A Sister in My House

Now, when I look back at how this particular whim came to have such a profound effect on how I view myself and my life, I can’t understand that I had no notion of it at the time. That I didn’t understand the seriousness of my ill-considered invitation. A few words sprung from some cache deep inside me, seemingly without any particular effect when uttered. None that I was able to discern at the time, anyway.

Was there perhaps some subconscious intention? Some unacknowledged hope that lingered deep inside me? Was I after all affected by what had preceded that moment when I stood facing my sister and invited her to come and visit me? Or was there something about her that caused me to speak those words? I don’t know. I can’t answer my own questions. I don’t understand myself.

All I can do is accept the consequences. And try to live the rest of my life as best I can. Try to savour what remains of what I previously so lightly discarded.

DAY ONE

“WHICH BED SHALL I make for the guest?” asked the young woman who stood facing me in the semi-dark dining room. Her brown eyes were expressionless. To her, it was just a practical question, of course.

But the words struck me as if I had swallowed something hot and heavy. And once ingested, they came to rest somewhere deep inside me, burning. The realisation that when evening arrived, my sister would be here. Would sleep in one of the beds. Occupy one of the rooms. Invade the space I considered mine. And affect the atmosphere. Not because of some intention on her part. No, it was me. I was the problem. What I consider mine has always felt so very . . . I am not sure how to describe it. Fragile perhaps. So exposed and vulnerable. In every way. I am unable to share anything that truly means something to me. And when circumstances force me to, all I want to do is walk away. Leave everything behind. It is forever ruined for me. When I think about it, I see it has always been like that. Before Emma existed too. Perhaps I am so afraid of losing, if I put up a fight, that I give up without even trying. It is not something I am proud of, but now I am able to acknowledge, without any sense of shame or guilt, that this is how it is.

I swallowed hard, to no effect. The heat had reached my stomach and I felt nauseous. The young woman waited patiently for my response. My thoughts flew from the master bedroom behind me, down the stairs, to the two bedrooms in the basement. That was where I wanted to place my sister. But if I didn’t sleep in the master bedroom myself, wouldn’t it seem strange not to give it to her? On the other hand, letting her have it would mean giving her a larger part of the house than I wanted to. Not just because it was the largest room but also because of its position on the entrance floor, at the heart of the house. It would be like giving her access to more of myself than I wanted to. It felt as if she were already here and already affecting my relationship with the house. The nausea kept rising.

“The first room downstairs, I think,” I said to the girl, and she nodded and disappeared down the stairs.

I slowly walked upstairs, to the top floor. The space there was one room, a large open area where indoors and outdoors were separated only by a glass wall with sliding doors. With the doors open, you would feel as if you were outside, and often small birds would come to visit. I spent most of my time up there. I slept on one of the hard sofas. I ate out on the terrace, unless it rained. And I worked there. It was a large house, and I really only occupied the top part of it. But I liked the feeling of the rest of it being there, below me. It worked like a kind of buffer against the world.

I walked out onto the terrace, which I used to think of as my garden. The first one I’d ever had. But it was really just a space with terracotta tiles on the floor and a few potted plants. A lemon tree, a lime, a vine that grew slowly, supported by the stone wall, and a few red and pink geraniums. The large, mature bougainvillea didn’t quite belong, I thought, although it filled the entire left part of the terrace with its purple splendour. It had its roots beneath the flagstones in the street below, and I never considered it my responsibility. How it had grown to such height and width was a mystery. Its extravagant blossoms overshadowed the modest efforts of the other plants. I never watered it, but it didn’t seem to matter. It must have found its own source of nourishment somewhere deep below.

I looked up to the sky and raised my hand to count the number of fingers between the sun and the ridge of the hills. At least an hour of daylight left. That would make it around five thirty, and the bus wasn’t due until just after eight. I had time to finish the day’s gardening if I got on with it straightaway. Water the plants, pick up dry leaves and twigs, sweep the floor and fold the sun chairs. But I remained seated.

