Caroline Eriksson - The Watcher

He straightens up but won’t look me in the eye. We head into the kitchen, and I tell Leo to have a seat while I put away the food and deal with my newly purchased plants. Instead he offers to help me, and soon we’re busy potting, watering, and arranging the plants along the windowsill. When Leo turns toward the window to set a fern on the sill and then leans over to adjust its fronds, I sneak a peek at him. I can’t shake the thought of that slip of paper. Did he write that about himself? Or was that a note from someone else?

Leo turns around and catches me looking. I quickly ask if he’s hungry. A few minutes later, we’re sitting at the table with a plate of oat crackers between us. Leo inhales several of them but is careful to leave half of the crackers for me. I shake my head, push the plate toward him, and tell him the truth: “ I’m not hungry.”

My sister’s words echo in my ears: The anorexia you had as a teenager. Mama told me. I push my fingers together and feel the distaste—which had been temporarily displaced by thoughts of Leo—stir again. Had that conversation really taken place? And if so, what exactly had my mother told my sister?

Leo breaks the last cracker in half and crunches away on one half while he looks around at the kitchen.

“Do you live here by yourself?”

That question is unexpected, and I don’t have time to think it over. A nod would have been enough, a simple yes , and yet the words pour out of me on their own.

“My husband and I are separated.”

“Are you going to get divorced?” Leo asks seriously.

“We’re living apart to have time to think on our own, but we’re still married.”

He nods and chews the last piece of cracker in silence. Once he’s done, he brushes some small crumbs off the table into the palm of his hand.

“About that…” He sucks on his lip and nods toward the front hall before adding, “…note.”

I nod slowly, waiting.

Leo tosses the remaining crumbs into his mouth and takes his time swallowing them.

“If you happen to meet my mom or dad, maybe say hello and start chatting or… Anyway, if you do, you don’t need to mention that to them, the note, I mean.”

I get up to fetch two glasses of water. I set one in front of Leo and sit back down in the chair across from him.

“Maybe you should tell them.”

He doesn’t respond.

“If things aren’t going well,” I continue, “if someone’s picking on you…”

Leo shakes his head vigorously.

“My dad is busy. He works all the time and doesn’t have time for things like that.”

Things like that? I drink my water.

“Your mom, then?”

“My mom?”

Leo once again shakes his head so his bangs whip across his face.

“She wouldn’t believe me.”

Those words hang between us. Something fills the room, a new and different energy.

I keep my voice as indifferent as possible, trying to hide my curiosity. “Why do you say that?”

He glances furtively at the glass I set in front of him.

“My mom is… She’s kind of…”

And then, right then, it’s just there, that same sinking feeling I’ve had so many times before in various contexts and with widely differing people: There’s a story here.

“What? She’s what?”

Leo slowly raises his face. A look flits through his eyes, but it happens so quickly I don’t have a chance to determine what it means.

“It’s hard to explain,” he mumbles, turning away again. “She’s unique.”

“How so? Can you give an example?”

That’s going too far. I realize that as soon as I’ve asked the question, and I open my mouth to smooth it over, take it back. But Leo beats me to it.

“I remember,” he mumbles, “this one time when I was little, maybe five or six. My mom and I were walking over a bridge, and suddenly she threw her purse over the side, just like that. I don’t know where we’d been or where we were going, but I remember thinking it was weird that she was walking so close to the edge. We were holding hands, and I said something, but she didn’t look at me, just kept staring at the water below. Then she raised her arm and threw her purse with her wallet, keys, phone, and everything in it. A man came and tried to help. He stuck a long branch down and tried to fish out the purse, but it didn’t work. In the end, it sank. Later, when my mother went to explain what had happened to my father, I heard her use the word ‘dropped,’ and I remember how astonished I was. I mean, I knew she’d thrown that purse on purpose. I couldn’t understand why she wouldn’t just tell the truth, not even to Dad.”

The kitchen clock ticks in the background, and Leo cracks his knuckles. I sit there dumbfounded. I don’t know exactly what I was expecting, but hardly that he would tell me, someone he had only just met, something so private.

“You know, sometimes grown-ups do things that seem strange. That doesn’t necessarily mean that…”

Leo looks up.

“That’s just one story. I have more. There are worse things I could tell you—much worse.”

“About your mother?”

“Yes, about my mother.”

My thoughts go back to witnessing Veronica brandishing those scissors, the uncontrolled craziness of her motions. More stories like that, and worse? Then I stop and glance at him. Doesn’t it feel a little… well, a little desperate for a boy his age to open up like this to a stranger? I shake my head, shaking away my questions about why he’s doing it. The reason doesn’t matter. Leo is young and maybe a little indiscreet. It’s my responsibility to not exploit that.

I change the subject. And not long after that, Veronica comes home. We both see her through the window, and Leo watches in silence as she unlocks the door. As soon as his mother disappears inside, he gets up and thanks me for the crackers. I walk him to the front door, watching as he pushes his feet into his shoes without untying the laces. Again I happen to think of the note that fell out of his book: Too ugly to exist. Maybe, it hits me, he doesn’t have very many people to turn to. Maybe that’s why he sits here with me, why he oversteps the line of what should be his parents’ private lives. Because he’s anxious and lost but doesn’t have anyone he can talk to about those feelings.

I pick up his backpack and hand it to him.

“Do you have anyone to talk to? A friend or some grown-up you can trust?”

Leo takes the backpack and looks straight at me. There’s a moment of silence.

“Thanks for letting me stop by,” he says, and then quickly goes on his way.

I return to the kitchen and watch him through the window. I can’t help but wonder what awaits him at home. Veronica. Who is the woman behind that sophisticated mask? And how is she doing, really?

Maladaptive stress reaction.

That’s the diagnosis my wife received in connection with what happened to her when she was young. She must have explained to me what it meant, but I remember very little from that part of the conversation. There was so much else that demanded attention, so much to absorb all at once. As far as the medical condition was concerned, I actually only managed to grasp that it consisted of a disproportionately strong reaction—in terms of emotions and behavior—to a specific event.

Finally eight or nine months ago, my wife revealed the whole thing to me, describing her reaction and her actions at that time. She was finally ready to confide in me, she said. She didn’t cry as she talked. Her voice was calm and contrasted sharply to the violence contained in her words. I wish I could say that I handled it well. I wish that I could say that what she told me hadn’t affected my view of her.