Chapter 69
Isidor had just stopped by the independent-living complex in Oskarstrom to see Hasse Ek.
The old man still ranted about shadowy figures who showed up to irradiate him, but after a bad fall on the stairs a couple years ago, he could no longer take care of himself.
In the co-op where he lived now, staff were just a corridor away, twenty-four hours a day.
It wasn’t so bad, Hasse said, since he had a lovely window in his room, the food was good, and his bed was comfortable.
Besides, he claimed there was less radiation here.
To be sure, a summer temp once tried to install a microwave oven, but Hasse put a stop to it right quick.
And it was nice that the priest himself dropped by once in a while.
Filip Soderstrom’s mother, Lillemor, had a room just a few doors down in the same co-op. As Isidor passed it today, the door was ajar and he glimpsed a woman by her side. Felicia Grenberg.
How peculiar, that the body sometimes ceases to understand, that it no longer remembers how to function.
Lillemor had a very hard time moving her body; some days she couldn’t speak, either.
Her eyes were clear and she was obviously conscious, but it was hard to hear what she said.
As if the words were too big for her mouth, demanding of her lips and tongue effort they could no longer manage.
Isidor stopped by the door and cleared his throat. Felicia turned around.
“Hello,” Isidor said kindly. “I just wanted to see how you’re both doing.”
“It’s…” Felicia said slowly, turning to Lillemor. “It is what it is.”
Isidor nodded. He’d already been by to offer his condolences to Lillemor once, and he didn’t know what to say next.
“Just let me know if there’s anything I can do.”
That would have to suffice. Neither of the women responded.
Felicia went back to the crossword she was holding: “ ‘Vegas landmark that doesn’t exist?’ One, two, three…six letters. The next-to-last letter is a g.”
Lillemor blinked. Made a sound.
“What was that?”
Lillemor repeated herself, louder this time.
“Right. Of course. Mirage. Let’s see now, ‘Swede at the dinner table?’ eight letters. The first one is the r in ‘mirage.’ ”
It was hard to say what Felicia got out of this. Maybe women needed to stick together because they were the survivors. In Skavboke, it was the men who died. Or maybe she felt guilty about what had happened, for some reason.
Just like me, Isidor thought, and silently went on his way.
—
It must have been sometime in 2004 when he received a call from Rasmusg?rden.
Isidor hadn’t been in the office at the time; as the priest in Oskarstrom he seldom was.
The works of the church are performed among the people, he liked to say, and not in an office.
It was arduous work, of course, and he was getting on in years even then, but no one ever said faith would be easy.
In fact, not having faith is the much easier way to go.
But Isidor was a believer even so, almost resigned to his status as one.
The woman at Rasmusg?rden left a message but didn’t say why she was calling. Treatment centers seldom did, as eager as they were to protect their patients. If “patients” was the right word in this context. It probably was.
Isidor called back and was informed that a resident there had been asking for him, time after time. When Isidor heard the resident’s name, he jumped in his car and got on the E6 highway heading north toward Rasmusg?rden.
It was in Skrea, just outside of Falkenberg.
Filip Soderstrom would be turning twenty in less than a month, and he was sitting alone on some patio furniture without cushions, a cup of coffee in front of him.
It was him—Isidor recognized him, but barely.
All sinewy joints and knobbly bones, cheekbones sharp and protruding like the corners of a triangle, and skin so pale it had taken on a bluish tone.
His hair was longer and his features stiffer, grown considerably more weathered and rough in just a few years.
His voice was different too—it had lost its verve and, seemingly, its presence.
The boy Isidor remembered now sounded dull, slow, and absent.
“I didn’t think you’d come,” Filip said, addressing the air in front of him.
Isidor took a seat beside him. “How are you, Filip?”
“Things haven’t been great. But now, here, this is better.” Filip squinted in the sunshine. “This morning I saw a deer give birth to a baby, what are they called…fawn. Nature re-creating itself. Just like at home. It’s nice.” He lifted his coffee cup in a toast. “I’ve discovered I like coffee too.”
Was a confession close at hand? That was all Isidor could imagine, that Filip was about to tell him what had happened during those days and nights in December five years before.
“They said you wanted to see me.”
“They’re always saying I need to talk to someone. They suggested you, since you’re from home. I guess I wanted to talk to someone who was there.”
“There for what?”
“You know, when everything happened. Back then.”
Isidor cleared his throat. It sounded rather more ceremonious than he’d meant it to. “Did you play a part in it, Filip?”
“I would like to…” Filip began, seemingly ignoring Isidor’s question.
“I would like to start over. I don’t know if that’s possible, but that’s what I want.
I can’t live like this. You know, I spend so much time thinking about everyone who was around back then.
About all the stuff that happened. But it’s like no one gets it.
No one gets that my brother was murdered and he was the only brother I had, and he’s never coming back.
And Mom and Dad, you know, how can I possibly start over?
When the very basis of my life just isn’t there anymore? ”
“That must be incredibly painful,” Isidor said. “That, and everything that happened after.” He paused. “Have you thought about writing it down?”
“What do you mean?”
“You could just write about what happened that day. When Mikael died. It might help you process it.”
“But I can’t write.”
“You don’t have to show it to anyone if you don’t want to. It would just be for you, to work through it.”
Isidor waited for a long time, but Filip said no more. He gently placed a hand on the boy’s shoulder. He felt the bones there under his shirt, fragile but hard. Filip looked surprised. He touched his chest as though something were growing inside, something he didn’t recognize.
Isidor couldn’t say how long he sat with his hand on Filip’s shoulder. But he believed in forgiveness and mercy, and in letting them develop in their own time.
“I’ll be back tomorrow, Filip.”
—
Stupid, he thought as he walked home from the co-op.
So stupid of me, I never should have gone up there that time.
Should have just let him sit at Rasmusg?rden.
That would have been better. Maybe he’d still be alive today.
But how could he say so to someone else? Some burdens had to be carried alone.
And all around Isidor, the merciless summer went on.