A Question Mark is Half a Heart Page 14

  ‘I don’t want to.’

  ‘You have to.’

  He hangs up, and all is quiet again. Elin sits and stares at the phone in her hand, and when the train rolls into the station she stays on the bench. She can’t make herself get on. The train leaves the platform and the numbers on the departure board change. Another hour until the next one. She flicks through the photos she took on the farm. Tightly cropped, they show a different place to the one she just visited. She zooms in and out with her fingers. Grass, gravel, a sheep’s hooves, her own bare feet, a kitten in the high grass.

  Joe calls, his face smiling at her from the screen. She lets it ring, looking at his unruly hair and broad grin in the black-and-white photo she took. The ringing stops and the face fades and vanishes, replaced by a photo of a fence. Texts start to pop up.

  We have to talk about the clothes. The pink dress doesn’t work. They want a black one. That means different light and we have to talk about it. Call me.

  Black. She sighs. So many photos over the years, so many anxious, black-clad people. Another message.

  Please call me. I have to sleep now. I can’t stay awake any longer.

  His pleading tone wears her down and she calls him. They speak for a long time, long enough that the train finally comes. She hangs up, gets on, and settles on the PVC seat. Before she closes her eyes she writes a message to Sam.

  ♥ you.

  The emoji heart glows red and warm and rounded. The train is cold, chilly night air streaming in through gaps in the windows, and she pulls her sweater tighter around her shoulders and shivers, exhausted. There’s no reply. She doesn’t get a heart back. Only silence.

  THEN

  HEIVIDE, GOTLAND, 1982

  There was hardly space for Elin on the little chair she’d built from branches and planks all those years ago. The seat was too narrow for her broad hips. She sat in it anyway, although the juniper-wood armrests cut into her legs, making her buttocks and thighs bulge out over the sides. The rough surface chafed her skin through thick denim. She held three stones in her hand, the number of children she’d have one day. Three of a kind. She had a piece of dried-up yellow grass clenched between her molars, and when she sucked on it the sweet taste of grass was mixed with her saliva.

  She got up and leaned against the wall of the house, lifting one thigh at a time to get circulation back into her numb legs.

  ‘Is it hurting you? Fatty.’ Fredrik lay in front of her, stretched out on the ground with his feet up against a tree trunk. Two towels hung drying on a branch, one pink, one blue.

  ‘It’s too hot,’ she sighed. ‘I’m going to die. I wish a few clouds would blow in from the sea.’

  ‘Don’t wish too hard. Soon it’ll be autumn and it’ll be too cold to swim. Then I’ll have to move back to Mama’s in Visby.’

  ‘I love it when you’re my brother. I wish I could move too. I miss home.’

  ‘You are home!’ he said.

  ‘I mean back here. I want to live here again.’

  ‘Do you really?’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Were you happier here? All of you? Was Lasse a better papa to you than my dad?’

  Elin didn’t acknowledge his question. She turned and peered in through the window, on tiptoes. No one had lived there since they’d moved to Grinde’s. Fredrik and his mama had moved out, Marianne and all the children had moved in and they’d become siblings. Step-siblings.

  The house looked just the same as the day they’d left it, apart from the layers of dust and cobwebs. No one wanted to buy it, so it stood there abandoned, the For Sale sign like an eternal ornament on the lawn. Elin beckoned him.

  ‘Come on, I want to show you something.’

  He stood close behind her, rested his chin on her shoulder and looked in.

  ‘What?’ he asked impatiently.

  ‘Can you see the kitchen table in there?’

  Fredrik nodded. His chin dug sharply into her shoulder and she cried out in pain as he wiggled it back and forth.

  ‘Ow, stop it! Can you see all those black marks?’

  He nodded again, dug his chin in even harder. She pushed him away.

  ‘Give over! Why are you always starting fights? I want to tell you something important.’

  Elin pulled her towel down and hung it round her neck, then set off running towards the sea. Barefoot, she stepped gracefully between the pine cones and the stones. Fredrik ran after her.