I heard the girl call good-bye from downstairs, then the sound of the front door opening and closing, followed by the gate to the alleyway, and finally the sound of her rapid, light steps on the street below.

The house was mine again.

I stood up and went downstairs. The kitchen appeared very dark after the intense light on the terrace. I poured myself a glass of cold white wine and brought it with me upstairs.

It wasn’t just the plants on the terrace that needed care; the house itself also felt like a living organism that needed me. Or per- haps it was I who needed the house. It embraced me and protected me. It seemed to strive towards the sun, just like the plants did. And perhaps that was why I too lived up there, close to the sun. Far below, where the bougainvillea had its roots, were the bedrooms, always cool and in semi-darkness, even when I opened the shutters. The kitchen and dining room on the entrance floor also stayed cool, even in the summer, and I found this comforting somehow. It was hard to imagine what it would feel like in the winter.

Ever since I’d first arrived, I’d slept with the curtains open. I learned how to determine the time of day with only a quick glance. I liked that, and by now I trusted my assessment of the light more than I had ever trusted a watch. I saw the most beautiful sunrises and night skies of my life, and I never tired of gazing out over the bay below, where the surface of the sea constantly shifted colour and mood. The white buildings climbed up the slope from the harbour, forming a kind of amphitheatre, and beyond them the crest of the steep hills constituted a protective wall. I loved the view the most like this, at the end of the day.

This would be my first complete year in the house. My first winter. I no longer had any other home, although I wasn’t sure I could count on being allowed to renew the lease at the end of the year or would be able to buy the house. But I thought no further than the end of the year. Wood was stacked by the fireplace in the dining room, so I assumed it might get cold eventually. But the sea was still swimmable and the sun warm.

I sat down on the wooden bench at the table and took a sip of wine. I drank too much. Too much in comparison to what? I twirled the glass in my hand and watched the condensation become tears that fell on my fingers. There wasn’t really any need for me to compare myself with anything or anybody. As long as I was alone in the house, all comparisons were meaningless. Here there were no rules or regulations. Whether I drank too much could only be measured by how I felt. And apart from the hot knot in my stomach, I felt fine. This too without comparison. Fine for me. Fine for now.

I put the glass down and placed my hands on either side of  it. They were strong hands, though not exactly beautiful.    I hadn’t been given the long, narrow fingers with beautifully shaped nails or, for that matter, the attractive slim legs. Or those dainty feet. Or the blonde hair. Strangely, this had never bothered me. Rather the opposite, really. I couldn’t remember ever wanting it to be different. I realised that Emma had inherited Mother’s beauty, of course. That ethereal quality. The self-evident femininity. An attractive fragility, perhaps also a kind of vulnerability. I honestly couldn’t recall ever having envied her anything in that respect.

But, then, initially I wasn’t alone. Back then, when I had Amanda, I saw my reflection in Amanda and I liked what I saw.

Emma could keep her beauty.

Abruptly, I felt the anxiety rise again. Anxiety? No, it was more than that. It was dread. Panic really. I quickly took a large sip of wine. Perhaps I ought to take a shower? Change into something fresh? I looked down at the striped cotton dress I was wearing. It had been a long time since I had ironed my clothes. Just as I had dropped many other chores and routines. Peeled away most of them. No, that wasn’t really what had happened. It hadn’t been a conscious decision. Rather, there had been a time when even the simplest practical chore had felt completely overwhelming. And that was when I abandoned most things. And lost a hold on my life.

I felt a small stab of something I couldn’t quite define. Grief perhaps? Or bitterness? I hoped it wasn’t the latter. Grief was acceptable. That old, inexhaustible grief that survived inside me. I could live with that. I might even need it in order to survive. Then, on top of it, the newer, not-yet-set grief. I nurtured that one. But bitterness has always scared me. I inspected my nails again and realised I couldn’t even remember when I had last painted them. Or when I had worn makeup. I cut my own hair and usually wore it held back with a clasp. Now I removed the clasp and shook out my hair. A shower, definitely.

There was still plenty of time.

