weeks. When the thirteen-year-old, in joy mixed with terror, showed him her bloodstained underpants, he was the one who took her to a restaurant for fillet steak accompanied by diluted red wine to celebrate his little daughter being on her way to becoming a woman. For two years, he had turned down every insistent demand for a brassiere, since the midge bites to be covered by the garment were so insignificant any bra at all would have looked comical. He had taken lonely pleasure in his daughter’s brilliantschool grades, and was alone with his bitter sorrow when she chose to celebrate with friends four years later when she was accepted into medical school in Oslo.
He loved his daughter, but he couldn’t manage to reach her. When he collected her, she accompanied him willingly, and she had asked the emergency doctor to phone him. So she had wanted to go home. To him. However, she said nothing. Tentatively, he had fumbled for her hand in the car on the drive home, and she had allowed him to take it. Nevertheless, there was no response, just a limp hand passively accepting his grasp. Not a word was uttered. When they arrived home, he had tried to tempt her with a meal: freshly baked bread, sandwich toppings he knew she liked, roast beef and prawn salad, and the best red wine he possessed. She had seized the wine but left the food. After three glasses, she took the remainder of the bottle with her, excusing herself politely and heading for her bedroom.
That had been three hours ago. Not a sound was to be heard from her room. He rose to his feet, stiff from sitting on the sofa. It was American—low, excessively soft, and plump. The candles, palely flickering during the bright spring evening, were now sputtering, as they ran out of wax. Stopping at the door of the girl’s bedroom, he stood stock-still for several minutes before daring to knock. There was no response. Hesitating for a few more minutes, he made up his mind to leave her in peace.
He went to bed.
* * *
In her girlish bedroom, painted yellow and adorned with checked curtains, Kristine Håverstad sat with a teddy bear on her lap and an empty wineglass in front of her on a white-painted table. Her bed was narrow, and she had cramps in her legs from having assumed a lotus position for a long time. She welcomed the cramps. They became increasingly uncomfortable, and she concentrated onexamining how sore she actually was. Everything else receded, and all she could feel was the tingling, aching protest from limbs deprived of blood for a lengthy period. Eventually she could not endure it and lay down on the bed to stretch her legs. Even more excruciating when the sensation rushed back into her calves. She grabbed around one thigh with both hands, squeezing hard until tears pricked her eyes. All this to make the spasms last. She certainly couldn’t continue like this, however.
After a while she let go, and the pain in her chest returned. It was completely empty inside, an enormous hollow space with an indefinable ache. It swirled around and around, faster and faster, and in the end she stood up to fetch the little box of pills prescribed by the emergency doctor. Valium, 2 mg. A tiny packet. Each pill represented hope of respite, to some degree. For a spell. She stood for ages holding the box in her left hand, then carried it to the bathroom, lifted the toilet seat, and poured pills down into the pale blue chlorinated water. They remained floating on the surface, bobbing gently, before slowly sinking one by one to the porcelain depths and disappearing. She flushed the toilet. Twice. Then she washed her face thoroughly in bracingly cold water before entering the living room. It was dark now. Only a tiny light on the television set was visible, shedding a pale yellow glow on the soft rugs at the entrance to the room. She picked up another bottle of red wine from the kitchen, quietly, so as not to wake her father. If he was sleeping. She remained sitting in the
He loved his daughter, but he couldn’t manage to reach her. When he collected her, she accompanied him willingly, and she had asked the emergency doctor to phone him. So she had wanted to go home. To him. However, she said nothing. Tentatively, he had fumbled for her hand in the car on the drive home, and she had allowed him to take it. Nevertheless, there was no response, just a limp hand passively accepting his grasp. Not a word was uttered. When they arrived home, he had tried to tempt her with a meal: freshly baked bread, sandwich toppings he knew she liked, roast beef and prawn salad, and the best red wine he possessed. She had seized the wine but left the food. After three glasses, she took the remainder of the bottle with her, excusing herself politely and heading for her bedroom.
That had been three hours ago. Not a sound was to be heard from her room. He rose to his feet, stiff from sitting on the sofa. It was American—low, excessively soft, and plump. The candles, palely flickering during the bright spring evening, were now sputtering, as they ran out of wax. Stopping at the door of the girl’s bedroom, he stood stock-still for several minutes before daring to knock. There was no response. Hesitating for a few more minutes, he made up his mind to leave her in peace.
He went to bed.
* * *
In her girlish bedroom, painted yellow and adorned with checked curtains, Kristine Håverstad sat with a teddy bear on her lap and an empty wineglass in front of her on a white-painted table. Her bed was narrow, and she had cramps in her legs from having assumed a lotus position for a long time. She welcomed the cramps. They became increasingly uncomfortable, and she concentrated onexamining how sore she actually was. Everything else receded, and all she could feel was the tingling, aching protest from limbs deprived of blood for a lengthy period. Eventually she could not endure it and lay down on the bed to stretch her legs. Even more excruciating when the sensation rushed back into her calves. She grabbed around one thigh with both hands, squeezing hard until tears pricked her eyes. All this to make the spasms last. She certainly couldn’t continue like this, however.
After a while she let go, and the pain in her chest returned. It was completely empty inside, an enormous hollow space with an indefinable ache. It swirled around and around, faster and faster, and in the end she stood up to fetch the little box of pills prescribed by the emergency doctor. Valium, 2 mg. A tiny packet. Each pill represented hope of respite, to some degree. For a spell. She stood for ages holding the box in her left hand, then carried it to the bathroom, lifted the toilet seat, and poured pills down into the pale blue chlorinated water. They remained floating on the surface, bobbing gently, before slowly sinking one by one to the porcelain depths and disappearing. She flushed the toilet. Twice. Then she washed her face thoroughly in bracingly cold water before entering the living room. It was dark now. Only a tiny light on the television set was visible, shedding a pale yellow glow on the soft rugs at the entrance to the room. She picked up another bottle of red wine from the kitchen, quietly, so as not to wake her father. If he was sleeping. She remained sitting in the
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