  ‘Wait! I saw them, the black spots. What is it you want to tell me?’ he called. He caught up with her at last, grabbed her arm and pulled her towards him so they both fell over and landed among the flowers along the roadside ditch. They lay there quietly a while, side by side, watching thin streaks of cloud trail across the deep blue.

  ‘Actually, I always wondered …’ she began, then stopped.

  Fredrik held up his finger and made small movements in the air, as though he was sticking little dots onto the sky.

  ‘Ah, it was nothing,’ she continued. ‘I just remembered something, a memory from when we lived there. You know, when everything was normal.’

  ‘Which you wanted to tell me?’

  ‘I did, yeah, but then you wounded me with your beardy little chin.’

  ‘Give over, I’m not beardy.’

  ‘Sure you are.’ Elin reached over and stroked his chin. ‘I can see you’ve started shaving.’

  ‘Well, so what? Come on, let’s swim. It’s too hot lying here.’

  He got up and pulled Elin up, and she brushed pine needles and bits of grass off his back. They ran the rest of the way to the sea, pulling their clothes off as they went and diving in. The water was pale green and lukewarm, the sand on the bottom striped by the motions of the waves. They dived down, again and again, so deep their heads almost hit the bottom. Elin did a handstand and Fredrik pushed her over.

  When they finally left the water they lay on the sun-warmed sand to dry, and Elin’s wet hair grew white from the fine grains of sand.

  ‘Mama says we should enjoy it now, while we’re young. Because afterwards everything goes to hell.’

  ‘And what do you think about that?’ Fredrik threw a pebble at her stomach.

  Elin jumped and picked up the stone, which was shaped like a heart. She held it tightly in her hand.

  ‘It’s probably true. What do I know? Being a grown-up doesn’t seem that fun. Not here anyway.’

  ‘Oh, come on. We’ll always have a good time, you and me. Even when we’re adults. We’re smart enough to make sure of it.’

  ‘Well, I’m going to be famous and move away from here. I just know it. And rich.’ Elin nodded firmly.

  ‘Famous!’ Fredrik burst out laughing. ‘What are you going to be, a pop star? How are you going to do that?’

  Still laughing, he scooped up a handful of sand to throw at her. Elin fell silent and locked up her dream inside herself, embarrassed.

  Fredrik was balancing on some boulders by the water’s edge, jumping from one to the next with his arms out. Elin watched him. His back was darkly tanned, his hair cut short on top and long at his neck, with sun-bleached ends. She lay on her stomach on a towel and dug her fingers into the warm sand. Beyond Fredrik the glittering sea seemed endless. His arms and legs were covered with bruises and grazes from working in the fields. Micke treated the summer holidays like a labour camp.

  Other people rarely found their little beach. It was remote, hidden behind high cliffs and with boulders to climb over to get to it. But nestled between the stones was a narrow open stretch of sand and limestone slabs, the perfect size for two people.

  Fredrik bent down and splashed her, and the cold droplets startled her.

  ‘Stop throwing things at me all the time,’ she complained.

  Fredrik took a couple of steps out to where the waves were cresting and allowed seawater to wash over him. When he stood up again droplets flew out around him, dancing and glistening in the light. He called out to her and then dived in again, s
triking out towards the horizon. With a few powerful strokes he was far out. Elin stood and followed him. Her long brown hair was loose and she was wearing nothing but little yellow bikini bottoms. As she ran out into the water the flat rocks were smooth beneath her feet, and as soon as the water reached her thighs she dived in, her hair fanning out around her head.

  ‘Come back!’ she called after Fredrik when he came up to the surface. ‘Watch out for the drop, the currents are strong!’

  He turned onto his back and thrashed his legs so that great cascades of water rose like a fountain above the water’s surface. They swam together, with strong, rapid strokes. It turned into a competition. Now and then Fredrik plunged down, then suddenly popped up somewhere else – right in front of her, behind her, to one side. Each time he startled her she shouted and splashed him. When he dived down and tried to grab her legs, she kicked out at him, laughing and begging him to stop.

  Shivering, they returned at last to the beach and the remaining dry towel. Elin pulled at it so they both had a little bit to lie on, though it was hardly big enough for their heads and backs. Their bottoms and legs had to make do with the hot sand. Beads of water shone like silver on their tanned bodies.

