Shame

2

It was pure coincidence that she noticed it, and that was actually thanks to Saba. The post basket on the door underneath the letter-box had been screwed on by one of those people from home care; why they had bothered to take the time and effort was completely beyond her. She realised of course that it was so that she would be able to reach her mail, but since she never got any it was a sheer waste of taxpayers’ money. Especially the way they were scrimping on everything these days. Occasionally a notice would arrive from the bank or somewhere, but since it wasn’t so urgent for her to read that type of correspondence, it didn’t justify the expense. Nor was she interested in any daily newspaper; there was enough misery on the TV news in the evenings. She would rather save her disability pension for something else. For something she could eat.

But now there was a letter lying there.

A letter in a white envelope with handwriting on the front.

Saba had sat down by the door with her tongue hanging out and looked at the white intruder; maybe it had an odour that was only apparent to her superior senses.

Her glasses were on the table in the living room, and she wondered whether it was worth sitting down in the easy chair. With all the weight she had put on in recent years it had become so hard to get out of it that she avoided sitting down unnecessarily, especially if she knew that time was limited.

‘Do you want to go out for a bit before I sit down?’

Saba turned her head to look at her but showed no great desire. Maj-Britt moved the easy chair closer to the balcony door and made sure the picker-upper was within reach. That way she would be able to open the door without getting up. They had fixed things so that Saba could go out by herself for a while on the lawn. The home help had helped her unscrew one of the bars in the balcony railing, and she lived on the ground floor. But soon they would have to unscrew another one to make the opening bigger.

With a grimace she sank into the easy chair. Whenever her knees had to bear her entire weight for a few seconds they always gave in. Soon she would have to get herself a new easy chair, a higher model. The sofa was already impossible to use. The last time she sat on it they had to send for reinforcements from Security to get her up. Two hefty young men.

They had taken hold of her, and she was forced to submit.

She didn’t intend to allow that kind of humiliation again. It was disgusting when anyone touched her body. The loathing she felt at the mere thought made it easy to stay away from the sofa. It was bad enough that she had to let all those little people into her flat at all, but since the alternative was to go out herself, she had no choice. To tell the truth, she was dependent on them, no matter how repugnant it was to admit it.

They would come storming into her flat, one after the other. Always new faces that she never bothered to put names to, but they all had their own key. A quick ring of the doorbell which she never managed to answer and then the door would pop open. They had probably never heard of personal privacy. Then they would invade the flat with their vacuum cleaners and buckets and fill up the refrigerator with their reproachful looks.

Have you already gobbled up everything we bought for you yesterday?

It was remarkable how obvious it was, the way people’s attitude changed with each added pound. As if her intelligence decreased at the same rate as her physical bulk increased. Overweight people had slightly less intellectual prowess than thin ones, that seemed to be the prevalent belief. She never refuted them but instead ruthlessly exploited their stupidity to gain advantage, knowing precisely how to act to make them do what she wanted. She was fat, after all! Handicapped by obesity. She couldn’t help acting the way she did, she didn’t know any better. That was the message they projected every second they spent in her vicinity.

Fifteen years ago they had tried to talk her into moving to sheltered housing. So it would be easier for her to get out. Who said she wanted to go out? Not her, at any rate. She had refused and demanded that instead they adapt her flat to her size. Take out the bathtub and put in a roomy shower, since they were always nagging her about how important hygiene was. As if she were a little girl.

The letter had no return address. She turned it over and read the front. ‘Please forward.’ Who in the world would address a letter to her childhood home? She felt a pang of conscience when she saw the address. The house up there that was falling apart. The garden that would probably be impenetrable by now. The pride and joy of her parents. That was where they had spent any spare time they had after their devoted commitments to the Congregation.

How she missed them. To think it was possible to leave behind such a void.

‘I tell you, Saba. You would have liked my parents, you would. It’s a shame you never got a chance to meet them.’

She hadn’t been able to go back there. Couldn’t face the shame of showing herself up there, not the way she looked, so the house would have to stay the way it was. There was probably no hope of getting much for it, way out there in the sticks. It must have been the Hedmans who forwarded the letter. They had stopped writing to ask whether she intended to sell the house or at least do something about the furniture, but she assumed that they still looked in at regular intervals. Maybe mostly for their own sake. It might not be very pleasant living next door to a dilapidated and deserted house. Or else they had cleared it out on their own initiative and had stopped communicating because they had a guilty conscience. You couldn’t trust anybody nowadays.

She looked around for something to cut open the envelope with. She couldn’t possibly wedge her finger into that tiny gap. But the claw on her picker-upper worked just fine, as usual.

