik senses that it’s this fear, above all, which is bringing me closer to him; in any case, he doesn’t look pleased by my sudden trust. He takes care of me, changing the cold packs at regular intervals, squeezing my hand dutifully, but his thoughts are clearly somewhere else.

After just half an hour, I’m feeling better, at least enough to get up and go to the bedroom.

He helps me to get undressed, pulls the covers over me, then drags a chair over to the bed and sits down next to me. As if he were a father and I his child.

“I wanted to tell you again that I’m sorry about how I behaved earlier,” he says. “It was wrong to shout at you like that, and even more so to be rough with you. It was just … too much, all of a sudden. I know that’s no excuse, but…” He doesn’t finish the sentence. He just stares at the floor.

I would nod, if it didn’t hurt so much. “OK,” I say instead.

“Then good night.” He moves to stand up, but I’ve reached out for his hand again. “No. Please.”

Now the expression on his face is one of disbelief. “You want me to sleep here?”

Yes. No. What I don’t want is to sleep alone; I don’t want my subconscious to completely take control and provoke me into jumping out of the window or doing something just as crazy.

“I want you to stay with me,” I whisper.

He looks at me for a long while. Gently touches the lump on my right temple. “You know how much I’d like to do that. But all this back and forth has to stop, Jo, it just hurts too much. I’m telling you, honestly, I’m at my wits’ end here.”

“OK.” I try to smile at him. “There’s a blanket, over there in the trunk and…”

“I know where our things are,” he interrupts me. “But thanks.”

Five minutes later, he’s lying next to me. Enough of a distance away not to be able to touch me, not even by accident. But on one occasion during the night, when I wake up for a moment, I feel his arm around my waist, hear his calm breathing behind me, and hope for a few seconds that I might be able to retrieve some memory of him after all. But there’s nothing. Nothing at all.

* * *

The next day I feel better, in every sense. The pain has subsided, along with the fear of losing control over my actions again.

As soon as he notices I’m awake, Erik gets up. “I’ll make us some breakfast.” He goes into the bathroom, and a few moments later I hear the shower being turned on. My stomach cramps up, but I remind myself that the scarves are gone now, the boiler is fine.

Ten minutes later, as I hear Erik go down the stairs, I get out of bed.

The sight of my face in the bathroom mirror is a shock. The swelling has gone down considerably, sure, but the right side of my face is bruised purple, from my forehead to the top of the cheekbone. The slightest of touches makes me wince. The fine jets of water shooting out of the shower head feel like pinpricks.

Should I put makeup on to cover up the bruises? I decide against it. Not unless I have to go out, be among people who might ask questions I can’t answer. I fell down the stairs. The classic response of abused wives.

But I will brush my hair so it covers part of my face, so Erik doesn’t constantly have to be reminded of my insane behavior every time he looks at me.

The scent of coffee drifts up toward me from downstairs, and I realize that I’m really hungry. A good feeling. A normal feeling.

“Sit down,” says Erik, pointing the spatula toward the already set table. “I’m making ham and eggs. Would you like some orange juice?”