  Fredrik poured sand onto her stomach.

  ‘Stop it!’ She batted away his hand.

  ‘You’ve got breasts.’

  Elin flinched and covered her chest with one arm.

  ‘I have not.’

  ‘Sure you have.’

  ‘Have not.’

  ‘Have too.’

  She felt for her t-shirt with the other hand, sat up and quickly pulled it over her head. Small bumps were still visible under the thin cotton fabric. They felt like hard balls and they hurt, so she had to massage them each night before going to sleep.

  ‘Can I touch them?’

  Fredrik reached a hand out, but she pulled back.

  ‘Are you stupid or something?’

  ‘I just want to see what they feel like. Please. I’ve never touched a breast before.’

  ‘I told you, they’re not breasts.’

  ‘You’re thirteen. They’re breasts. Everyone gets them. I wonder what yours are going to be like. I bet they’ll be big and bouncy, just like Aina’s were.’

  ‘Shut up!’

  Fredrik reached out again, and this time she didn’t stop him. He gently stroked his thumb over one of the buds. She winced.

  ‘Does it hurt?’

  He sounded surprised. She nodded and tugged at her t-shirt to make it baggier. He leaned forward and gave her a quick kiss on the cheek, his breath warm on her skin.

  ‘Sorry,’ he whispered.

  Jumping up, Elin ran towards the rocks to start the climb back. He ran after her and stopped her by grabbing hold of one of her bare feet.

  ‘Stay here. It’s nice, you look really nice.’

  ‘Shut up, I said.’

  ‘They’re only breasts. That’s just the way it is. There’s nothing wrong with it.’

  She smiled at him. That’s just the way it is. That was the way he always thought. About everything, even when things really weren’t right. She sat down and let her legs dangle off the boulder she’d just climbed.

  ‘Yes there is. It means we’re becoming adults,’ she said seriously.

  Elin held both hands out in front of her, palms upwards. Once soft and white, they had grown calloused and discoloured, with thick yellowish-grey lumps at each finger joint. When she stroked her thumb over them they felt hard, the surface rough like sandpaper. She turned her hands over and inspected the backs instead, letting them rest on her lap. Her nails were short, gnawed right down to the quick, and the backs of her hands were so tanned the fine hairs shimmered white. She took the glass of milk that stood before her on the kitchen table, and emptied it in one go, gulping greedily.

  Marianne sat down beside her. Coffee was dripping through the filter on the counter. She rested her own hands on the table, one on top of the other. They were traced with thick, dark purple veins, and they looked swollen. Elin reached over and ran her index finger over the back of her mother’s hand. It was dry and rough, the skin on her fingertips cracked.

  ‘That must hurt,’ she said.

  Marianne pulled her hands away, stood up and poured coffee from the half-filled jug into a blue clay mug. There was a hiss as a few drops landed straight on the hot plate. Gingerly, she took a sip, and then leaned against the kitchen counter. Elin was doodling on an envelope, forming a delicate chain of daisies without lifting the pen.

  ‘Don’t spoil it,’ said Marianne.

  She moved the envelope away from Elin, poured the rest of her coffee into the sink, and walked out towards the barn again.

  ‘Come on, you too. We’ve got a lot left to do out there.’

  On the table there was a vase filled with blue, pink, and yellow wild flowers Edvin had picked at Marianne’s request. She always wanted those colours. She said blue stood for the peace she was always seeking. Yellow for joy and laughter. Pink for love. Chicory, clover, and lady’s bedstraw. There were different flowers each time, but she was dead set on the colours, and each had to be there in the bouquet.

  Elin eyed the pile of papers where the envelope had landed. It had been carefully slit open with a letter opener. A few pink petals had floated down onto it, and it was dappled with pollen from the bouquet. She picked it up again, blew the surface clean and turned it over. She stared at the handwriting that had written Marianne’s name and address, the old address. It couldn’t be …?

