Chapter 7
“Hey, did you hear about Jacobsson?” says Dad.
A forkful of battered cod is halfway into my mouth. But Dad isn’t asking me; he’s talking to Mom.
They’re sitting at opposite ends of the table, with me in the middle. They often talk over my head, as if I’m not there.
Dinner was waiting for us when we got back from Runmaro.
Neither of us said anything about why we were late today, and Dad apparently has other things on his mind.
He’s in a good mood today. He’d been on Moja Island to build a crib dock.
It will be a few weeks of work. That’s good.
He’s always happier when he has a job. Otherwise he just sits around, quiet and moping.
“Jacobsson?” asks Mom.
“Goran Jacobsson. Who lives across the way, by the Hagede dock.”
“Goran who poaches fish around Horssten Island?”
Dad smirks. “That’s the guy.”
Then his smile fades, and he puts down his cutlery.
“What about him?” says Mom.
“He was on his way to the mainland last week for a meeting with the Environmental Board. He set sail for Stavsn?s early in the morning. ?sterman saw him leave while it was still dark.”
Dad hesitates, as if he’s unsure of how to word what he wants to say. The spider veins on his cheeks look redder than usual.
“He hasn’t come back.”
Mom’s cutlery squeaks against the white porcelain. She puts a piece of cod in her mouth, chews slowly, takes a sip of water.
“When was he expected back?” she asks finally.
“Last Friday. He hasn’t been seen in almost a week.”
“Maybe he extended his stay on the mainland.”
“His boat isn’t at Stavsn?s.”
They exchange a look. I know what they’re thinking.
“Do you think something has happened to him?” Mom says calmly.
“I really don’t know.” Dad hesitates, then continues in a quiet voice, “That makes three this fall. Three people who’ve up and vanished.
I can’t remember the last time there were so many accidents at sea.
First Kalle Sodergren fell overboard, then that woman from Uto whose boat ran aground.
Remember? They found it floating upside down with a big hole in the bottom. ”
“Have they all been reported as missing?” Mom asks without looking up.
“I don’t know.”
I glance at Mom. I bet she’s thinking about Axel. I wonder if she wishes we’d just told Dad everything about Axel’s disappearance and my police interrogation right away.
She probably didn’t want to ruin his good mood.
I look back at Dad. I don’t look anything like him or Mom.
Dad is short and stocky, weather-beaten, with stooped shoulders.
Feet firmly on the ground. Mom has straight posture, like she has a steel beam for a spine.
She’s tall and thin, almost wiry, with a thick gray braid that hangs down to her waist, and gray eyes.
Mom picks out fish bones with her strong, nimble fingers. Steady and precise—fitting for a nurse.
I take a small bite and chew slowly.
There’s only one family photo of me as a baby.
Dad is thinner in the picture, with longer hair and no grays.
He smiles at the camera, carefree, without those deep lines on his forehead.
Mom wears her hair loose in dark-brown waves and hugs me close in a way that I don’t remember from my childhood.
I’m just a tiny bundle with a wrinkled face and waving fists.
“I’m sure Jacobsson will show up soon,” says Mom. “It’s probably not as dramatic as it sounds. There’s no reason to assume that there’s any connection between him and those other accidents.”
I wonder if she believes her own words.