Unspoken

SUNDAY, NOVEMBER 25

Things finally fell apart the following morning. Emma’s cell rang while she was in the shower, and Olle checked to see what the message was.

It said: “How are you? Longing for you. Kisses, Johan.”

When she came out of the shower, Olle was sitting at the kitchen table. His face was white with fury, and he was holding her cell phone in his hand.

The floor gave way beneath her. She realized at once that he knew. Through the window she saw the children playing outside in the rain.

“What is it?” she asked in a feeble voice.

“What the hell is going on?” he said, his voice thick with anger.

“What do you mean?”

She could feel her lower lip quivering.

“You got a message,” he shouted. “On this!” He waved her cell in the air. “From some Johan who is longing for you and sending you kisses. Who the hell is Johan? ”

“Just wait and I’ll explain,” she pleaded as she cautiously sat down on the very edge of a chair across from him.

At that moment she heard the front door open.

“Mamma, Mamma, my mittens are wet,” cried Sara. “Can I have another pair?”

“I’m coming,” she called. She went out to the entryway and found another pair. Her hands were shaking.

“Here, sweetheart. Now go back out and play with Filip. Mamma and Pappa need to be alone to talk. So why don’t you and your brother stay outside for a while. I’ll call you when we’re done.”

She gave her daughter a kiss on the cheek and then went back to her husband in the kitchen.

“I’ve wanted to tell you, but it’s been so difficult,” she said, giving him an entreating look. “I’ve been seeing somebody for a while, but I’m so confused. I don’t really know what I feel.”

“What the hell are you talking about?”

His words cut right through her. She could hear how Olle was trying to control his anger by clenching his teeth. She didn’t dare look at him.

“It can’t be true! This is too fucking unbelievable!” he said.

He got up from the table and came to stand in front of her, still holding her cell phone in his hand.

“What the hell is going on here? Who is he?”

“He’s the journalist who interviewed me after Helena was killed. The journalist from TV. Johan Berg,” she said quietly.

Olle flung the cell phone to the floor with all his might. With a bang it was transformed into a pile of plastic and metal splinters. Then he turned to her.

“Have you been seeing him ever since then? Behind my back? For all these months?”

His face contorted with anger as he leaned toward her.

“Yes,” she said weakly. “But you have to let me explain. We haven’t been seeing each other the whole time.”

“Explain!” he shouted. “You can explain to your lawyer. Get out! I want you out of here!”

He grabbed her hard by the arm and yanked her out of the chair.

“Get out! You don’t belong here anymore. Leave right now, so I don’t have to look at you. Go to hell! I never want to see you again! Do you hear me? Never!”

The children had heard the ruckus, and they now appeared in the doorway. At first they looked bewildered, then they both started to cry. That didn’t stop Olle. He shoved Emma out onto the porch in her stocking feet and threw her jacket and boots after her.

“Here!” he yelled. “But you’re not taking the car!” And he snatched away her car keys.

Then he slammed the door shut.

Emma put on her jacket and boots. The door opened again and her purse came flying out.

She was out in the cold. The street was deserted.

A Sunday morning in November, and it was over. She stared at the closed door. Her purse had fallen open and the contents were scattered all over the porch and front steps. Mechanically she gathered up everything, too numb to cry. She walked down to the gate and opened it, then turned right, although she didn’t know why. She didn’t notice the neighbor family a couple of houses away who were talking and laughing as they climbed into their car and drove off. The mother waved to Emma but got no response.

She felt empty inside, as if stunned. Her face felt rigid. What on earth had she done? Where should she go now? She couldn’t go back to her own house.

The sports field next to the school was deserted. The wind was blowing from the north. She looked over at the main road where a few cars were driving past.

When did the buses go into town on Sundays? She had never needed to ask that question before.