  ‘Come on then! I need help with the hay bales!’ Marianne called from outside. Elin stuffed the letter into the side pocket of her work trousers, stood up and went out to her. The goats had become their project when they’d moved to the farm. The goats and their cheese were meant to be the farm’s new cash cow under Marianne’s leadership. But right from the start they ran into problems. The goats were there, ready to be milked, but there was no equipment: the milk needed to be pasteurised and made into cheese, and the finished cheese had to be packaged. Marianne had used Aina’s money for the investments, and Elin had seen the big withdrawals listed in the bankbook.

  The goats bleated welcomingly as Elin turned the heavy iron key and opened the door. She took the pitchfork and heaped on a little more hay, they gathered eagerly around the feeding rack and all was quiet again. One goat was trying to get her attention, snapping at her trousers and stepping on her feet. Dairy goats were always hungry. She patted it quickly on the head, but then withdrew. The goats were used to people, used to her, but far from tame.

  Marianne was efficiently mucking out the pens. Elin swapped her pitchfork for a spade and went to join her. They worked side by side in silence. Marianne looked tired. The early mornings on the farm had put thick, wrinkly bags under her eyes. She didn’t wear those pretty dresses any more, the ones she’d bought with Aina’s money when they were still happy. Now she wore plain cotton tops, spattered with muck, and heavy work trousers. Her hair was gathered in a messy knot under a kerchief, to protect it from the worst of the farmyard’s stench. Elin had a matching one.

  When they were finished and Marianne had gone back to the house, Elin sank down into the straw, leaning against the wall of the stall, and pulled out the envelope. The letter was written on a sheet torn from a notepad. The tatty fringe was still attached, a memory of the spiral it had once been attached to. She read.

  Dear Marianne,

  I have something I want to tell you. I want to tell you that I did it for all of your sakes. For you. For the children. I never wanted it to turn out like this, the gun went off by mistake, I never meant to hurt her, just scare her. I didn’t want the family to be split up. Our family. I did it for us, to get a little money. For us. You and me and the children.

  Do you remember when we met? Do you remember how we could never keep our hands off each other? Do you remember how we said it was you and me forever? It was a promise. I’ve never forgotten that. Have you?

  I’ve been
released now. They say I’m not to contact you, but I want you to know. I have a little apartment here in Stockholm, and I have a job. I know you don’t want to see me again. But the children, I really want to see the children. And I’d do anything to get you back. Tell me what I have to do. I’ll come as soon as you ask me, please ask me soon.

  Yours always,

  Lasse

  The handwriting was untidy, as though a child had formed the words with great effort. The letters were mismatched styles, and they sloped in different directions. Her hand shook as she lowered the letter to her knees. He was thinking about them, he was thinking about her. He wasn’t behind bars any more, he was free. She looked at the address again. Didn’t he know they lived at Micke Grinde’s now? Didn’t he know anything about it? How could that be possible? On the back of the envelope was a return address, Tobaksvägen 38, 12357 Farsta. She read it over and over, then she stuffed the letter back into her pocket and ran towards the fields where Fredrik and Micke were working.

  The sign hung lopsidedly in front of the shop. It had come loose at one corner, and it squeaked as the wind took hold of it and swung it to and fro. The chains were brown with rust from the autumn’s rain and the winter’s endless storms. Fredrik stretched up for it, but he couldn’t reach. He climbed onto the fence, balancing with his feet curled around the narrow metal and his hand pressed hard against the building’s front. Elin held his leg steady, but he shook it to make her let go. Gerd peeped out through a crack in the door.

  ‘Don’t fall,’ she implored.

  Fredrik got hold of the chain and managed to secure it again. He jumped down and clapped his hands.

  ‘What would I do without you,’ Gerd smiled. ‘You can certainly get things done, you two. Come in.’

  ‘Can we sit in the stockroom for a while? It’s so hot everywhere.’

  Gerd nodded.

  ‘You know where the biscuits are. I’m guessing that’s why you’re here.’

  Fredrik smiled broadly and nodded. Elin gave Gerd a hug. She smelled strongly of hairspray, the grey curls on her head as stiff as plastic. Gerd stroked her back gently.