I stood under the lukewarm water, with my eyes closed. I knew exactly when it had seized me, this mad impulse. I could see us standing there, Emma and I. A few stray guests lingered, but the reception was over.

The two of us, as if inside a bubble. It felt strange. I had never experienced a sense of belonging with Emma. Not even when we were children. But I remember that I stopped in my tracks, a pile of dirty dishes in my hands, and looked at her.

“Would you like to come and visit, Emma? Stay with me in my house in Spain?”

She threw me a quick glance, with those large, pale eyes of hers a little red on the rims. She looked surprised, but she made no immediate response, just carried on picking up cutlery and scrunched napkins from the table. When her hands were full, she turned and disappeared into the kitchen.

“It would be nice if you’d come,” I said when she returned, trying to make it sound as if I didn’t really care too much either way. But there was something inside me that just had to say it, regardless. I do remember that I regretted the words as soon as they passed my lips.

“Oh, I don’t know, Maria,” she said eventually, without looking up.

I shrugged, as if  it made no difference whatsoever to me.

And I realised I was relieved.

“It’s just a bit much right now . . .” She left the sentence unfin- ished. “Perhaps later. If the invitation still stands. Sometime later.” “Later” became almost two years. And by then I had for-

gotten my strange impulse. So much had happened in the interim. Now, as I tried to think back and understand why I had blurted out that invitation, I reluctantly had to acknowledge that I might have been driven by a wish to show off. To flaunt my new life. Strut my happiness.

Mother always used to say that you mustn’t allow yourself to be happy. Or at least not admit it, not to yourself. And certainly not to other people. Never show it. To do that is to challenge the powers and inevitably leads to catastrophe. If that is true, Mother must certainly have been safe. I can’t remember ever seeing her happy. As for me, in spite of not really wanting to, I became cautious too. Somehow it became ingrained in me. But right at that moment, then, when I stood facing Emma after Mother’s funeral, strangely, I was happy. And for a moment I allowed myself to acknowledge that I was. Mother would be proven right, of course.

Emma was visibly affected by the occasion. She cried through the entire funeral ceremony. And now, as she bent forward and continued to collect plates and glasses from the table, I noticed tears falling again. I had not cried at all. I was comfortably cocooned in my happiness. Not because Mother was dead, but because of the future I so arrogantly took for granted. The funeral wasn’t a particularly shattering one. Mother’s death was no surprise. We had been given time to prepare, and everything had been done exactly in accordance with Mother’s wishes. Lots of music, the kind she liked. French chansons well performed by a young singer and a man with an accordion. But it was a celebration that should have happened earlier. And under other circumstances. Before the guest of honour had disappeared. As it was, it felt like an empty gesture, meaningless and a little awkward. We all played our parts, particularly Emma and I. With Mother hovering over us. Emma beautiful and suitably sad. I remember reflecting that she was in her element at the funeral. She mingled with the guests with just the right amount of restrained grief. She had been born with that natural elegance about her. At home, elegance had certainly not been nurtured. Not much else either. You had what you were born with. Anything further, you had to find on your own elsewhere. Or manage without.

I turned off the water and stepped onto the cool, polished concrete floor and dried myself slowly and carefully. Even though I hadn’t gained weight, and I really didn’t think I had, it was as if the flesh was in a process of slow redistribution. I stood facing the mirror and stretched, straightened my back, and pulled in my chin. I had just turned forty-eight. All I could be certain of was that aging would progress, presumably at an increasing pace. As long as I refrained from comparing myself with my young self, or with someone else, the process could be allowed its course.

But then there was Emma.

I lifted first one arm, then the other, and regarded myself in the mirror. It felt as if it had been a long time since I had done so. And it felt as if the distance between me and my image had increased, as though we were slowly separating. I applied deodorant. Brushed my teeth. Why, I have no idea. I was soon to have another glass of wine. I combed my hair and quickly pulled on clean clothes. Jeans and a striped shirt. Then I took a step back and watched myself. And I realised that there I was, doing exactly what I shouldn’t. I compared myself with my younger self. With Mother. And mostly with Emma. She was forty-two. Six years younger than me.

