The Drowned Boy

9

Eleventh of August. Morning.

“I dreamed about death,” she wailed. “He was right here in the room, and he was falling to pieces. All stained and rotten and messy, with long yellow nails. I’ve never seen anything so hideous in my life. He sat on the rug beside the bed all night, breathing. It was disgusting. I thought I could still smell him when I woke up — a kind of sweet, rotten smell. And something’s bitten me on the thigh. Look, it’s all red and starting to swell up.”

“A wasp,” Nicolai said, exhausted. “There’s some lidocaine cream in the bathroom drawer. It should help a little.”

“Haven’t you slept?”

“No.”

“Have you been drinking whiskey?”

“Yes.”

“More than one?”

“Yes, and don’t worry. I can do what I like with my life. If I want to go to hell, I’ll go to hell.”

Carmen stood there for a while, thinking she desperately wanted to say the right thing. She wanted to be good and to save him. Because that was what the situation called for. She had to put out the fire that was burning all around her. She saw the empty glass on the table and started to fret. To think that he was sitting here drinking on his own so early in the morning.

“It won’t get any better if you’re tired and hungry,” she said. “It won’t get any better if you’re drunk. We don’t need to numb ourselves; we have to get through this. And there are things we need to organize. The funeral and lots of other things. Listen to me, I’m trying to help!”

He didn’t answer. Just sat there and played with the fringe on the blanket. His eyes were swollen from crying and his hair was a mess. She stood looking at him, not knowing what to say. So she said nothing, went into the kitchen, and put on the kettle. She had a life to live, after all. She needed air in her lungs, blood in her arms and legs. Things had to keep working. He called to her from the living room.

“Why do you think they want to examine the house?”

She went back out and fell into a chair. She licked her finger and brushed it over the bite, because she thought that spit might soothe it. That was right, wasn’t it?

“Don’t think about it anymore,” she said in a comforting voice. “It’s bad enough as it is, and you’re only making it worse sitting here brooding. I don’t know why they want to look at the house, but I guess they’ll do what they like.”

He pulled off the blanket and sent her a dark look. His eyes, which she normally thought were kind, were suddenly accusing.

“You didn’t think Tommy was good enough,” he said.

Carmen didn’t recognize his voice. Again he showed a bitterness that only confused her.

“I’ve known it the whole time. Ever since we were at the hospital and the doctors came into the room with the bad news. I remember your face, your expression when you realized the truth. You’d had a baby, and you made a face.”

Carmen looked at him across the table and scratched the red, now irritated bite. She stepped into the bathroom to get the cream.

“You weren’t exactly clapping with joy, either,” she countered. “And I can’t help my feelings. I am the way I am. But you can’t say that I didn’t love him. Because I did. I loved my little Tommy. More than you know.”

She blinked away her tears, moved by her own words. It was strange to be sitting here early in the morning with Nicolai, without Tommy crying or making a fuss or needing something. It was bizarrely quiet, as though time had stopped. The new day lay ahead of her, aching with a new and welcome freedom.

“They won’t give up,” Nicolai told her. “They’re going to keep asking questions, because that’s what they’re like. What we’ve done and not done, what we were thinking. Did we love him and how much are we grieving? How deep is your grief?” he asked, looking at her with his wet green eyes.

She pulled herself up a bit and said she had told them all there was to tell. That she came out of the bathroom and saw that he wasn’t there. And yes, it had taken awhile. Enough time for Tommy to toddle out of the house and across the yard down to the water.

“So,” she said, looking at his drawn face, “they can call me in for questioning as many times as they like. They can ask questions and poke around for as long as they like, but I’ve got nothing more to tell them. I’m done.”

But most of all, in the midst of it all, she wanted to be good. She wanted him to be on her side, at any price. She stood up and went over to the sofa, sat down on his knee, and kissed his tense and pale cheek.

“I know you don’t like me saying it,” she said, “but we can have another baby sooner or later. Maybe a little girl. Margrete or Maria. You can decide.”

“I don’t want a little girl,” Nicolai wailed. “I want Tommy. Now, right now!”

She stroked his hair with her delicate hand. “But you’ll never get him back. Now we only have memories. You were a good dad, so be proud of that.”

“What were you doing in the bathroom?” he asked all of a sudden. “Why did you leave him?”

She thought for a moment and then answered quickly. “Oh, I was just doing some washing. The door didn’t even cross my mind. I’m really sorry. I was away for about five minutes, maybe, and he can get quite far in that time. But I won’t let you blame me. And whether you like it or not, life goes on. We have to focus on the funeral now and make sure it’s beautiful in the church.”

He didn’t want her on his lap. He pushed her off and down onto the sofa and ran his hands through his thin, straight hair.

“You don’t leave a toddler on his own,” he retorted. “Especially not one like Tommy. You could have called for me; I could have watched him while you did the washing. You never learn! It wasn’t the first time he’d managed to get out of the house. So just admit you made a mistake and that you’re irresponsible, because that’s what you are.”

“The washing was just as important as your bikes. And in any case, I’m the one who does all the work. You just played with him in the evenings and had fun.”

“Which of us is going to call the funeral people?” he asked.

“Pappa Zita will do that,” she replied. “He’s going to call Sentrum. He’ll explain everything to them, that we have to wait for the body. That is, if you can’t face doing it yourself. It’s good we’ve got Dad. I don’t know how we would get through this without him. So, do you want a cup of tea? The water’s boiling; I can hear it.”

He said no. Instead he went to the cupboard and got out a bottle of whiskey. He poured another dram, lifted the glass, and drank it down.

“You can’t drink at seven in the morning,” she exclaimed, horrified.

“I can do exactly what I want. No one is going to tell me how to grieve.”