Yrsa Sigurdardottir - Someone to Watch Over Me

‘Misunderstood? Misinterpreted?’ The sarcastic tone was completely unjustified but the senior consultant didn’t care; it felt good to have an outlet for his irritation. He’d had enough of not being able to do his job properly. The hospital’s quality controls were diminishing, but that wasn’t the staff’s fault; constant changes and lack of funding made things very difficult. ‘How is it possible to misunderstand? Have you seen the cards they use for communication? It’s not like there are many words to choose from.’

‘I don’t know exactly what she meant, but I imagine she’d be able to draw more conclusions from their conversation than we could.’ The nurse had stopped fiddling with her pen. Her mood was beginning to darken. ‘According to you she could, anyway.’

The senior consultant unfolded his arms. ‘Well, we can’t wait for this for another whole day, so I suggest you get in touch with the therapist immediately and figure something out.’ The nurse merely nodded. Inside, her anger grew, but now it was directed at her colleagues, who had kept silent and made no attempt to help her. Of course she’d often done the same, but this was the first time she’d found herself playing the role of sacrificial lamb. She hoped she had enough integrity to learn from this and come to others’ aid next time instead of keeping quiet. However, she knew deep down that she probably wouldn’t.

After the meeting, alone at the duty station, she reached for the hospital phone directory. Just as she had given up all hope of the therapist answering, she heard a breathless voice on the other end of the line.

‘Hi, sorry, I haven’t forgotten you – I was called unexpectedly to the children’s hospital and I’ve only just got back. I still have to go through my notes one more time, but I should be able to come over in half an hour or so.’

‘That would be great. We’re keen to know whether she has any complaints about anything, or if she’s in pain. We’re having a hard time determining the root cause of the symptoms she’s displaying.’

‘Oh, I doubt I’ll be able to help you with that. I actually need to ask her a few more questions; yesterday she didn’t want to say anything about how she felt physically. But it won’t hurt to try again.’

‘Really? What did she say, then?’ The nurse wanted to know as much as possible in case she ended up being questioned again.

‘If I understood her correctly, she’s unhappy – or frightened, to be more accurate. But I wasn’t able to clearly determine what of. That’s why I’m going to try and communicate with her again today. It’s an extremely primitive means of communication, although she’s much better equipped for it than many others are, since she’s literate and she can spell what she wants to say. It just takes an awfully long time, and on top of that it’s very easy to end up in the wrong square. She was tired and impatient, so it didn’t go very well. Hopefully it’ll be better when I see her today.’

‘What can she be afraid of? Us?’

‘I’m not sure. She spelled “oxygen” again and again when I asked, but I have no idea what she meant. Maybe she’s having trouble breathing, although I didn’t notice any signs of that. She also spelled the word “man” more than once, and “bad man” when I asked her to explain it better. I have no idea who she means, and by the time we reached that point I couldn’t get her to continue. Plus, there are other things I don’t quite understand, but I need a little more time to go over them and try to sort out the context.’

‘Can you go into any detail?’

‘I think the less I say right now, the safer we are. Let me just go over it a bit and speak to you properly after I meet up with her again. Maybe it’s all just nonsense – a bad dream she had, or some kind of delusion, but I still feel it’s worth checking to see whether I can get to the bottom of it, if possible. Her heart rate went through the roof when she mentioned this man, so it may be that her fear is causing symptoms that are confusing you guys.’

‘I see.’ The nurse tried to think of anything else she’d wanted to ask, but nothing came to mind. ‘See you later, then. My name’s Svava, I’ll be here until four.’ They said goodbye, and the nurse stared at her phone for a few moments before standing up. Maybe she should start by looking in on the poor girl; apparently she enjoyed listening to the radio, so maybe that would relax her and lessen her fear. Mind you, the girl’s heart rate had actually increased when she stuck the ear phone in her ear the other day, and for a second Svava wondered whether it was the country’s financial crisis, which was all they ever discussed on the radio now, that was scaring her. No, it couldn’t be. It must have been a coincidence.

Each storey would have housed a family of three quite comfortably. The house was so overwhelming that it was actually difficult to appreciate its architecture; its overall appearance made it look as if the blueprints had been done to the wrong scale and the building was now a distended version of the original idea. It was the same story with the next house. They were all crowded together, and none had windows at the sides because of the proximity of their neighbours. Either the residents were well off or they’d received a good discount from the builders’ merchants. Thóra had had considerable trouble navigating them to the northern part of the suburb of Grafarvogur, where she never normally had any need to go. Most of the driveways leading up to these enormous homes were empty of any cars, since maintaining these palaces required two breadwinners, but there were snowmobile trailers in many of the driveways, and the odd camper trailer here and there, covered with a tarpaulin. Einvarður and Fanndís’s driveway contained no trailers, however, and Matthew pulled up next to a newish family car that made it clear that the owner wasn’t rolling in money, but didn’t want it to look as if that were the case.

On a copper plate beneath the doorbell were the names of all the members of the family – Tryggvi included. She saw Matthew raise his eyebrows when he saw the son’s name, but he said nothing; his only experience with children was with Thóra’s son and daughter and her grandson, and he seemed to realize his limitations when it came to understanding parents. He rang the bell and after a few moments Fanndís opened the door. She was just as elegant as in the photograph at her husband’s office, although she’d aged since it was taken. Tiny wrinkles stretched from the corners of her eyes to her temples and a vertical lines lay at either side of her mouth. Otherwise her face was smooth and healthy-looking. The woman extended a slender hand adorned with rings and smiled warmly as they introduced themselves. The clothes she was wearing were not the kind that Thóra would have chosen if she worked at home; it looked as though Fanndís was going out to lunch at the golf club. But maybe she’d simply dressed up especially for her guests, and if that were the case, Thóra regretted having dressed according to the weather that morning.

They followed the woman through the beautiful foyer and into a large but tasteful living room that felt cosy despite its size. A small number of attractive paintings hung on the walls and family photos stood on shelves and on nests of tables. In all the photos showing the family dressed in their Sunday best, the daughter wore a long dress that looked Spanish to Thóra. ‘Your daughter’s clearly a strong character,’ she said, pointing at the same photo that Einvarður had shown them in his office. ‘Sometimes I think young people all dress alike, but that’s not the case with her, I see.’