The Quiet Mother

41

He hadn’t been able to reach Eygló all day, and tried once more to call her on her mobile on his way to the Palliative Care Unit in Kópavogur. He’d learned that one of the women who worked in the office of the Women’s Health Unit of the National Hospital in the early 1970s was close to death.

Again it was his friend Svanhildur who came to Konrád’s aid when he needed to find out which of the National Hospital’s office staff had handled appointments and record keeping. Svanhildur knew a man in the hospital’s personnel department, and he looked up this woman for her. She was adamant that Konrád tell no one where she’d got the woman’s name.

Konrád’s enquiries about this woman revealed that she’d been transferred to the Palliative Care Unit quite some time ago. Konrád felt very uncomfortable about butting in during this difficult, sorrowful stage of the woman’s life, but his curiosity proved stronger than reason, and not for the first time. He couldn’t afford to worry too much about it. Time was too tight for that.

The woman’s mobile number was listed, and when he called it, her son answered and told Konrád what state she was in. Konrád decided to come clean and explained that he was trying to find the child of a friend of his. She’d given it up, possibly at the urging of a woman whom his mother might remember, named Sunnefa. Konrád told the man that the year in question was 1972 — a long time ago. He also said that his friend’s name was Valborg, and that she’d recently been killed.

The man was surprised at the call and promised he would call back soon. Konrád’s enquiry had, as might have been expected, got her attention, and she agreed to meet Konrád for a short time.

The woman’s son met the former policeman at the Palliative Care Unit and said he’d prepared his mother for the visit as best he could. He asked Konrád to keep it brief; he would be there with them and would intervene in their conversation if he felt it necessary. Konrád said he had nothing against that and thanked the man for his help, then apologised for the uncomfortable inconvenience his inquiry was causing them.

The woman had weakened significantly in the past few days and been bedridden, but she had asked to be dressed and placed in a wheelchair for this unusual visit. Despite being gravely ill, she wanted to meet the ex-policeman with the dignity she had remaining. She shook the man’s hand as she sat upright in the wheelchair in her bright room, dressed in a beautiful blouse with a shawl around her neck, thin-voiced and weak. Her name was Fransiska. Her son sat down on the bed.

Konrád thanked her for agreeing to meet him and came straight to the point, asking if she remembered a midwife or a midwifery student by the name of Sunnefa.

‘Yes, I remember her, but she stopped before 1970,’ said Fransiska, looking at her son. The woman was quite clear-headed.

‘Right,’ said Konrád. ‘She ran into trouble at the college and left it. Did you or any of you at the Women’s Health Unit have any contact with her afterwards?’

‘No,’ said Fransiska. ‘Not me, at least. She was unpredictable, as far as I recall, and not... not particularly well liked. Maybe I shouldn’t say such a thing — but no student there had ever been forced out of their studies. It was always particularly fine girls who studied midwifery. Especially...’

‘She was very religious, I understand,’ said Konrád, sensing how weak the woman was. He tried to hurry. ‘Did you know she was a member of a sect?’

‘No,’ Fransiska said wearily. ‘I’ve never liked religion. I have no interest in it. Let alone life after death. When it’s over, it’s over. You told my son that the woman who died in that horrible way had given up... given up her child.’

Konrád said yes.

‘Because Sunnefa persuaded her to?’ asked Fransiska, with obvious interest.

‘It’s possible.’

‘And then Sunnefa placed it in foster care?’

‘That’s also possible.’

‘But how is that related to what happened to her? That woman? Valborg?’

‘I don’t know,’ Konrád said, glancing at the son, who looked as if he may have misunderstood part of their conversation. ‘I doubt it is. Valborg never knew what happened to the child and she wanted to find out. She came to me about it. I... I didn’t help her.’

‘And you want to make up for it now?’

‘I want to find the child.’

‘That’s... nice of you.’

‘I regret not helping her,’ Konrád admitted.

The woman tried to smile. It was as if every little movement caused her pain.

‘Do you remember anyone else you worked with, and who thought along the same lines as Sunnefa? Was against abortions? Was religious? Even in some sort of sect?’

Fransiska shook her head. Her son got up from the bed and looked at his watch, as a sign that Konrád would have to wrap this up.

‘I understand that Sunnefa had a good friend who worked in the office.’

‘Do you mean... Regína...?’

‘Regína?’

‘I remember that they were good friends, Sunnefa and her. And now that you mention it, I seem to recall that Regína was... belonged to some... belonged to some congregation.’

‘What congregation? Do you remember?’

Fransiska didn’t answer him.

‘Do you remember what congregation it was?’

The woman closed her eyes. She seemed to Konrád to be on the verge of passing away from fatigue. She reminded him of Erna in her final days of life. Erna absolutely refused to go to the Palliative Care Unit and Konrád supported her decision. She wanted to die at home.

Konrád looked at the son, who signalled to him that that was enough.

‘We should stop now,’ he said, bending over his mother.

‘Of course,’ said Konrád. ‘Again, I’m sorry for disturbing you. You’ve been extremely helpful,’ he added, taking Fransiska’s hand.

She opened her eyes, stared at him, and whispered something that Konrád didn’t hear. He leaned closer.

‘The Creation,’ said the woman.

‘The Creation?’

‘It was... her congregation...’

‘No more of this,’ ordered the son. ‘That’s enough. I have to ask you to leave!’

‘All right,’ said Konrád.

‘My dear...’ the woman whispered ‘...find... the child.’

As before, the incessant hum of the traffic on Hringbraut Road carried into the cemetery, where otherwise all was silent and peaceful. Once again, Eygló followed the rain-soaked path to Málfríður’s grave, past the recently renovated tomb and the moss-covered headstones and crosses with their weathered sorrow. She’d brought some roses to lay on the grave, and looked around for Málfríður’s friend, the woman in the coat and veil who stood there by the grave the last time Eygló came to the cemetery.

No one was there now but her.

Eygló had brought three white roses, which she placed on the grave. One for the Father, one for the Son, and one for the Holy Spirit. She thanked Málfríður for her friendship and prayed once again for a good end to her journey. There was a cool northerly breeze and Eygló was about to leave when the headstone at the top of Málfríður’s grave caught her attention. It was standing straight up, with its back towards the head of her friend, so near that when it came time to set up Málfríður’s headstone, they would almost touch.

Eygló walked carefully around to the front of that grave to see who was lying there beneath the soil, and as she read the stone, her heart skipped a beat and she saw in her mind’s eye the woman in the green coat who’d been sitting at Málfríður’s bedside in the hospital and later stood by her grave there in the cemetery.

She remembered the name when she saw it carved into the stone.