Memory of Love (9781101603024) by Linda Olsson

the smile is all over Mother, in the way she moves. The new red dress. The matching red shoes. Inside the gate she sets her small brown suitcase down on the grass, and as she stands she gathers her blonde hair with one hand and lifts her face towards the sun. Now she can see the smile. Mother closes her eyes to the sun and she smiles and smiles. The wind catches the wide skirt of her dress and it balloons around her. She doesn’t think Mother can see her, and she doesn’t wave. She keeps her fingers clasped around the edge of the windowsill and her forehead touches the glass. Mother picks up the suitcase, and she keeps smiling as she begins to walk up the gravel path, balancing precariously in her high-heeled shoes. She looks light and beautiful and she swings her white handbag back and forth.
    The little girl watches, still. The fly has stopped moving too. It lies on its back with its legs in the air. She can hear the gravel crunch as Mother carries on up the path towards the porch.
    Suddenly she feels like crying. She slides down onto the floor and skids on the shiny floorboards as she runs across the landing. She can’t hold back any longer and she can feel pee trickling down the insides of her thighs. She can’t hold back the tears either. She hurries downstairs as quickly as she can, holding on to the handrail. Runs across the downstairs hallway and into the kitchen as if her life depended on it. Grandfather sits at the table with the paper spread in front of him. Without taking his eyes off the page he stretches out one arm and whisks her up onto his lap as she comes running. Grandfather doesn’t seem to care that her panties are wet, so she doesn’t either. She buries her nose in the shirt that smells of Grandfather. He strokes her arm with his rough palm. He must know too, but he says nothing. It is as if they are both pretending they can’t hear the light steps outside, first on the gravel, then up the wooden steps, across the porch. Over the threshold and through the open door. Grandfather’s eyes stay on the paper and he keeps stroking her arm. Even when she can smell Mother’s perfume she continues to keep her eyes closed and her face buried in the folds of Grandfather’s shirt. She doesn’t want to see the smile. She doesn’t want to see the new dress.
    She can hear her mother pull out a chair and she can hear the skirt rustle as she sits down.
    And as Mother speaks, Grandfather’s grip around her waist tightens, as does hers around his neck. They are holding on to each other like two drowning people.
    â€˜I’ve come to collect Marianne,’ her mother says.

7.
    I stood up, brushed the sand off my trousers and carried on along the beach. The slight overcast that had hidden the sun all day had finally dissolved, and the sunset painted the remaining thin clouds a greyish purple now. I knew that the images I captured would be pale copies of the real moments, but I took a few more shots. I continued further than I had intended and I turned the camera to the sea again and again. There was nothing to see except the rolling waves.
    The lens swept over the empty surface of the sea, and suddenly it caught a small speck on the undulating water behind the surf. I don’t know what made me notice the tiny object, but I started running before I was consciously aware of its significance. I dropped the camera and tore off my jacket as I rushed towards the edge of the water. It seemed to take an eternity before I reached water deep enough to begin to swim. I dived under the surf and finally emerged in deeper water. My eyes frantically scanned the surface. I was already very cold, and not just because of the chill of the water. My whole body felt frozen from the inside. Only when I finally spotted him could I breathe again. He wasn’t far from me now and as I took the last few strokes and my hand finally touched his hair I could not help myself from screaming. I