The Boy at the Door Read online

  *

  At home, my mother sits on the sofa by the bay windows with a huge glass of Pinot Noir and reads a magazine about property in France, as though nothing has happened and she’s considering a nice little apartment with a balcony and sea views in Port Grimaud. Johan rubs at his eyes and makes an excuse about catching up on work before disappearing downstairs. The girls sit at their grandmother’s feet, watching little American girls plaster their faces in make-up, talking their fans through contouring, step by step. I want to disappear. I wish somebody would talk to me, even if it’s just one of the girls asking if I’ve washed something they’d put in the laundry bin. But nobody does. I go into the kitchen and take my medicines. Even the ritual of popping the pills out of their foiled shells feels calming, like it doesn’t matter what they contain. My head is spinning and my heart feels slow and old. I want my head to be clear, but I don’t want to remember anything else, not tonight.

  On Tobias’s birthday I gave him half of the amethyst I found in California as a teenager. He liked it, I could tell. As I was about to leave his room and wake the girls, he whispered, Wait. Then he jumped out of bed, rummaged through some clothes that lay in a heap by the wardrobe, clearly found what he was looking for, then pressed a small object into my hand. What is it? I asked. It’s a key, he said. What does it open? I asked. Tobias shook his head. I don’t know, he said. I turned it around in my hand and realized it looked pretty much identical to the one we have for the postbox we keep in town. That same afternoon, I went there, parking further up the street, as though being seen at the post office was something suspicious, like being spotted at the police station or social services. On the key’s green plastic grip was the number eighteen. Inside box eighteen was a big fat mess of notebooks and loose sheets of paper. I don’t know what I’d been expecting, but I suppose it wasn’t that. In the car I spent several minutes putting the journals together by date, then I began reading. It was almost dark by the time I finished, and then I drove home, heart hammering, and fed every last scrap to the flames. No one will ever know her thoughts, or how she came to be who she was. Except for me. And I suppose I am someone who is able to keep big secrets.

  There is a part of me that would like to someday tell my son what little I know of his father. But I never will. I’ll never tell him what I remember, and I really do remember him in great detail; the way his smile slashed beautiful vertical dimples in his cheeks – our son has them, too – and the way his hair curled at the nape of his neck just like Tobias’s, and the way his laughter seemed to flow from him at almost everything I said that one night our lives crossed paths, leaving a new life behind, forever. I’ll never tell Tobias about long, loaded smiles, or about intense kisses, or about how, in those few moments, it felt as though I came alive with his touch after being so very close to dead for so long. He’ll never know he was born out of beauty. Instead, I’ll tearfully recount the sensation of mouthfuls of sand and twisted limbs and ice-cold, sharp metal, should he ever ask. Not even a glimpse, I’ll whisper, should he wonder where he came from. If I get my way, and I am fairly confident I will, as I normally do, Tobias will come back and live with us. Laila, unbelievably, pities me. She’s jealous, just like she always was, but I believe that in this situation, she feels that I really got served a raw deal. Johan, with time, will become Tobias’s father. He’ll forgive me. He has to, because what kind of man could leave his wife because she was raped at knifepoint? The ladies at the tennis club will whisper frenziedly behind my back, and this little town will doubtlessly be rocked by the scandal of it all; after all, it is no little feat to single-handedly bring junkies, drug abuse, abandoned children and murder to a small, wealthy town in Norway. And then, someday, they will find something else to talk about, because that’s how these things work. I have to remember this in the next few months, when gossip will be rife, when people will steal long glances at me and my dark-haired boy with the deep dimples in Meny. At least, this way, I can keep my head held high.

  From time to time, my mind might wander to Anni’s last moments; desperate and confused, bleeding and concussed by the frozen harbor, needing just one kind word, one outstretched hand, but finding none. I can see her, reaching down towards the still, dark water, perhaps intending only to touch it, then falling in, falling silent, falling still; finally. She wouldn’t have fought it so much. We will pray for her, my family and I, for her soul’s rest. In a week’s time it is Christmas Eve. I only want one thing, and as soon as the dust has settled from today’s exhausting interrogation, I shall set about getting it. Laila looks up to me, for whatever pathetic reason. My father’s account will match mine. I have a very expensive lawyer. What Cecilia wants, Cecilia gets.

