‘Let’s invent another ending. The sister can stay in the icy castle. Let’s organize a world rally championship for the brother.’

‘No way.’

‘I’ll think of something.’

And perhaps Mum did. Perhaps the ending to the fairy tale was just what Mum had stopped to think about in the garden when her head split open.

My last two images of Mum: the bedtime story the previous night, and leaving the garden the next morning. Mum in her sun hat, wearing gardening gloves. It’s as if the two moments were lit up with a special, radiant light.

A spring evening on the sofa, a spring morning, and the buzzing of flies.

14

14

‘Why? Why? Why Hannele?’ Dad moans at night in Auntie’s kitchen, holding his head. ‘Where the hell is the sense?’

I lie in bed, trying not to hear. But the sound carries through the stove, which connects directly to the kitchen through the flue, and I can’t escape it. The small black stove in the corner wails, pressed against the wall of my room, its flue about to choke. What a terribly sad little stove, I think.

Why, why, why.

Dad has so many questions that no one wants to listen to. I still listen, a little bit. Perhaps Auntie can answer one of the questions, at least; she is a big sister after all. I could have become a big sister if there had been other babies. But only I came out when Mum’s stomach was cut open, so now I’m no one’s sister – I’m just myself.

‘It could have been anyone,’ Auntie answers. ‘Anyone could have been outside at that moment. A lot of people were outside then.’

‘I want to be angry with someone!’ the stove howls.

When Dad howls, his voice comes from the pit of his stomach. Dad’s back bends and he starts shaking in time with his crying. Dad cries like a small child: he oozes snot and spit and wipes his eyes with his big grown-up’s fists like a giant. I’m afraid that Dad will get cramp or hiccups or have a heart attack. His clothes will tear, the seams will squeal, Dad will fall apart.

When Dad cries, I concentrate on looking at Auntie Annu. I think: ‘If Auntie starts howling now, too, I’ll explode. I’ll fall apart with all this wailing. I’ll become a pile of bread-crumbs, jumping about from the crying. The tips of my fingers, my hair and my knees will tremble with the crying of the grown-ups.’

But Auntie doesn’t howl. She doesn’t fall apart or tremble or burst into tears. Not once. Not even inside the stove in the evenings when I should be asleep.