49. Anne-Risten
ANNE-RISTEN
1986
Anne-Risten slowly slipped her hand under Rita Olsson’s hair. It was hanging loose after being washed, and it was almost dry now, thin but long enough to reach her shoulder blades. Time to gather it into the usual bun. The old woman pulled her shoulders up to her ears, a defensive gesture. Anne-Risten waited calmly, her fingertips against her scalp, right where neck became head.
“Well, brush it,” Rita Olsson said, trying to sound stern.
Anne-Risten wound a few strands around her index finger and yanked, felt the slight resistance before the roots came along.
Rita Olsson whined like a dog and raised a hand. Anne-Risten calmly took her wrist and pressed it to the tabletop.
“I’m only doing my job,” she said.
“You are not. You’ve done that before. Soon I won’t have any hair left back there.” She tried to twist away, escape Anne-Risten’s hands.
Anne-Risten let go and sat down across from her, gazing steadily into her eyes and lifting away her own hair just above her right ear. A patch of thin baby fuzz grew there, starting at her temple and extending a few centimeters up. The hair that never grew properly again.
“Do you see this? This is what happens when you tear the hair from the heads of little children.” Anne-Risten didn’t know how she had the courage, was unsure if she was entirely well. She shoved this last thought down. “It never grew back after you yanked it out. You tore out big clumps, do you remember that?”
Rita Olsson recoiled, her eyes wide. Then she put her hands on the table to push off and stand up, but she didn’t have the strength to rise. “I want you to leave,” she said hoarsely.
“But we’re not done here.” Anne-Risten spoke in a low voice, then slapped both palms on the table. The old woman startled, then stared. “My name is Anne-Risten. Not Ann-Kristin, like you always said.”
“This again. Can’t you all just leave me alone?”
Anne-Risten couldn’t respond. Suddenly the aura struck her and the kitchen cupboards danced in waves. A migraine was coming.
“I’m going to report you. You and Nilsa both.”
She heard the words, but as long as her vision was malfunctioning she couldn’t speak. She breathed deeply and closed her eyes.
“I am a Christian woman, do you hear me? A Christian!”
Anne-Risten tentatively opened her eyes again, and her vision was back to normal. “What you did can never be forgiven,” she said, swallowing hard to force down what was coming up.
Rita Olsson tried once more to stand up, but her forearms shook violently and she sank back down with her chin tucked to her chest.
Anne-Risten had just caught up with what Rita Olsson had said. Nilsa? Was he the one who had come to her apartment and assaulted her? Was it really true? Nilsa, and now her, the both of them? It gave her renewed strength.
“Go ahead and call the police. What are you going to tell them? That I brushed your hair too roughly?”
There was a flash in the corner of her vision and it was like being in the eye of a hurricane right before everything grew considerably worse. But she was going to finish this, she had to. For her own sake. For the children’s sake.
“Call the police,” she repeated. “I look forward to telling them how you tortured us. I’m sure the newspapers will be interested too.”
The old witch looked at her with blank eyes, her mouth opening and closing like a fish.
“I bet there will be some bold headlines in Norrl?ndskan . I’m sure lots of us will want to speak out. Everyone who reads it will know we’re talking about you.”
Anne-Risten dug out a creased newspaper page from her back pocket—she’d torn it out of NSD at the library. She smoothed the page on the table in front of them.
“I thought you might have missed Anna’s obituary, so I brought it for you.” She pointed at the last few lines. “You see? Anna the maid has asked all of us nomad school children to gather, and you know what we’re going to talk about.”
She stood up and leaned over the old woman, who shrank back. “I’m going to tell everyone where you are.”
“Do not come here again. Do you hear me?”
“You think God has forgiven you, but you are going to burn in hell. No one will miss you.” She was out of breath, her whole body trembling. But now it had all been said. She went to the front hall, unlocked the door, and left it open behind her. She didn’t take the elevator, walking slowly down the stairs instead. Each step reverberated through her left temple like a blow from a hammer. She would end up in bed for a whole day, forced to call in sick.
Once outside, she drew the clear air deep into her lungs and started down the street. Her hair fluttered in the north wind. This year she would take time off for the calf marking and bring Niklas along. She wouldn’t let him give up, not if he had a genuine interest in the reindeer. She would stand by his side as his shield. No more messing around. With anything.
