47. Marge
MARGE
1986
They were supposed to split up and see one elderly client each, but they’d made a habit of visiting Rita Olsson together. There was some relief in exchanging glances, making it through together, and commiserating afterward. Marge fared better than Anne-Risten, who often got a headache and had to take a painkiller. Now they were waiting for the elevator in silence. They’d heard the ding of the call button elsewhere in the building, but they had beaten the other person by a second. The elevator came down empty and swayed a bit before it stopped, and they stepped inside. As they passed the third floor, Marge saw the outline of a man walking down the stairs.
Rita Olsson’s door was unlocked; she had been forgetful again. Sometimes she walked down to Konsum in the morning to do a bit of shopping. Marge and Anne-Risten liked to joke about what kind of witches’ brew she was gathering ingredients for.
They found her sitting on the floor with her back against one of the table legs.
“Did you fall?” Anne-Risten asked.
Marge didn’t want to touch her; each time she was forced to get close she felt such a strong aversion, so she pulled on latex gloves. Anne-Risten did the same. Other old folk got to feel skin-to-skin contact, they were happy to pat liver-spotted hands or comb out white hair, but when it came to Rita Olsson they always wore gloves.
They each took an arm and resolutely lifted her, got her onto a chair. The stench of urine struck them and Marge made a face.
“We need to get you into the shower,” she said, and was about to pull her up again when the old woman grabbed onto the edge of the table. The gold ring on her left ring finger had grown into her skin and her knuckles went white.
“There was a man here. He hit me.” Her voice was rough and raspy.
“Will you go find some fresh clothes?” Marge nodded at Anne-Risten. “We have to get you into the shower now, you know we don’t have much time to spend here,” she said, facing Rita Olsson.
They always gave her as little time as possible, maybe less than she had the right to, and they never spoke to her unless necessary. She never felt a warming hand on her shoulder, and they didn’t make time for a cup of coffee at the kitchen table.
“I recognized him,” she whispered, looking at Marge with bloodshot eyes.
“Who was it?”
She bit her lip, clearly hesitant. “A Lapp,” she said at last.
The man on the stairs. Marge tried to remember what he’d looked like. The elevator had been moving too fast.
“What happened?”
Rita Olsson lifted her shirt to reveal her belly hanging pale and flabby over the waistband of her skirt. “Can you see anything?”
“No, I can’t.”
Anne-Risten was back, eyeing them with surprise. “What are you doing?”
“She says someone punched her in the stomach.”
“You’re making up stories. I don’t see a thing.” Anne-Risten dropped the pile of clothing onto the kitchen table.
“It hurts here, too.” She touched her flank. “My kidneys.”
“You just fell and wet your pants.”
“I suppose it could be a UTI.” Marge frowned. “But you’ll have to bring that up with second shift, and they can get you an appointment at the clinic tomorrow.”
They took her arms and lifted her up. In the bathroom they rolled down her skirt, tights, and underpants. Left her standing there, naked from the waist down. There was no spoken agreement between them about how to care for her—or more accurately, how not care for her. Marge didn’t think they were violating any regulations. The old woman hadn’t complained yet. They probably weren’t the only ones to keep their distance. Rita Olsson had quite the reputation among the home health aides.
Anne-Risten turned on the shower and, aware that it would be cold at first, let it splash onto those varicose-veined legs. The old woman startled. The water warmed up and Anne-Risten rinsed her off. Marge stood beside them, checking for bruises on her lower body, but she didn’t see any. The shower off, Marge handed her a towel, hoping she would be capable of drying herself.
“You go see to what needs doing and I’ll take care of her.” Marge smiled at Anne-Risten, who whispered a “giitu.”
On with her clothes, and Marge helped Rita Olsson back to the kitchen.
“Why don’t you believe me?” she sniveled. “I even had a nosebleed.”
“Did you wash it off? I don’t see any blood.”
“No, he did.”
“Oh, he did, did he?”
“It was a Lapp.” For an instant, there was a flash of clarity in her gaze. “Yes, a Lapp, like you two. Do you think I can’t hear you and the other one talking Lappish?” she spat.
Was it possible that she recognized them? Marge turned away and wiped the counter with a yellow rag that smelled sour and needed to be replaced. When she reached across the kitchen table, the old woman grabbed her arm.
“I’m scared, don’t you see?” she said.
“Let go of me.” Marge pulled her arm back, heart pounding like when she was little. “If your kidneys still hurt tomorrow, someone will call the doctor,” she managed to say.
It took a few deep breaths to regain her composure. What if she was telling the truth? Was there justice after all? As Marge rinsed the rag, she couldn’t deny that the sight of the old woman’s withered figure and frightened eyes brought her a certain amount of pleasure. It was undignified to have such a lack of sympathy, but still. She would tell Jon-Ante—he needed to hear this. She would describe Housemother’s fear so he could see it in his mind’s eye. And how about his finger? Now she had a reason to bring it up.