It had seemed a big difference when Emma first entered my life. Then, as we grew older, it hadn’t seemed much at all. Now, suddenly, it again felt like a considerable difference.

Six years earlier I had been happy.

I had heard nothing from Emma after the funeral. Not that I had expected it. I hadn’t been in touch either. Our contact had always been sporadic, at best. Even during the last few months of Mother’s life, I had not called very often. And when Emma and I talked, it rarely developed into a proper conversation. I asked what I thought I should ask. Extended offers to help financially. Offers that were nevertheless never taken up. Somehow it felt like Mother’s illness was Emma’s responsibility and only hers. Whether this was what I made myself believe because I felt guilty or was a fact, I am not sure. Emma never complained, never asked for anything. I think I was relieved. What little contact we had, during those last few months before the funeral, ceased completely afterwards. It wasn’t that Mother had been a link that held us together, exactly, but her physical presence might have provided a tangible reminder that we were related. Afterwards, there was nothing left, and I hardly gave a thought to my sister or her life.

So Emma’s email arrived as a complete surprise.

Maria, I am not sure if you remember that you invited me to visit you in Spain. If the invitation still stands, I would very much like to come. Would sometime in October suit?

E

That was all. But it was just right. If she had written more, asked about my health or added a greeting of some kind, I would have reacted differently and probably not in a good way. This short, neutral message was manageable. It felt genuine and therefore difficult to dismiss. So I replied, yes, that would be just fine. Anytime in October.

Now it was the fourteenth. And Emma was on her way.

When I returned to the terrace with my refilled glass, the sun was perched on the crest of the hills above the harbour. The sky was orange along the black silhouette, only to fade into pink and then gradually darken further up. The town itself was already in semi-darkness. It was that uncertain moment when the day gives in and lets the night take over. To me, the best time of day.

I lingered, but eventually I couldn’t defer it any longer. It was time to leave.

I tried to take a deep breath in the cooling evening air as I closed the front door behind me. But my insides seemed to have contracted, and it felt as if I couldn’t fill my lungs properly.

As I came down the stone steps on my way to the harbour, I spotted Pau. Barefoot and wearing shorts, he stood in the doorway of his house, framed by the bright-blue wooden trim. He was smoking and had his eyes on a row of pulled-up stone slabs at his feet. When he heard me, he looked up and smiled.

“Bona tarda, Maria. Here I am trying to decide if I should have a go at fixing the drain now or if I should leave it till tomorrow and go upstairs and have my evening drink on the terrace. What do you think?”

“Good evening,” I said. I still couldn’t make myself try even the simplest phrases in Catalan, not even those I actually knew. “It will soon be completely dark. Perhaps you had better leave it for tomorrow?”

He nodded, stuck the cigarette between his lips, and bent down and lifted one of the slabs and placed it, leaning, against the wall.

“Good advice, thank you. I’ll leave it till tomorrow. I’ll just move these out of the way for now. Can’t have people stumbling on them in the dark.” He smiled again, and his teeth shone white in the sudden blackness as the last rays of sun had disappeared behind his house.

“I’m on my way to meet my sister at the bus terminal,” I said. I felt as if I had to say something. We usually exchanged a few words when we happened to meet, which was most evenings when I passed his house on the way to have dinner. It never evolved into a proper conversation. But for some reason, I felt compelled to tell him about Emma’s visit. Perhaps I said it more to myself than to him. As if I tried to make Emma’s visit into something entirely normal and natural by mentioning it casually, in passing.

“Nice! You will have company for a while. You must be looking forward to that.” We waved good-bye, and he continued his work while I carried on down the stairs to the harbour.

I walked slowly, tempted to stop and sit down at one of the cafés. But it was too late, so I carried on towards the bus terminal. The large new terminal was deserted, and the ticket office looked closed. I sat down on one of the benches but soon stood up again. I just couldn’t sit still.

