Was that how it started? An initial sense of similarity between them, followed by a need to get close to it? The beginning is a long time ago now, a lot has happened.

She places both photographs back in the box among the many, many others. She considers trying to write, but decides against it; she can feel that it won’t come to her tonight, either, and can’t face all those long hours staring at the screen, waiting. She shivers lightly; it’s turned suddenly and freakishly cold this past week, though it is still only mid-October. She rubs her upper arms, feeling goosebumps pricking beneath her fingertips. She rests both hands against the tight vault of her belly. In there, she imagines soft pink sludge is hardening and shaping into tiny bones, into a perfect little skull, into a beating heart. The baby will grow and grow until it fills all that empty, dark space inside her and then it will come out, and just by being, it will make her whole.

21

Kristina

I’m in the hallway stepping into my boots when the doorbell rings unexpectedly. I’m struck by a rush of fear, and immediately Anton and his cool blue eyes come to mind. No, it can’t be. How would he even find me here? Like most therapists’, my address is unlisted. I pick up the receiver and the video monitor flickers to life, revealing the person downstairs. It’s a middle-aged woman wearing an oversized black raincoat, its hood obscuring her face. Still, I recognize her instantly – I’ve known this woman all my life.

‘Hi, Idun,’ I whisper into the receiver and she looks up, into the camera, and I’m taken aback by how thin she has grown – sharp cheekbones protrude over sunken cheeks, making Elisabeth’s mother look bird-like and much older. Her eyes sit deep in her face, surrounded by dark circles. I press the buzzer, because what else can I do? I open the door to her wearing my jackets and boots and she realizes I was on my way out, her mouth tightening into an ‘o’.

‘I’m sorry. I should have called,’ she says, shaking her head. ‘You’re going out somewhere. You look lovely, Kristina.’ I feel guilty for the nice clothes and sophisticated make-up, and wish she’d caught me on any other weekend morning when I’d be in my usual old sweatpants and scruffy T-shirt. Now, I look like I’m going about my best life, just weeks after her only child died here in this apartment.

‘Come in, Idun,’ I say and decide to not offer an explanation for where I am headed. It’s usually best to not over-explain. We hug briefly, and she feels bony and tense in my arms.

‘I won’t be long. I was just wondering if we could talk a few things through.’