Marge no longer let him get away with offering only his left hand for her to hold. She was stubborn, sitting close to him on the sofa and holding his right hand, refusing to make a big deal of his pinkie. Although maybe she should make a big deal of it and apologize. Maybe now she would get the chance.
Marge studied the woman for a moment before leaving the kitchen and going to the living room. They often found old, forgotten sandwiches strewn about, sometimes on the floor under the pilled tan sofa or next to her wedding photo in the dark brown bookcase. The only items on the shelf were that single photo and the Bible; there were minimal decorations, but she did have curtains and houseplants. On the walls were embroidered hangings with Christian messages. Jesus on the gaudy yellow cross looked almost obscene in the dreary room. She didn’t have a TV either, and taken as a whole all of this suggested she was a Laestadian. Had she gone to the meetings to scream and cry and beg forgiveness for her sins? Had she perhaps even cried to one of the many she had tortured? No, Marge couldn’t picture it.
Anne-Risten came into the living room and stopped by the window, which looked out onto Hogalid School.
“You know, Cecilia wanted to go to Hogga with Linda, but I wouldn’t let her. The only kids who go there are hotshots with snobby parents, they all think they’re so special. And now she’s gotten it into her head that she’s going to go study somewhere farther south after high school, just because Linda plans to.” She sighed. “There’s no way. Cecilia should have chosen the social-services program. Like I told her, you can get a job right away after that.”
Marge wanted to let herself fall into this conversation, pretend they weren’t standing in this particular living room, but were instead sitting at Br?nda Tomten and having coffee together. She wanted to talk about Stella, who was such a good singer and who missed áhkku and áddjá and wished they lived in the village instead of in town.
“And things aren’t going very well for her in the social-sciences program, I told her, she should have picked social services. But she didn’t want to end up like me, she’s ashamed that I spend my days wiping old folks’ behinds.”
Anne-Risten had never said a word about what had happened to her daughter on Walpurgis Night. Jon-Ante had been upset when he told Marge about it, determined for her to hear it from him and not think poorly of his actions. This was after they were lying with their limbs tangled in her bed, after he’d put on his clothes but didn’t want to leave. She told him he had to, for Stella’s sake, and that’s when he told her about Cecilia and Anne-Risten. Of course she’d believed him and he’d been relieved. But he didn’t want to talk about his skinned palms and knees, not even afterward, when they were lying forehead to forehead. Another time, he’d said. The scabs on his knees had opened and left tiny bloodstains on her sheets. But she hadn’t wanted to change them right away, just wanted to roll herself up in the covers and bask in his scent for as long as it would last.
“Do you think someone actually was here?” Anne-Risten had changed the subject abruptly, as she often did. “After all, the door wasn’t locked.”
“I don’t know.” Marge glanced over at the kitchen and saw Rita Olsson staring into space with glassy eyes, fingering the fringes of the tablecloth.
“In any case, Niklas is so much easier than Cecilia. Boys are simpler. You’ll see, once Stella is a teenager, and especially once she starts paying attention to her appearance. Cecilia begged for weeks to be allowed to get a perm like Linda’s at Berit and Lasse’s. The priciest salon in town! Of course I couldn’t afford it, so I gave her a Home-anent and it turned out fine.” Anne-Risten paused her chatter and headed for the kitchen. “That’s it for us today.”
Marge followed her, pulling off her gloves. Anne-Risten left without saying goodbye. Marge lingered by the sink, sensing a different atmosphere, a feeling from the past that made the hair on her arms stand up.
“You Lapps are all the same.”
A flash of pain along her right temple. “Do you want me to call an ambulance or the police?” She had to display a certain amount of professionalism, after all, and offer. She wasn’t making it up, Marge was more certain now. Rita Olsson’s mind was clear and there were no obvious signs of dementia. Although perhaps those forgotten sandwiches were an early indication.
The old woman lowered her gaze and shook her head slowly. There was no family to call, either. Her Ture was dead, and they’d never had any children.
Anne-Risten reappeared in the kitchen. “Are you coming?”
“Just go, then. If I die in the night it’s your fault.”
“We’ll make sure you get some diapers,” said Anne-Risten.
“Lapp bastards.”
“And with that we’ll say goodbye for now.” Anne-Risten tugged at Marge and soon they were outside the apartment. Marge pressed the elevator button.
“Did you see the man in the stairwell as we were coming up?”
“No.” Anne-Risten opened the elevator door. “What do you mean, though, do you believe her?”
“Maybe, I don’t know.”
“She’s lying. Did she claim he was Sámi?”
“Yes.”
“Of course she did. You see what she’s trying to do, right? Oh God, now I’ve got another headache. She always gives me a headache.” She rummaged in her coat pocket and took out two Tylenol. “If someone did hit her, it was about time. I could have lent a hand.”