The bus turned into the terminal on time and parked in front of me. The doors opened with a sigh, and the covers to the baggage compartment unfolded like the wings of a giant beetle. There were just a few pieces of luggage inside. A young man jumped off, through the front doors, and picked up a backpack and a bag, leaving only a suitcase.

Then I caught sight of her. She treaded the steps so cautiously, as if hesitant about how to do it. It looked strange. She moved like an old person. Also, her hair was cut very short. I couldn’t remember her ever wearing it so short. I felt unpleasantly affected by both observations. When I waved in greeting, she gave me a nod in response. But not even a shadow of a smile. I stepped forward and pulled out what I assumed must be her suitcase.

“Welcome,” I said. But when I went to give her a hug, she took a step back, stopping me with a gesture.

“Don’t come too close. I was sick for the last part of the trip. I had no idea the road would be so winding. I would have taken a pill had I known.”

Now I noticed how pale she was. I couldn’t think of anything to say. Was I expected to apologise for the state of the road?

“It’s not far. I hope you’ll be okay walking,” was what I managed eventually.

“Of course. It’ll be nice to get some fresh air. I’ll be fine.”

I pulled her suitcase behind me, and she made no attempt to take it from me. When we reached the town square, I stopped.

“There, up there, is where the house is,” I said, pointing. “Not far at all. But perhaps we should have a bite to eat? Or would you rather go straight home?”

She didn’t respond at first, just stood with her eyes on the sea ahead.

“It’s so beautiful,” she said quietly. “Just as I imagined it.” “Even more beautiful in daylight,” I said. “You’ll see to-morrow. What do you say? Shall we sit down at one of the places here?” I pointed to the row of small restaurants and bars that lined the square.

She nodded. “Yes, it might be good for me to have something to eat.”

We entered a tapas place where I often had my solitary dinners. And I felt a stab of that same stinginess at having to share what I considered mine. As if my enjoyment of the place would somehow be ruined if I shared it with Emma. I had been coming there more or less regularly, and the staff  knew me by name, as I knew them. I usually sat at a table in the corner, by the window, and often I brought something to read. They left me undisturbed for as long as I liked. Purposely, I asked for another table when Adriana met us with a smile.

We sat down. And the moment arrived when we had to face each other.

“Thank you for letting me come. I really appreciate it.” “Yes, but I have to admit that I had forgotten the invitation.

It was such a long time ago.” I realised how this sounded.

She nodded. “Yes, and so much has happened in between.

I hope you would have told me if it didn’t suit.”

“A lot has happened here too, Emma,” I said, avoiding her gaze.

“Your partner, is he not here?”

A perfectly natural question. Expected too, and yet it cut straight through my prepared defence. I couldn’t even begin to consider a response.

“No, it’s just me.” It was all I could manage. “Shall we take a look at the menu?”

We placed our orders, and I suppose we managed some kind of stilted conversation, but I have no recollection about what. I was no longer hungry. But as soon as the wine arrived, I took a gulp.

“And Olof ? He’s not travelling with you?”

Emma lifted her gaze and regarded me with what looked like an almost pleading expression. For a moment, I thought her eyes were brimming with tears, but it could have been the light from the flickering candle on the table. She shook her head.

“No, I’ve been visiting a friend who has a house near Avignon. That’s why I sent you that email. I realised it wasn’t far from here. And the train connections are excellent, too.”

An obvious evasive manoeuvre. She was better at it than I was. As she had always been. Already as a child, Emma used to paint beautiful backdrops.

We picked at the food on the plates between us, neither of us with much enthusiasm.

“So you live here permanently now?”

I shrugged. “Not exactly. But I don’t live anywhere else either. I suppose you could say that this is the most homelike place I have. I try to take one day at a time. It’s peaceful here and I take the odd job every now and then. Jobs I can do from here. I’ll see what to do about the future in due course.”

“So you’re renting? I thought you had bought a house here. It sounded as if you had when you invited me to come and stay.”

I stuck some food in my mouth and took my time to chew and swallow.

“I’m thinking about it. But I’m renting for now.”