  21

  I’m not sure what I expected, but I guess it wasn’t this. Nicoline and Hermine are furious with me, even though Laila and a child psychologist explained the whole story to them in the most pedagogical way people like them can cook up. My daughters ignore me, and Hermine even had the cheek to insinuate that I’d ‘sold’ their little brother to bad people. Please bring him home, said Nicoline, and burst into tears for the first time I can remember that doesn’t have to do with screen time. Furthermore, my lawyer has lent me little hope of getting away with lying to the police. Twice he asked me whether I was absolutely positive I hadn’t known that Lucasson and Mazur had the child I’d abandoned, and I maintained that of course I hadn’t known that. My lawyer isn’t confident we’ll manage to get Tobias back either, but is meeting with Sandefjord social services tomorrow, together with Johan, who apparently is considered more able to negotiate with the authorities than me. In spite of all this, I’ve invited the tennis club here for dinner. The show must go on, as they say, and this is especially important in the face of the kind of turmoil this family has endured in recent weeks.

  A strange thing happened this morning. While I’d sent out a text message a few days back inviting the tennis club members over, I hadn’t heard back from Silje, though she would have heard about my terrible ordeal – I had Johan call around to tell everyone the truth to avoid speculation. Some friend, not jumping at the chance to support me after everything I’ve been through. Then, this morning, I was at Meny, and while waiting at the fish counter, I spotted Silje over by the bananas. I gave her a little wave and she visibly hesitated before smiling tightly and walking over to me, holding a huge bunch of green bananas.

  ‘Hi, Cecilia,’ she said. ‘How are you doing?’

  ‘Did you get my message?’ I asked. ‘Are you coming this evening?’

  ‘I did. I’m sorry I haven’t got back to you. I won’t be able to make it tonight, I’m afraid.’

  ‘Oh,’ I said, feeling suddenly dizzy and odd, like I was reacting to something she hadn’t yet said.

  ‘I don’t want to, if I’m honest with you.’

  ‘What? Did you not speak to Johan?’

  ‘I did, and I’m pleased for you that he believes your story and stands by you. But I don’t.’ She smiled that tight little smile again and walked away from me. I was so shocked I could feel my heart tremble in my chest. I should have screamed at her or at the very least told her exactly how many fucks I give about her, but I ended up just meekly clutching the parcel containing the long, wet salmon to my chest and walking to the checkout as though in a daze.

  On top of that, I came home to find Johan in the kitchen, reading a newspaper.

  ‘Why aren’t you at work?’ I asked, feeling like I’d been caught out with something rather more grave than a shopping bag full of salmon.

  ‘I thought you should see this,’ he said, sliding a newspaper across the marble island.

  It was Dagbladet, one of Norway’s biggest newspapers. On the front page, in the top-right corner, the headline read: ‘Police Appeal for Information in Sandefjord Murder,’ accompanied by a small picture of a much younger, almost normal-looking Annika Lucasson.

  ‘What the fuck?’ I said, grabbing the paper and opening it to page eight. The police
, apparently, wanted anybody who’d known Lucasson in the last five years of her life to immediately come forward. I threw the paper down on the counter, but it struck a vase full of roses and brought it crashing to the floor. Johan stared at me with a perplexed, frightened gaze.

  ‘Oh, that poor, poor woman!’ I said, attempting a small, sad smile. ‘I just get so angry thinking about how people like her are treated.’ Johan kept looking at me as I bent to pick up the vase shards; my hands were shaking violently, my head swimming with thoughts about what a disaster it would be if some busybody came creeping out of the woodwork, desperate for five minutes of fame.

  *

  I’ve calmed down, thankfully assisted by some quality substances. I walk around the house, which is looking immaculate, fluffing cushions and checking for dust. It would seem Luelle has allowed herself to take a more relaxed stance to housekeeping over the last couple of weeks – one of my daughters probably informed her of what’s been going on, and she decided to take advantage of that. I’m not sure how pleased she’ll be with herself when she finds herself on a flight back to Chiang Mai or wherever she came from, and that’s exactly what will happen if she doesn’t get her act together. The doorbell rings and I smooth down my skirt and smack my lips together. I look tired and slightly less put together than usual, and that is precisely the look we’re after tonight. That odd little woman Silje might have decided she’s too good to spend time with me, but at least all the others have RSVP’d and are ready to be there for a friend in need. They are decent enough to support me rather than second-guess my gruesome ordeal.

