son?”
Erika lowered her voice. She could have spoken at normal volume, of course. The boy with his iPod wouldn’t hear in any case. From time to time he fished his mobile out of his pocket and his fingers moved swiftly over the keys as he texted someone.
“He’s fourteen,” said the woman.
“I have a son of fourteen, too,” Erika said eagerly.
“He’s not my son,” said the woman. “He’s my sister’s son.”
“Oh, right,” said Erika. “Well, obviously. You’re too young to have a son of fourteen. You’re much younger than I am.”
Erika didn’t think the woman looked much younger than she did—in fact there was something old and haggard about her—but Erika was trying to be pleasant; she had a feeling she had already offended or annoyed this woman, and feared she thought her banal and chatty and would never have set foot in Erika’s car had it not been for the rain and the dark and the cold and the bus being so late and the boy so wet.
“Well, yes, I suppose I’m really too young to have teenagers,” said the woman.
Erika waited for her to say something else, offer some clarification. But she didn’t. The woman didn’t take off her red checked coat; she didn’t loosen the tie belt although the car was nice and warm.
Having thought that she and the woman had sons the same age, Erika had believed there would be something to talk about. The woman was dissatisfied
(With Erika? With Erika’s driving? With the weather? With fucking Sweden?),
and Erika felt an urge to mollify her. Entertain her. Make her laugh or give a nod of recognition or tell something about herself. Their common experiences might bring them to some sense of easy female solidarity. But maybe that worked only when your children were small, mused Erika, visualizing knots of mothers in cafés or parks, rocking; rocking a baby at their breast or a baby in a buggy. Erika didn’t dare ask the woman if she had small children.
If a woman in labor lashed out at Erika or begged to be allowed to die, as women in labor sometimes do, she would take the woman’s hand in hers and hold it firmly.
Face-to-face with her patients, Erika felt confident. She inspired trust. Unlike Isak, she covered her office walls with photos of newborn babies, photos sent to her by grateful new mothers and fathers. He never put up a single picture. Once the child was out of its mother’s body it was no longer his responsibility, he would say.
But beyond the hospital walls, Erika felt clumsy and awkward in the company of other women. Especially other women in flocks. They wouldn’t let her in, as if to say: There’s altogether too much of you, Erika. You’re awkward. You’re shallow. You’re loud. You’re quiet and shy and boring. You’re superficial. You’re earnest and humorless. You’re just wrong. We don’t like you. It would be better if you simply dissolved and disappeared. But you can’t. You won’t.
Ever since Erika and Ragnar were beachcombing and she saw Marion for the first time—Marion, in polka-dot bikini briefs, lolling on the rock farthest out to sea, surrounded by Frida, Emily, and Eva—Erika had felt enthralled. She wanted to be part of that picture. She allowed herself to be enthralled by the formation of four girls on the rock, supreme and inviolable, a secret, shining, unassailable alliance. And she could be part of that alliance or not, depending on Marion’s mood, and when she was not a part of it, her exclusion was pitiless and she was left with nothing but her own thin, boring little body, her best friend Ragnar’s childish games in the secret hut, and all the gray clouds in the sky.
Chapter 18
Many hundreds of years ago, this is what they did when a child was about to be born: when a woman began to have contractions and labor was under way, the other women made haste to let down her hair and unfasten any laces on her dress, her shoes, and everything in the vicinity that was knotted, tied, closed, barred,
Erika lowered her voice. She could have spoken at normal volume, of course. The boy with his iPod wouldn’t hear in any case. From time to time he fished his mobile out of his pocket and his fingers moved swiftly over the keys as he texted someone.
“He’s fourteen,” said the woman.
“I have a son of fourteen, too,” Erika said eagerly.
“He’s not my son,” said the woman. “He’s my sister’s son.”
“Oh, right,” said Erika. “Well, obviously. You’re too young to have a son of fourteen. You’re much younger than I am.”
Erika didn’t think the woman looked much younger than she did—in fact there was something old and haggard about her—but Erika was trying to be pleasant; she had a feeling she had already offended or annoyed this woman, and feared she thought her banal and chatty and would never have set foot in Erika’s car had it not been for the rain and the dark and the cold and the bus being so late and the boy so wet.
“Well, yes, I suppose I’m really too young to have teenagers,” said the woman.
Erika waited for her to say something else, offer some clarification. But she didn’t. The woman didn’t take off her red checked coat; she didn’t loosen the tie belt although the car was nice and warm.
Having thought that she and the woman had sons the same age, Erika had believed there would be something to talk about. The woman was dissatisfied
(With Erika? With Erika’s driving? With the weather? With fucking Sweden?),
and Erika felt an urge to mollify her. Entertain her. Make her laugh or give a nod of recognition or tell something about herself. Their common experiences might bring them to some sense of easy female solidarity. But maybe that worked only when your children were small, mused Erika, visualizing knots of mothers in cafés or parks, rocking; rocking a baby at their breast or a baby in a buggy. Erika didn’t dare ask the woman if she had small children.
If a woman in labor lashed out at Erika or begged to be allowed to die, as women in labor sometimes do, she would take the woman’s hand in hers and hold it firmly.
Face-to-face with her patients, Erika felt confident. She inspired trust. Unlike Isak, she covered her office walls with photos of newborn babies, photos sent to her by grateful new mothers and fathers. He never put up a single picture. Once the child was out of its mother’s body it was no longer his responsibility, he would say.
But beyond the hospital walls, Erika felt clumsy and awkward in the company of other women. Especially other women in flocks. They wouldn’t let her in, as if to say: There’s altogether too much of you, Erika. You’re awkward. You’re shallow. You’re loud. You’re quiet and shy and boring. You’re superficial. You’re earnest and humorless. You’re just wrong. We don’t like you. It would be better if you simply dissolved and disappeared. But you can’t. You won’t.
Ever since Erika and Ragnar were beachcombing and she saw Marion for the first time—Marion, in polka-dot bikini briefs, lolling on the rock farthest out to sea, surrounded by Frida, Emily, and Eva—Erika had felt enthralled. She wanted to be part of that picture. She allowed herself to be enthralled by the formation of four girls on the rock, supreme and inviolable, a secret, shining, unassailable alliance. And she could be part of that alliance or not, depending on Marion’s mood, and when she was not a part of it, her exclusion was pitiless and she was left with nothing but her own thin, boring little body, her best friend Ragnar’s childish games in the secret hut, and all the gray clouds in the sky.
Chapter 18
Many hundreds of years ago, this is what they did when a child was about to be born: when a woman began to have contractions and labor was under way, the other women made haste to let down her hair and unfasten any laces on her dress, her shoes, and everything in the vicinity that was knotted, tied, closed, barred,
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