This will be awful, I thought. This mutual prodding into the other’s secret hiding places. Not that I was interested in Emma’s private life. But I had to say something to avert her questions.

“How are the children?”

She started, as if I had said something unexpected. Then she cleared her throat.

“Fine, just fine, as far as I know.”

There was a time when I knew Emma’s children. Especially Anna, her eldest. One summer when Anna was nine or ten we spent a couple of weeks together. It was a long time since I had given any thought to those weeks. I had come back to Sweden for a summer holiday, for once. Then, just like now, I had been surprised to hear from Emma. Even more surprised when she asked if I would consider having Anna for a couple of weeks. I never really had an explanation as to why, not at the time, and not later. I knew nothing about Emma’s married life. Not what it really was like. After Emma and Olof married, we only saw each other occasionally, at their home. The occassional Christmas Eve and birthday, big ones and cause for major celebration. Not mine, certainly not mine. But Mother’s, I think. And perhaps Emma’s. Her thirtieth, possibly. Mother’s sixtieth. I never felt  I belonged at their parties. And I never asked any of them to visit me in London. I didn’t feel as if we knew each other at all. Or rather, in a sense I knew Emma, in a way. And Olof. But only as individuals, not as a couple. It was probably my fault. The departing person is responsible for staying in touch. Be that as it may, the fact was that I knew nothing about Emma and Olof together. Not much about them as individuals either, really. Emma insisted on maintaining a facade of us as a happy extended family that celebrated important occasions together. They had a beautiful, generous home, and Emma was an ambitious hostess. As for me, I had to mobilise all the strength I was capable of in order to endure her lavish offerings. And in order to socialise naturally with Olof.

But from the moment I collected Anna that sunny June morning, she and I were the best of friends. It amazed me. I have no children of my own. Children have never really interested me.

Not any more than adults do. I don’t like children just because they are children, but I like some children because they are interesting human beings. And Anna captured my heart.

She resembled Emma, absolutely. Beautiful, ethereal, like  a little fairy. Blonde and almost translucent. But that was just the surface. Underneath, there was so much that I recognised from myself. Good and bad. So we had our battles during those weeks. And our remarkable high points. Anna learned to dive from the landing. The house I had rented in the archipelago was well equipped, and we had our own little dinghy. So when she had mastered diving from the landing, we rowed to a small islet where there was a high, rounded rock, about six or seven metres high, with deep water below. I watched her knees shake, but then she threw herself into the water without a word. I could feel her apprehension before, as well as her triumph when she had conquered it. I could identify with her, and it felt like a small victory for me too. Evenings, we played chess. As soon as she learned how the pieces moved, she quickly became a strong opponent. She hated losing, and she never gave up. I think I began to love her then.

But over the years that followed, I only saw her sporadically. Until she came to see me in London. She was seventeen then. I hadn’t been in touch with her, or with Emma, for a long time, so this meeting was unexpected. But that’s what our family is like. Small, sudden bursts of contact, and then silence for years.

I looked up at Emma. I didn’t understand what she meant by “as far as I know”, but I didn’t want to ask. So I let it pass without comment.

“And  Olof, how is he?”

For a moment she stared at me, and I thought she looked frightened. Then she looked down and groped for her wine glass. She took several large gulps, drank as if it were water. When she put the glass back, it fell over and wine spilled out over the table.

“Forgive me. I’m so sorry.” Emma put her hand over her mouth, and then I was sure there were tears in her eyes. “I’m so clumsy.” She was crying audibly.

“Don’t worry. It’s nothing,” I said, and lifted the glass. Adriana came running, carrying a cloth. But before wiping the table, she leaned down over Emma.

“Dip your finger in the wine and touch your forehead.” Her English was very good, but Emma stared at her, as if not understanding. “It’s bad luck to spill your wine, but if you rub a little of it on your forehead, you turn the bad luck into good luck.”

She looked encouragingly at Emma, who hesitantly dipped her finger in the wine and ran it across her forehead.

“There. All is well again,” Adriana said, and started to wipe the table. She replaced the tablecloth and made sure all was tidy before she filled Emma’s glass. It took only a moment.

