Some Kind of Peace by Camilla Grebe, Åsa Träff Read Free Book Online Page A

kind of lighting outside.
    Inside the house I follow my usual routine. I turn on the lights and make a quick visit to the bathroom. In the kitchen I pour a glass of wine, serve myself a bowl of canned soup, and sit down at the table to go through the day’s mail. An electric bill, an invitation to a workshop, a statement from the bank.
    Among the mail on the table is a high-quality gray envelope. I tentatively feel the thick, textured paper and let the envelope rest in my hand to feel its weight.
    My name and address are printed in black ink. The handwriting is neat and regular. I have saved it for last because it looks the most intriguing. Perhaps it’s an invitation, or a letter—a real letter. I slowly open the envelope. A photo falls out. For a few moments I study it with interest without grasping its content. Then I understand, and a wave of uneasiness spreads through my body.
    It is a picture of me.
    I am wearing my linen outfit and sandals and seem to be in a hurry as I cross Medborgarplatsen. The picture must have been taken recently.
    On the back, someone has written, “ I’m watching you .”

Date: August 24
Time: 2:00 p.m .
Place: Green Room, the practice
Patient: Peter Carlsson—first visit
    “I thought I would start by informing you about how an assessment interview is done and what happens next.”
    “Okay. I understand.”
    I observe the patient in the chair before me. A handsome man approaching forty. He is well dressed and looks kind of… expensive. His shoes are polished and his nails manicured. He doesn’t fit the description of my usual target group.
    I describe the procedures, the two to three assessment interviews, the treatment structure, and information about payment. Peter Carlsson nods, listens, and appears to be concentrating. Despite his controlled manner, I sense he is nervous. I guess that he would not be here if he did not feel he absolutely had to.
    Just as I inspect Peter Carlsson, I can tell that he is assessing me. Taking me in, my face and my body.
    “Are you really a therapist, I mean, that is… you look really… young .”
    I’ve heard that question before. My appearance is sometimes a disadvantage in my work. My patients often expect to see an older woman and are surprised when they see me. Maybe I have to work a little harder to get them to accept my relative youth, which seems to signal inexperience.
    “Yes, I really am a therapist,” I answer, trying not to look irritated. “But now I want to talk about you. Can you tell me what makes you want to get treatment? During our phone call you mentioned obsessive thoughts and anxiety. Can you describe them in more detail?”
    “Okay.” He nods again and looks out my window. “So, I guess I’ve always been a little prone to anxiety. Worried.”
    He meets my gaze to confirm that I’m listening and that I understand him.
    “When I was a child, it was important for me to do things a certain way, not to step on cracks in the sidewalk, to leave my clothes in a particular order in the evening. It was nothing strange, really, I think many kids behave like that, but the difference is that I never grew out of it. Or, I grew out of that sidewalk business, but there were always new rituals.”
    “Did you have any thoughts about what would happen if you didn’t perform these actions?”
    Peter looks at his nails, inspects his manicured hands.
    “Well, that something would happen to my parents maybe. Especially after my grandmother died.”
    “Your grandmother died?”
    “Hmm, she was… special… she was very close to us children. And she was pretty young, too, only in her sixties. She seemed so invulnerable.”
    Peter falls silent, and I see that he is losing himself in memories of his dead grandmother.
    “What happened?”
    “Cancer,” he answers shortly. “And after that the world was, like, never safe again. Do you understand? Everything I believed to be fixed and anchored proved to be… transitory . My childhood