  Fie and Tove are at the door, worried expressions on their faces, as though they’d arrive at the Wilborg residence and find it to be changed, sullied somehow. But no. The candles are lit, the sashimi is sliced, Johan and the girls are at his parents’ for the night, the champagne is in the cooler, and I’m looking skinny and polished, with a slightly tired, deliberate undertone.

  We hug, and Tove whispers, ‘You poor, poor woman.’

  That’s more like it. Within minutes, Cathrine and Cornelia have arrived as well, and I’ve unwrapped all my new orchids and poured everyone a glass of Perrier-Jouët. I notice Cornelia glancing at me when I raise the glass to my lips, probably wondering whether I should be drinking when I’m on medication and also apparently have a history of severe substance abuse. I smile coolly at her. We all sit around on the sofa, and at first it’s just like before, when my life was simple and uncomplicated. We talk about things such as upcoming city breaks, how to make low-carb cake pops, whose cabin would be the most suitable for our annual girls’ ski trip in February (mine, for sure). Then Fie brings the conversation around to the reason we’re all really here – to hear about what I’ve been through.

  ‘Darling, you are so brave having us all around so... soon. I really want to say that it’s incredible how well you’re holding up, considering the circumstances.’

  ‘Oh, thank you,’ I say, making my voice thin. ‘Well, I must say, it has been difficult. I mean, I’m not sure you’d even be able to imagine what I’ve had to endure over the past few weeks. But it does seem like it will all be resolved fairly soon.’ They all nod, and Cornelia squeezes my knee.

  ‘If you don’t mind me asking,’ says Cathrine, and as she speaks, I can feel the hairs on my arms prickle and stand up, ‘did you know that Tobias was your son the last time we were here? When he ran away?’ Fie nods faintly.

  ‘No, of course not. I only found out much later.’

  ‘But you did know you had a son?’

  ‘Well, yes. But I certainly didn’t know that the baby I’d given up was the same kid as the one who’d come to live with us.’ I empty the champagne glass, and stand to refill everyone’s, but then I realize that my glass is the only empty one. Cornelia is looking at me again, and the way she watches me makes me feel nervous.

  ‘God, it must have been so shocking. I mean, I wish you’d felt you could talk to us after what happened... in Uruguay,’ says Tove. ‘We’re your best friends, we’re here for you.’

  ‘I know, and I appreciate that. It’s just... it was just too much. I tried desperately to forget about what had happened. It was a very difficult time.’ They’re all looking at me and I feel as though I should continue speaking, but I don’t know what to say.

  ‘Do you think you could press charges now, like maybe even find the rapist?’ says Cathrine.

  ‘What do you mean?’ I ask, blinking theatrically.

  ‘Well, now that Tobias has been found, perhaps it could be possible to trace his genetic father. You know, like a DNA test? Chances are that creep would have raped before and after, and perhaps he’s been caught by now and is on some kind of sex offenders’ register?’

  ‘I suppose that could be possible, but I’ll be honest with you, Cathrine. This whole ordeal has just brought me so much pain and heartache, and I just can’t face dealing with it anymore. I just want to forget.’

  ‘What about Tobias?’ asks Cornelia, trying to frown. Ever since the episode with the burn, Cornelia has been constantly asking about him.

  ‘What about him?’

  ‘Well… what’s going to happen to him now?’

  ‘He’ll be coming back home, of course. As soon as it can be arranged.’ I register that the girls look faintly surprised.

  ‘Oh,’ says Cathrine. ‘Wow. Well, that’s good news. I didn’t realize that had been confirmed.’

  ‘Well, it hasn’t. Not yet. But that’s obviously what’s going to happen. I’m his mother. We’re his family.’

  ‘Yes, of course,’ says Fie, her stringy hair falling into her eyes, ‘Just... I mean, you didn’t want him... Are you sure you’ll definitely get custody of him?’