But Emma was weeping uncontrollably.

I sat in silence, unsure what to do or say. I gave her the time she needed.

“Olof  has left me.”

She sat hunched in her chair, and when she again stretched out her hand to pick up the wine glass, it looked as if she were searching for something to hold on to so as not to collapse completely.

I was stunned. Any questions I might have asked seemed impossible. Any words of comfort, or at least empathy, that I should have been able to produce escaped me. So I lifted my glass and stretched it cautiously across the table.

“We don’t need to talk about it now, Emma. We don’t need to talk about it at all. You’ve had a long day. Let’s finish the wine and then go back to the house.” Emma lifted her glass, and I raised mine and we let them touch quietly.

I signalled to Adriana that we wanted the bill.

We stepped inside, and I closed the door behind us. Emma stopped and stood with her arms crossed over her chest, embrac- ing herself as if cold. For a moment, standing side by side, it felt as if I were the taller one. This couldn’t be right. Emma was five centimetres taller; I knew that for sure. Mother had often pointed it out. I glanced at Emma, but she was looking straight ahead, so I saw her face in profile. She was as beautiful as always, but in some inexplicable way this didn’t make the impression on me it had in the past. I wasn’t sure I liked the change. There is a kind of reassurance in things remaining the same.

“I thought you could sleep in here.” I pointed towards the master bedroom beyond the dining room. “I just have to make the bed. The girl who cleans for me should have been here today, but she never showed up.”

I opened the bedroom door and pulled her suitcase inside. I heard her following behind me as I opened one of the windows. “You have to make sure the shutters are secured when open,

so the wind doesn’t catch them. There is no wind right now, but it rises suddenly here.”

Emma sank down on the edge of the bed. Again it struck me that she moved so slowly and with such deliberation. Emma who used to tread so lightly. Almost weightless. Now it was as if she could hardly lift her feet. But perhaps she was just tired.

“I’ll just pop down and get the bed linen and towels.”

So another sudden impulse of mine, I thought, as I walked down the stairs. One with possible consequences. Why had I decided to give her the master bedroom after all? I shook my head. I would probably come to regret this one too.

She helped me make the large double bed, and then I left her to have a shower and unpack. Meanwhile, I put cheese and fruit on a tray and took a bottle of wine from the fridge. Upstairs, on the terrace, I placed the tray on the table and sat down without turning on the lights. The sky slowly filled with stars, more and more the longer I kept my eyes on the black sky. It was as if new layers slowly emerged, as if I dived deeper and deeper into the darkness.

There were no sounds from downstairs. Eventually, I went to see what was taking Emma so long. I knocked on her door and could hear her move inside the room.

“I brought some fruit and cheese upstairs,” I said to the closed door. “Come and join me on the terrace for a little while if you like.”

I waited, and finally she opened the door. She wore a sheer white dressing gown and had woollen socks on her feet. She held the top of the gown together, and again I got the impression she was cold.

“I’m not dressed, Maria.” I couldn’t help but laugh.

“Doesn’t matter here. You can come naked if you like. Nobody will see us up there. We have a stunning view. We’re higher up than almost anyone else.”

It looked like she tried a little smile.

“Okay, then, for a little while,” she said, and followed me up the stairs.

I got us blankets from the lounge, and we wrapped ourselves in them.

“A  glass of wine?”

She nodded and I poured. We sat in silence, and the sound of voices occasionally drifted up from the night life along the harbour front, as did the constant murmur of the sea. I twirled the glass in my hand. Then I turned to Emma.

“I had it in mind to write and let you know that I was very grateful to you for taking care of everything when Mother died,” I said. “But somehow I never got around to doing it. So I’m telling you now. I know it was a huge effort. And I don’t mean just the funeral. The time before. Most of all that. All of it. All the time.”

It surprised me that the words emerged so naturally. She didn’t respond.

And that was just as it should be.

I  looked up  at  the stars again and took a  deep breath.

Perhaps we would get through this after all.