You Disappear: A Novel (28 page)

“Of course not.”

But her voice wasn’t convincing. Helena and my colleagues can’t always follow what I say, and sometimes it’s just easier to talk with Andrea and my other new friends in the support group.

On the phone, Helena and I both hesitated, and then she said, “Tell me about it, I want to hear.”

I tried again. “The kids don’t know themselves why they eat the cherries or kick the ball. When they try to explain, they’re full of rationalizations—exactly like people with frontal lobe injuries who refuse to admit they’re ill. It’s what the doctors call
confabulation
: when someone with brain damage tries to cover the gaps in their train of thought with fantasies they actually believe.”

Helena no longer sounded impatient on her end. “Okay, I can see how that’s interesting. And I can also see how it’s a big part of what you’ve been experiencing during this shitty year.”

“Good, I’m glad to hear it.”

Helena gave a little snort, which meant she was about to say something she thought was funny. “But Mia, can I tell you something?”

“Yes.”

“If you start using the word
confabulation
as much as you do
perseverate
and
inhibitory mechanism
, I’m going to ask Frederik’s doctor for a lobotomy.”

• • •

The rhythmic booming, the shattered trees, and finally the all-embracing flutter when they collide. During recess, I stop in the middle of the stairs to text Bernard on my way down to the teachers’ lounge.

Last night he again requested that we not see each other anymore, but I didn’t feel devastated. I was in a silly Frederikian mood and giddily promised to stay away from the next support group meeting.

My Frederik mood’s persisted till this morning. What harm could come from a single text?

All I write is:
Thinking of yesterday. M
.

In the hallway in front of the teacher’s lounge, I bump into Niels, a math colleague. He’s a handsome fellow in his thirties with a passionate engagement for the subject, loads of ideas, and a charming laugh. When you first meet him, it’s hard to imagine why neither students nor parents respect him. Yet on three occasions, the principal’s had to find a new math teacher for one of his classes because the parents were up in arms.

And for two of these ravenous, extra-demanding classes, the principal felt I should be the one to take over. (“I know it’s difficult, Mia, but their next teacher
has
to make it work. And I can tell you, confidentially, that you and Tove are the only ones who fit the bill.”)

For two years I worked unpaid overtime, slaving away at work that Niels had already received a salary for. But when I started hating him, it wasn’t because of the extra work—Frederik was always gone anyway, and Niklas was often playing elsewhere—but because I grew fond of the students. If not for me, they’d have had trouble getting into gymnasium and college, because they never would have learned math. Niels is one of the few people I’ve met who’s made me fall asleep on many a night with the thought that the world would be better off if he were dead.

Yet when we see each other today, he smiles at me. He often acts as if he doesn’t know what we think about him.

“I’ve gotten some of the books,” he says. “I just need the ones from Germany and Norway.”

“Good,” I reply, though I know he’s lying. Of course he hasn’t ordered the books, and he’ll just come up with some new strained excuse about when we’ll see them.

Several eternities ago, I made the suggestion at a math teachers’ meeting that we procure copies of textbooks from the other Scandinavian countries plus England and Germany, so we could see how they go about teaching math. Niels jumped in right away and said he’d make sure to order the books.

We all knew what would happen, but it was me who said, “Tove could do it too.”

“Don’t worry, I’ll take care of it.”

“Or maybe each of us should take a country and try to get the textbooks from there?”

“No, let me do it, I really want to. It’s a great idea.”

We all hesitated, until finally I said, “But Niels, it’s just that back when you promised to look into that course facility, you never did—and then we never went.”

His big happy smile, his enthusiasm. There’s no doubt that he fully believed what he was saying. “I’m really sorry about the slip-up that time.” He cast his eyes downward, and a note of seriousness entered his voice. “There were reasons for that, which I’d just as soon not get into now.” He exchanged a confidential glance with one of the other teachers. “I’d really like to make up for it.”

I could see that the others felt we should let him.

“So you’ll order them then?”

“Yes, of course I will. Definitely.
I’m
the one saying I want to do it.”

Half a year later, in the days leading up to our next math teachers’ meeting, I began to remind him about it. One day when we were in the coatroom about to put on our jackets, he said, “It’s because you’ve been pressing me like this that I’ve completely lost the desire to do it.”

“So if I hadn’t reminded you, you’d have done it already?”

“Yes, no question.”

“Well then, I’ll leave well enough alone.”

“Thank you.
Anyone
would lose their motivation with you taking that role for yourself.”

I let his comment slide to keep the peace. But in the following weeks, I pulled each of the other teachers aside and asked if they thought I was too domineering. No one agreed with Niels, and in fact I received a lot of praise. And yet his confabulation made me put a damper on new initiatives.

Of course he didn’t get the books during the subsequent half year either. A few days before the third meeting, when the two of us happened to be alone in the teachers’ kitchen, I said, “Niels, you don’t have to worry about it anymore. I’ll order the books myself.”

Again he became aggressive. “I thought we agreed that you wouldn’t press me.”

We started arguing. “Well if you’d only done what you promised to …”

Yet just a few days later, he showed his sweet, charming, somewhat flighty and befuddled side—the side that everyone who doesn’t know him falls for.

“I’ll definitely do it. I’ve just been delayed,” he said.

“Okay. So I
shouldn’t
do it?”

“Nope, not on any account.”

Now a fourth meeting is in the wings, and this time I’m not saying a word. Not only that, but in the last few months I’ve actually begun to feel a connection to him. For I’ve read about his symptoms hundreds of times on the internet, heard about them in support group, seen them in the clinics. And they’re quite common.