  ‘This isn’t a question of custody,’ I say, having to focus on keeping my voice level and calm, but even so, I can hear it tremble. ‘This is a question of a small child being returned to his family.’

  ‘Don’t be upset, sweetie,’ says Cornelia. ‘What Fie means is that it might get complicated since you abandoned him when he was a baby...’

  ‘Abandoned? What the hell do you mean, abandoned? I gave him up. I intended for him to be adopted into a loving, safe family. If my father had done what he was told, this whole situation would never have happened in the first place!’ Nobody says anything for a long while and both Fie and Cornelia finish off their champagne in one long glug. I don’t refill their glasses.

  ‘I was raped. Raped at knifepoint. I don’t think any of you can even begin to fathom what that’s like. I had no choice whatsoever when it came to Tobias.’

  ‘I know that,’ says Cornelia, and takes my hand. ‘You poor thing,’ she whispers.

  ‘I guess I just wondered whether Johan wouldn’t have forgiven you back then. It’s not like it was your fault. And it seems like he’s been pretty amazing about all this now.’

  ‘I think that’s beside the point. And anyway, what was he supposed to do? Divorce me for having been raped? It’s Sandefjord, not Islamabad.’

  ‘I bumped into Silje at the tennis club the other day,’ says Fie. ‘She, uh, seemed really odd. We only spoke for a little while but she was quite mean about you. Rest assured, I immediately came to your defense, of course, but it was very strange.’

  ‘To be honest with you, I’ve always found her to be an odd woman. Cold, you know? Jealous, I imagine,’ I say, giving a little laugh and glancing around my beautiful living room tellingly. My heart is hammering and I’m afraid they can actually see that through my blouse. ‘Anyway. What did she say?’

  ‘She... she said that she’d seen you with Annika Lucasson before.’

  I raise an eyebrow. ‘Well, I’m not sure what Johan told you, but I gather you all know that I’ve had some personal problems due to the terrible ordeal I’ve been through . . .’

  ‘She also said that Annika had approached her outside the shopping center once, a while back, and asked if she knew you. Though she tried to get away from Annika because she was so
clearly high, Silje had said yes. Then, Annika had said to her that she should know what kind of person you are and that you were paying her “lots of money” to keep your illegitimate son away. Silje thought at the time that it was the ramblings of a madwoman, but I guess after everything that’s happened, she thought it might be true or something...’ Everyone stares at their feet, except Fie, who has the nerve to look straight at me.

  ‘And you? What do you think?’ I ask pleasantly, as though I was asking their opinion on curtains, looking at each of them in turn. Nobody looks up, and even Fie drops her gaze to the floor.

  ‘Listen, girls,’ I say, after several long moments of silence. ‘This was really fun. We should do it again sometime soon. Or actually, let’s not. Now, get the fuck out of my home.’ I stand, slowly, smoothing down an imaginary crease on my skirt and picking up the empty champagne bottle. Then I lift it above my head and make sure they all see it, enjoying the sharp, wild fear in their eyes. I throw the bottle incredibly hard at the window behind where they’re sitting, shattering it and spraying the tennis club ladies with tiny, razor-sharp shards of glass. I walk slowly backwards, laughing at the pandemonium I’ve caused – the screams, Fie’s bloodied shoulder, the frenzied scramble towards the door, Cornelia’s wide-eyed expression of horror, the glass crystals in Cathrine’s hair catching the light and twinkling like little stars where she remains on the sofa as if in a daze until Tove pulls her up and away. When they’ve all left, I pluck another bottle of champagne from the cooler and pop it open. I’m guzzling it straight from the bottle when Luelle walks in. She looks terrified.

  ‘There’s been an accident, Luelle,’ I smile widely at her, as though I was explaining some spilled Cheerios. ‘You’re going to have to wipe that up,’ I say, pointing to the unbelievable mess of the pulverized window, someone’s blood on the beige sofa, and the upended champagne glasses dribbling onto the Missoni rug. She nods but doesn’t make a move. I snap my fingers an inch away from her face, and leave the room. I need to lie down. I feel strangely riled up, like I want to hit someone or drive really fast or place a big bet at the roulette table. I lie down on Tobias’s bed, and as soon as I rest my head on the pillow and draw in the lingering scent of him, I burst into hysterical tears.