Ever since she’d read Anna’s obituary a few weeks earlier, it had gradually come over her: the feeling that she could make a difference, that she could seek justice for them all. She had the opportunity, and she would muster the courage. Anna’s sudden death had frightened her, too. Just a tiny pebble of cancer and your life could be over just months later. What if it were her turn next? But she wasn’t going to die before she got to see the fear in Housemother’s eyes. The first time she’d pulled her hair out she felt giddy. Marge had been there, but she’d been cleaning the bathroom and didn’t notice a thing. Lately she’d told Marge she could handle Rita Olsson on her own. “Are you sure?” Marge asked, but she was plainly relieved to be spared those visits.
Now, as Anne-Risten walked by Konsum, she crossed the street without looking and a car braked and honked. She waved and kept going. She might collapse when this migraine hit. Then again, it would almost be nice just to lie on a grassy slope and let the pain paralyze her.
She would ask if Cecilia wanted to come along to the calf-marking in Norway, too. Her daughter probably wouldn’t even deign to answer; she already had her sights set on a camping trip with Linda’s family at Pite Havsbad. To everyone’s relief, Linda hadn’t abandoned their friendship after the unfortunate events of Walpurgis, but Anne-Risten didn’t trust that conceited girl for a minute.
She often reminded herself that she should be patient with Cecilia. Her daughter would return to her, forgive her. But—forgive her for what? Rage flared inside her again. For being Sámi? For passing on such shameful genes?
Cecilia was no longer speaking to her; she would sit at the kitchen table and eat Anne-Risten’s food, lie on her sofa and watch TV, sleep in the new bed she had purchased, but she wouldn’t open her mouth. It was disgraceful to be rejected by your own child. And she had no one to talk about it with.
Passing the Laestadian meeting house, nausea overtook her. There was so much Cecilia didn’t know. It was Anne-Risten’s own fault; she’d never told her. She’d let the children grow up with Anne Nilsson as their mother.
She cut across the road, went past the church, which was bathed in sunlight, and took the path down to Hjalmar Lundbohm School. She walked by the rich people’s homes, wood-sided houses that were historically inhabited only by managers and other higher-ups. She wasn’t worried about eyes on the other side of the finely polished glass—they wouldn’t give her a second glance. When she reached the front door of Hjampis she stopped and looked around for Cecilia, although there was no point, of course. But that was where she attended high school. Cecilia Nilsson. With roots that couldn’t be expressed. Wasn’t herself. And was therefore exactly like her mother.
Anne-Risten had to walk around the school, down to Hjampisv?gen, past what had once been Niklas and Cecilia’s preschool across the street. Not even back then had there been any trace of their origins. It wasn’t Roger’s fault, she knew she couldn’t blame it on him. She’d wanted it herself, felt proud of being Anne Nilsson. It had been a relief.
She crossed the wide road slowly, thinking the cars might as well just hit her. A few days in the hospital wouldn’t be so bad. Fussed over, medicated. Maybe she could spend a while resting at Vivianne’s afterward, too. The old woman would probably appreciate a role reversal, enjoy being her aide instead.
A pang in her chest. Vivianne wouldn’t like what she’d done. So she would never find out. Anne-Risten would have to bear it alone. Which wasn’t that hard, really. She only needed to look at her arms or the nearly bald spot on her head to justify her actions. Although, it was actually Vivianne who’d given her the courage in the first place, to some extent, because of the way she listened to Anne-Risten and believed her. Not just when it came to her aches and pains; her elderly friend gave her strength in other ways too, lifting her up like no one ever had before.
“You’re stronger than you think, Anne-Risten. Yes, he left you, but look at you now. You have a steady job, you’ve been able to stay in that apartment with its high rent, and you take good care of your children.”
She felt lighter now and jogged down to Bamsebacken. Niklas had knocked out his front tooth on this sledding hill when he was five. A baby tooth. She’d rushed home with him in her arms as his mouth bled, worried that the permanent tooth underneath had been harmed. There had been no one to share that fear with. Later the new tooth came in, straight and perfect.
“Everything will work out for the best,” Vivianne said in her mind.
The brick buildings of Bromsgatan came into view and she knew the migraine wouldn’t take root, not this time. It was enough to lend her a burst of happiness, and she chuckled.
She would never go to Rita Olsson’s apartment again. She would state her demand to her boss, say that the old woman was crazy and she refused to care for her anymore. The old woman told tall tales, and Anne Nilsson would not stand for someone lying and threatening her job. Anne Nilsson said things that Anne-Risten couldn’t. She also spoke refined Swedish, almost like people on TV.