The impulse to execute an action is formed in an area of the brain that is distinct from the area that determines what we plan and say. Even a quite minor injury to the frontal lobes will often weaken the connection between the two areas, and that means that an affected person may seem completely healthy as long as you’re just talking to him. Yet it’s disturbing how few of his fine words and plans ever lead to anything—again, just like with some teenagers. There’s simply no neural contact between word and deed.

In the teachers’ lounge, when the others are hanging out and enjoying themselves, I’ve begun to feel alone. Even if I took several weeks to explain to those I’m closest to how different everything’s become at home, none of the teachers would really understand. Niels certainly wouldn’t understand either, and yet I have a deep sense that he and I are on the same team.

I don’t know if his injury’s congenital, or if he perhaps hit his head at some point. No one’s ever mentioned brain damage when they talk about him or why the hell the administration doesn’t fire him. But I’m sure they can’t imagine how different things are for him at home either.

• • •

The doctors have been saying for a long time that I shouldn’t expect Frederik to ever become completely well. The best I dare hope for is that, someday, his symptoms will be just as difficult to detect as Niels’s.

• • •

After the next class, Bernard hasn’t replied to my text. I pay it no mind. But after the third class he still hasn’t answered. And then it hits me: he
isn’t
answering.

He doesn’t intend to answer.

He’ll never answer.

The goofy mood I’ve been in since last night vanishes from one moment to the next, and just like I’ve seen teenage girls from my older classes do, I lock myself in the bathroom. Fortunately it’s lunch break, and then I have a free period, so I can weep in peace. When the free period is about to end, I call the school secretary from the bathroom and tell her I’ve become ill and have to go home. She knows it’s not true, but she’s kind and wishes me a speedy recovery.

As I’m driving home, the realtor calls; a buyer has signed the contract, and we have to be out within a month. We still haven’t found another place because it turned out we couldn’t afford the apartment I saw with Bernard, and since then I haven’t had the energy to look elsewhere.

At home, there’s already a message on the answering machine from the estate administrator: now that the house has been sold and no longer needs to look good for potential buyers, they’re going to come on Monday and take possession of their half of the furniture and household effects.

I just want to crawl into bed. Frederik’s lying there already, just like he was before he was admitted to the psych ward.

In bed, I toss and turn at his side, I can’t fall asleep, yet I don’t feel awake either. Again and again I check my cell, to see if I accidentally turned it off or set it to mute, to see if the text to Bernard was sent. The sign on the ceiling: are we really cursed? Is it our own fault? I threw Frederik out a long time ago, and Niklas found me unconscious on the kitchen floor. Something a son shouldn’t have to experience. Yes, cursed. A righteous punishment.

And the odor in here: my father home from prison, the smell of his two-bedroom flat as he sat with a blanket across his legs and slowly went to pieces. My visits, the months before he died. He was definitely cursed.

The doorbell rings. I’m not up to answering it, but then Frederik gets out of bed and goes downstairs.

I can hear that it’s the neighbor. A letter for us, delivered to them by mistake. I’ve explained to them that they shouldn’t give letters or messages directly to Frederik. I’m worried that they won’t reach me, but I can hear she’s doing it anyway.

They’re talking down below. I hate getting letters. As a rule, they just pile more work on top of what I’m already behind on. Forms to fill out for the municipality, the union, the insurance company; new appointments with Frederik’s doctors. It never lets up.

Frederik comes back in. “Not good,” he says.

“
What’s
not good? God damn it, what is it this time? What mess have you dragged me into now?”

He hands me a letter that he’s already opened, and I twist myself up into a sitting position.

It’s from Frederik’s new lawyer.

I read the opening lines of the attached report and skim the other pages:
… finds the assertion that Frederik Halling was mentally unstable at the time of the crime not proven … fully acquainted with the consequences of his actions and therefore responsible …

Back when Frederik was himself, I would have talked to him about a matter as critical as this. I also would have tried to in the first months after
his operation, because I still couldn’t conceive then how meaningless my efforts really were. But I no longer have the energy—the energy to struggle with the case and at the same time attend to his needs.

My cell phone lies on the night table, still without a text from Bernard. I punch in the new lawyer’s number. Her secretary doesn’t want to transfer me, but I press her and at last she puts me through.

“I don’t understand … but Dr. Lebech said …” I find myself crying.

Louise Rambøll’s an idiot—just as she’s been in my previous conversations with her. The only thing she can say is that I’ve understood the letter correctly: Frederik will receive a sentence of at least three years. After he’s served his time, his criminal record will prevent him from ever working with children again or for a public employer, regardless of how well he becomes. If he doesn’t qualify for a disability pension, he’ll have to go on welfare, and there’s nothing we can do about it.

Frederik asks, “What’s she saying?”

“She hasn’t got a clue about anything!” I shout at him, with her still on the line.

I hang up without saying goodbye and call Bernard.

His secretary doesn’t want to put me through either. But I don’t stop crying while I tell her to tell him that Frederik’s psychiatric report has come.

He takes the phone and his manner is formal—hardly that of a man whose limbs were entwined with mine on the hood of a car last night.

“This is Bernard.”

“Bernard, you’re going to have to take on the case again. Louise Rambøll is totally impossible. Frederik’s going to jail now.”

“Louise is very clever.”

“No! She’s about to send Frederik to jail!”

“I’ll have a talk with Louise, and then—”

“You know full well that you’re so much better than she is!”

It’s true, so there’s nothing he can say.

“Frederik’s going to jail because you didn’t want us. People will keep on blaming us for everything, they still won’t talk to us. And Frederik will simply shatter in there. He’ll get even sicker.”

“I’d like to help you as much as I possibly can,” he says. “I really feel
terrible about this. I’ll have Louise send me a copy of the psychiatric report, then I can give you some suggestions over the phone. And I’ll have a long talk with Louise.”