The letter was hand-written on lined paper with holes down one side and looked like it came from a college notebook.

Hi Majsan!

Majsan? That was a bit familiar.

She swallowed hard. Deep in the convolutions of her brain a tiny scrap of memory detached itself.

She instantly felt a desire to stuff something in her mouth, the need to swallow something. She looked around but there was nothing within reach.

She resisted the temptation to turn over the sheet of paper to see who had written it; or maybe it was just the opposite, maybe she really preferred not to know.

So many years since she had last heard that nickname.

Who had travelled down through the years, uninvited, and forced themselves in through her letterbox?

I know you must be wondering why I’m writing to you after all these years. To be honest, I have to admit I was a little hesitant to sit down and write this letter, but now at least I’ve decided to do it. The explanation will probably sound even more peculiar to you, but I might as well tell you the truth. I had such a strange dream a few nights ago. It made a big impression, and it was about you, and when I woke up there was something inside me that told me to write this letter. I have learned (at long last and after hard lessons) to listen to strong impulses. Well, so much for that …

I don’t know how much you know about me and how my life has turned out. But I can imagine that people talked about it a good deal back home, and I understand perfectly if you don’t want to have any contact with me. I’m not in touch with anyone in my family or anyone else from back home. As you can tell, I have plenty of time to think about things here, and I think a lot about when we were growing up and everything we took with us from those years, and how much it affected us later in life. That’s why I’m so curious to hear how you’re doing these days! I sincerely hope that everything worked out and you’re doing well. Since I don’t know where you are now or what your married name is (for the life of me I can’t remember Göran’s last name!) I’m going to send this letter to your childhood home. If it’s meant to reach you I’m sure it will. Otherwise it will just circulate around for a while and keep the post office busy which I’m sure would be a good thing since I hear they’re having hard times.

In any case …

I hope with all my heart that in spite of your difficult years growing up your life has turned out well. I never fully understood until I was grown up what an awful time you must have had. I wish you all the best!

Drop me a line if you feel like it.

Your old best friend,

Vanja Tyrén

She heaved herself up out of the chair. The sudden burst of anger gave her an extra push. What sort of nonsense was this?

In spite of your difficult years growing up?

She’d rarely seen the like of such impudence. Who did she think she was, really, assuming she had the right to send her such condescending statements? She picked up the letter and read the address written at the bottom of the page, and her gaze fixed on the words: Vireberg Institution.

She could hardly remember this person, who clearly was locked up in Vireberg, but who still thought she had the right to sit in judgement over her childhood and thus by extension her parents.

She went to the kitchen and yanked open the refrigerator door. The cocoa package was already on the kitchen worktop, and she quickly cut off a chunk of butter and dipped it in the brown powder.

She closed her eyes as the butter melted in her mouth, soothing her.

Her parents had done everything for her. Loved her! Who knew that better than she did?

She crumpled up the paper. It ought to be against the law to send letters to people who don’t want to get any mail. It was impossible to tell what that person was after, but to let her insult stand unchallenged was more than she could bear. She was going to have to reply in her parents’ defence. The mere thought of having to communicate with someone outside the walls of the flat without choosing to do so herself made her cut off another chunk of butter. The letter was an attack. A blatant assault. After all these years in voluntary isolation someone had suddenly clawed their way through her arduously erected barriers.

Vanja.

She could remember so little.

If she made a real effort she could call up some scattered images. She recalled that they had hung out together a bit, but no real details surfaced. She could vaguely remember a messy house and the fact that sometimes the yard outside looked like a junkyard. Nowhere near as neat as her own home had been. She also thought she could recall that her parents hadn’t approved of their friendship; and there, you see, for once it turned out that they were right! How they had struggled. She got a huge lump in her throat when she thought about them. She hadn’t been an easy child but they refused to give up on her; they did their best to help her get on in life even though she was so difficult and caused them so much worry. And then this person comes along more than thirty years later, wondering how they had been affected by their upbringing, as if she were looking for an accomplice in her own failure, someone to blame for it. But who was the one sitting in prison? What nerve to come here with her veiled insinuations and accusations when she was the one who was locked up. She could only imagine the reason why.

She braced herself against the worktop when the pain in her lower back started up again. A sudden stab that almost made her black out.

Yet she really didn’t want to know anything. She wanted to let Vanja remain buried in the past and let the dust she was stirring up settle again.

She glanced at the kitchen clock. Not because they ever bothered to be punctual, but they should be coming in an hour or two. She opened the refrigerator again. It was always stronger when something she didn’t want to acknowledge was attempting to intrude on her consciousness.

The compulsion to stuff herself in order to shut up what was screaming inside.