Part 4 (1/2)

”I'm going to protect my kids. Do you hear me? Even if that means you have to move out. I'm going to protect them.” He spits the words out and tiny, invisible drops of saliva hit my cheek.

Mia still hasn't moved, but I can see big, heavy tears running down her cheeks. A thin strand of snot dangles from her nose. It gets longer and longer, but she still sits there quietly with her head down, as if she were waiting for a blow, or had just been hit by one.

And I think that, actually, that is exactly what just happened.

”How long have you known about this?” I ask Patrik.

”What do you mean 'known'? You mean, how long has it been like this? Don't say 'How long have you known about this?' because what I know about it isn't the part that matters. How things really are is what matters. Quit blaming me. I'm here because I'm actually kind of a responsible parent, because I'm trying to make sure my kids are going to have a relatively safe upbringing.”

”Okay,” I say. ”How long do you think this has been like this?”

Patrik sighs and exhales, standing in the middle of the room. Suddenly he flails his big fists in front of him as if the question were an irritating insect that he is trying to shoo away.

”I don't know,” he says. ”A long time. Since Lennart was born, I guess.” His voice is lower now and there's something faltering in it, something resigned. There are months of wakeful nights and colic in it; there's loneliness and sadness, and a hot, choked-up pain.

”It wasn't always like this,” Patrik says almost wistfully. ”Before Lennart was born, Mia used to hang out with all the other sort of chic, nouveau hippie women. They all bought their clothes from Odd Molly and used to hang out at Nytorget Square guzzling lattes all day. That was better. That was okay. And before that, when we met, we were madly in love for several years. I mean . . . we were so pa.s.sionate. When I think back to that time, I still get b.u.t.terflies in my stomach. And Mia was . . . Mia was amazing-outgoing, intellectual, expressive. She was interested in tons of things, was trying to become a partner at the advertising agency where she worked. But then . . . after the kids, Mia got burned out. I don't know how to explain it . . . It's like living with a totally different person. It's like she's a stranger. It's not that I dislike her or anything, but I just don't even know who she is anymore.”

I look at Mia, who's still crying, her eyes fixed on the floor. I realize that I haven't gotten to know the person Patrik is describing either, the outgoing, talkative woman he was once in love with. For the first time I'm seriously worried about her. What if she's so depressed that she actually needs a stronger intervention than our little counseling practice can offer her? I've lost patients before, and I don't want to see that happen again.

”Mia,” I begin hesitantly, touching her shoulder very gently, which makes her jump. ”Mia, what do you have to say about this?”

Mia just shakes her head. ”It's not . . . like that,” she says.

”What do you mean? What's not like what?” I ask.

Patrik folds his tall body back into the comparatively tiny armchair and eyes Mia dubiously.

”It's not like Patrik says,” Mia argues. ”I mean, yeah, I was tired. I had fallen asleep for a while, but I definitely hadn't taken any pills.”

”Whose pills are they then, Mia? Can you explain that?” Patrik says slowly.

”They're mine, all right? I got them from the doctor, you know that perfectly well. I don't sleep well. I suffer from anxiety. I don't know what to do. That's why I'm so tired during the day. But I wasn't on anything yesterday, not then. I was just so . . . tired.” Mia speaks quietly, looking down at the floor the whole time, all the while rubbing her thighs.

”I didn't taaaaake any piiiiiiilllls,” Patrik mimics her, his voice shrill. ”Do you know how pathetic you are? There's not an addict around who doesn't claim that they're not under the influence. You can't trust an addict, don't you know that? You gave up the privilege of being believed as soon as you started taking those G.o.dd.a.m.n pills. Do you get it?”

My wall clock shows that it's getting close to three, which means that we're going to have to wrap this up. It's like that sometimes; you're forced to end a session right in the middle of something painful or important. After all, at the end of the day, I'm only paid to listen to their confessions for sixty minutes at a time. So I do what I've done so many times before: summarize our conversation, give them a short a.s.signment to work on for next time. Finally we set up a new appointment for the following week.

I watch Patrik and Mia leave the room-him first, moving jerkily, full of pent-up rage, her right behind, shuffling, still with her head down.

Like a dog.

His dog.

All that's left in the room is a faint, acrid smell of sweat in the air. Everything is quiet again.

”And Anette isn't exciting enough for you to hang out with?” Markus asks sarcastically.

Markus and I are arguing again. It's the most wretched of pastimes, accusations being lobbed around the room like s...o...b..a.l.l.s. The only goal is to hurt the other person, get a cold, hard strike right in their most sensitive spot.

Gray light sifts in through my gla.s.s doors.

Outside the ocean, raw and inhospitable. Foam and brown leaves float in the water along the sh.o.r.e. The temperature is approaching freezing outside and no one in their right mind would swim anymore or sit on the rocks admiring the view. Black birds root around in the puddles in the yard, looking for cold, slippery insects to sate their hunger. Naked trees unabashedly stretch their bodies into the leaden sky.

”There's nothing wrong with Anette,” I reply. ”I just don't know if I want to spend Christmas with her.”

Lie.

There is something wrong with Markus's sister. She's so d.a.m.n boring, she makes time stand still.

She's a cop, like Markus. She lives in a suburb where all the houses are the same-same weathered gray wood facades, same blue trampolines in the yard, same Weber grill on the neatly manicured lawns outside the kitchen window, husband, two children, the match on the TV during dinner, the children nagging nonstop to be excused from the table so they can go play video games.

Why should I spend my Christmas with her? I don't see the logic.

Markus is losing now, because how is he supposed to argue that I should have to hang out with Anette since I've been honest about how I feel about her from day one?

”That's just so d.a.m.n typical of you,” he says. That accusation doesn't really stick, but his voice is dark and filled with rage. It fills my room like black water, oozing into the s.p.a.ce between us, filling it with its presence.

”You're. Not. Being. Fair.” And now I'm the one screaming. ”I never promised that we would hang out like that, did I? That we're . . . that we would be . . . together, not like that. I'm sorry. I wish I were different, but I'm just not right now.”

”Do you know how that makes me feel?” Markus says, his voice tense now, his jaws clenched.

And I shake my head, because how should I know?

”Like a f.u.c.king prost.i.tute,” he says.

I can't help it, but his comment makes me burst into uncontrollable giggles. It seems ludicrous. Markus, a prost.i.tute. Markus, my little wh.o.r.e. I walk over to him and hug him gently. Kiss his stubbly cheek.

”Honey. You're many things to me, but a wh.o.r.e . . . ,” I say, and then giggle again.

His body is stiff in my arms. With determination he loosens my arms and looks at me without saying anything, turns around, and walks out to the front hall, where coats and shoes are all strewn about. He throws on his jacket, steps into his muddy rain boots, and disappears out the door, out into the leaden-gray, damp, chilly afternoon. I can hear footsteps as he walks away from the house through the muddy puddles. The door is still ajar. Cool, damp air seeps into my living room.

He's gone.

Just like that.

And I'm left behind, alone.