Karin Fossum - The Murder of Harriet Krohn

Charlo nods and waits.

“It concerns the myelin sheaths surrounding your nerves. You see, your nerves are covered by something like an insulating material. Or a lining, if you will. And this lining can, in certain cases, be attacked by what we call a sclerosis. Over time, this sclerosis will destroy the lining, and small holes will appear in the tissue. Gradually the tissue will turn hard, rather like scar tissue. We can see this on x-rays. In your case, the myelin sheaths are slightly frayed. This in turn causes the impulses to be delayed. The impulses that cause your arms and legs to move in the manner and at the speed you’re used to.”

“I see.”

Charlo drinks in the information. He tries to keep up but feels himself flagging. He can’t see clearly. His head feels dizzy.

“The results from your spinal fluid also support this theory. You say that you’ve had several clinical attacks, and localization of these also corroborates the theory. You often suffered from colds as a child. And you’ve also had some problems with your sight; that’s right, isn’t it?”

“Yes.”

He has to strain to form the little word. He feels paralyzed sitting there in bed.

“Clinical neurological examination has revealed reduced sensitivity in various parts of your body. Only a small amount so far, but this, too, fits in with the pattern of disease we’ve built up. There’s also an indication of reduced neurotransmission. Unfortunately we can do nothing about the tissue that’s already been attacked. It’s impossible to mend. But we can curtail the attacks with medication. If that’s appropriate. It depends on the development of the disease.”

“The development?”

Charlo’s mouth goes dry. He doesn’t know what the doctor’s talking about or driving at.

“This disease is very variable. Just how badly you’ll be affected is impossible to predict. Some people manage extremely well. In fact, only a third or, I should say, a quarter of all patients experience major problems. The prognosis isn’t necessarily that bad. We just have to hope that yours will be a less severe case, and such cases do exist.”

“But what happens if I get worse? Will I keep falling down?”

“As I said, I don’t want to make predictions,” the doctor says. “We need time; we must see how it develops.”

“But could I become paralyzed? Is that what you’re saying?”

“Only in the very worst case. Let’s be positive. There’s no reason for it to happen to you.”

“But it could happen?”

“In the worst case, yes. But the odds that you’ll avoid it are considerable.”

Charlo sweeps a hand over his balding head.

“So, is there a name for this thing? What is this disease we’re talking about?”

The doctor lowers his eyes and looks at his papers.

“The disease is named after what is actually happening to you. Sclerosis in the tissue surrounding the nerves.”

“Yes?”

The doctor looks at him earnestly.

“Multiple sclerosis.”

Charlo falls back onto his pillow. His eyes dart around the room; it seems to be swimming in front of him. No, he thinks, they’re wrong. People with multiple sclerosis become paralyzed. They end up in wheelchairs. They don’t live all that long. I must get home, he thinks. Julie and I are going out to eat. I can’t just lie here listening to this nonsense.

“Do you want to call somebody?” the doctor says quietly. He nods toward the phone. It looks as if he wants to leave the room. He has nothing more to say.

“Multiple sclerosis?” Charlo whispers. “Are you absolutely sure?”

The doctor glances at the nurse.

“We’re fairly certain. Your symptoms are typical of the disease. Try to be calm. For all we know, you may have many good years ahead of you.”

Yes, that’s what he’s always believed. Many good years with Julie and Crazy. His mouth is so dry. He wants to get out of bed. He wants to stand and prove to himself, and to the two people in white, that he’s well and can use his legs. And as long as he’s well, his legs will work. His hands begin to shake uncontrollably. In desperation, he clasps them beneath the duvet.

“As things are,” the doctor says, “you can go straight home. You must stay in contact with your medical practitioner. He’ll discuss medication and suchlike more closely with you, should you begin to need it.”

Charlo nods feebly. This must be a bad dream, and he’ll wake up soon. Then they just go, and he’s left lying there alone. The room feels large and cold, so he pulls up the duvet. He wants to hide away from everything. This isn’t happening, he thinks. Why do catastrophes always head my way? He’s so shaken that he feels nauseated. Suddenly he pushes the duvet aside, gets up, and walks across the room to the mirror. He stands staring at himself: his broad face, his gray eyes. Fear has made them lighter. For a while, he stands there immobile, his hands propped on the washbasin. Then he goes back to his bed, packs his few belongings, and dresses. A nurse appears and asks if he needs a taxi. He gives a slight shake of his head. No, he’s got his own car. He doesn’t need help of any kind. He clenches his fists. Feels that he’s on the verge of tears. There’s a pressing at his throat, a stinging under his eyelids. Even so, she stands there watching him with a mild expression. So that he can blurt out his despair if he wants to. Lay his head against her uniform and sob like a child. But he doesn’t do it. He turns his back and hunches his shoulders. Hears her leaving and closing the door. He puts his quilted jacket on and looks around the room. Then, with rapid steps, he makes for the door.

He gets home and collapses into a chair.

His bag thumps to the floor. He can’t be bothered to unpack. It can stay there with his slippers and pajamas, reminding him of this awful day. Multiple sclerosis. The words are like a big, slimy insect inside his mouth, and suddenly he retches. There are tears in his eyes. He sits crumpled and despairing in his chair, as he remembers the doctor’s words. Those damned sheaths decaying. It’s unbearable. He imagines his nerves as a network of brittle, worn-out wires that can no longer conduct electricity. From now on, he’ll get slower and weaker. From now on, he’ll find that his legs won’t obey him, and his brain will send messages that never arrive. He tells his feet to drum on the floor. They do so without difficulty, and he’s not slow, either. Take it easy now. Don’t cry. The prognosis isn’t that bad. Of course he’ll be one of those who’ll manage the disease well. He’s sure of it. He gets up and takes a few turns around the room. He talks sternly to himself. There are two voices inside him now, arguing.

Why should you get off more lightly than other people? D’you think you’re invincible?

Haven’t I been through enough in my miserable life as it is? This is completely unfair. I don’t deserve it.

You’re forgetting something important. Think about what you’ve done. Consider that.

So I must be punished now — is that what you mean?

You’ll have to atone in some way or another. It’s your reckoning we’re talking about, and it doesn’t balance.

I do Harriet Krohn no good by sitting in a wheelchair.

Don’t say that. One day you’ll die. The debt must be repaid before that.

I don’t owe anything. I’ve been unlucky, damn you!

On an impulse, he goes to the bookcase. He looks at the encyclopedia and pulls out volume eight. He finds the letter M and begins to search. Multiple, multiple personality, and here, multiple sclerosis. His eyes move down the page. Disseminated sclerosis, from the Greek skleros, hard, and Latin disseminare, scatter. A chronic disease of the nervous system, the cause of which, despite intense research, remains unknown. Examination of the brains and spinal cords of patients who have died of multiple sclerosis show a decrease in the myelin layer that surrounds the nerve fibers. There is also an increase in the connective tissue in the brain and spinal cord. This causes scar tissue that is harder than the normal tissue of the central nervous system, and the name of the disease derives from this. These changes are often spread out in the brain and spinal cord, and the term multiple refers to this phenomenon. Many hypotheses have been advanced for the cause of the disease, but none have yet been proven. Infection, especially viral infection, poisoning, lack of certain elements in the diet, allergies, and many other causes have been blamed. The two major theories are that either the disease is caused by a viral infection with a very long latent period that takes years to manifest itself and develops very slowly or the disease is linked to autoimmunity. In other words, the organism has a reaction to its own tissue.