Майя Лунде - The End of the Ocean

“Does it feel all right?” the nurse asked.

“Yes,” he said. “All right.”

Then he discovered the old bandage. It was lying on a steel tray on a table beside the nurse.

“What are you going to do with it?”

The nurse looked at him, uncomprehending.

“With the bandage?”

“What do you mean? The old one?”

“Are you going to throw it out?”

“Yes, of course.”

Francis didn’t reply.

“Look here,” the doctor said, and handed him something blue in a transparent wrapper. “You can cover the bandage with this when you bathe.”

He made no move to accept it, so I reached out my hand and took it for him.

“Are you relatives?” she asked.

“No, we just live in the same hall.”

“Do you know whether he has anyone?”

I shook my head.

“Keep an eye on him, would you please?”

Francis moved sluggishly on our way back to the hall. As we walked away from the barracks his pace slowed more and more, until finally he stopped walking altogether.

“I just have to…”

He didn’t say anything else, but turned towards the first-aid barracks again. Then he walked quickly back and disappeared inside.

“What’s he doing?” Lou asked.

“Wait outside,” I said.

She released my hand and went to stand beside the barracks. I walked over to the door and opened it a crack.

The first thing I heard was a scratching sound. The room was empty—the nurse had left, but Francis was standing in a corner.

He was busy digging through a trash can and didn’t notice me. Then he evidently found what he was searching for. The old bandage. He quickly stuck it into his pocket with a furtive movement. I ducked away from the door and hurried back to Lou.

“What did he do?” she whispered.

But at that moment he came out. His steps were lighter.

“It feels better already,” he said. He turned towards Lou and suddenly he smiled. “That’s a good one you’ve got there,” he said to me.

I pulled Lou close to me and nodded.

“Yes, she’s a good one.”

The first night in a bed in twenty-four days. When I closed my eyes, an image of the faces of Anna and August flashed through my mind. Then I fell asleep before I could think anymore.

But then the dreams came. Worse than before, maybe because I slept so deeply.

I was falling—no, sinking through water. Towards the bottom, and I let myself sink, I didn’t struggle against it.

I would soon run out of air, my chest contracted, but nonetheless I did nothing to get back to the surface again.

I couldn’t breathe. Mustn’t inhale, mustn’t fill my lungs, mustn’t drown.

The surface above me, light blue, a shimmer of bubbles where I had fallen.

That is where I am headed. That is where I have to go.

But all I did was sink.

I woke up with a jerk.

Drew a breath. Filled my lungs. Air.

Around me it was light. It was morning already.

I turned over and lay in bed watching Lou as my breathing calmed.

She was sleeping on her back with her arms sticking out and her legs splayed in opposite directions, like a starfish. She was in constant movement. Took up room. Demanded space. When she was sleeping, she forgot to make herself small.

We’d had her far too soon. I knew we shouldn’t have started having children so early. I was only nineteen years old, and Anna had just turned twenty. We blamed it on the water crisis, on the shortages that came along with it. Because everything was in short supply. Condoms as well. I was happy about that, that Anna blamed the crisis and not me, given that I had actually promised to pull out in time.

She asked me if we should get rid of it. If I was sure. She could manage, she thought, if I didn’t want to have the baby.

And I didn’t want to have the baby. But I didn’t want to get rid of it, either. Get rid of it , like it was a thing. I got angry because she used those words. We argued. Her belly grew. We argued some more. Then it was too late.

Then there she was, the little child, pink and wrinkled up like a raisin, and the life I had had before suddenly felt like it had belonged to somebody else.

Morning sounds around us in the hall. Hushed voices, footsteps, the igniting of a cooker, a bed creaking as somebody gets up.

I let Lou sleep. Her internal clock was turned upside down, she went to bed far too late in the evening.

I had been so strict about the bedtime business before, back when there were things to show up for—work, school.

But after the school closed, we started letting Lou stay up later. There was no reason not to.

I would straighten this out now. When Anna arrived, I would enforce a clearer schedule. Set bedtimes, set mealtimes. Maybe we could also practice reading a bit. Maybe there were books here. She had missed out on many months of school already.

Lou’s body twisted and she rolled over on her back. Her mouth opened, she was breathing rapidly, fearfully, her eyes were moving behind her eyelids. What does one dream about when one is a little girl who doesn’t know how life will turn out?

She whimpered loudly. “No…”

She twisted and turned again, her crying grew louder. It was so defenseless, so full of pain. The tears trickled out of her sleeping eyes.

“Don’t… Stop… ”

I leaned forward quickly and shook her.

“Lou, Lou?”

She turned away from me, still in the dream.

“You have to wake up, Lou.”

I took her child’s body, warm with sleep, into my arms, lifted her up. She resisted, as if she wanted to stay in there.

“Lou, please.”

I stroked her hair, dried the tears on her cheeks.

Finally her eyes fluttered open. She stared up at me. For a second she was far away, and then suddenly she sat up, ready to run.

“It’s burning, Daddy, it’s burning!”

“Lou, no,” I took hold of her. “No, sweetie, it was only a dream.”

“But it smells of smoke. I can smell it. We have to get out of here!”

She turned towards her clothes, snatched up her shorts, started pulling them on.

I stood in front of her, bent my knees so my face was level with her own. Gently, I took hold of her shoulders.

“It’s not smoke, sweetie. There’s no fire.”

“But I can smell it!”

I sat down. Pulled her up onto my lap, feeling how she tensed up all her muscles.

I held her tight. Spoke softly:

“Take a whiff, what do you smell?”

She sniffed quickly.

“Smoke.”

“Try again.”

She sat completely still, sniffed again.

“Smoke.”

“Give it one more try.”

She didn’t sniff anymore. She just breathed more calmly.

“…Nothing,” she said finally.

“Nothing,” I said.

Her body was relaxed now.

I leaned my face towards her head. Sniffed. Yes, it smelled of smoke, but it came from her hair, her clothing. The way I also stunk.

“You know what we get to do today?” I said.

“No.”

“We get to take a shower.”

“A shower?”

“Yes. We get to shower every Tuesday.”

“Is it Tuesday today?”

“Yes. So we get to take a shower.”

“We need it.”

“Yes. We need it.”

Lou held the towel she’d been given with both hands. Then she opened it, like it was a present, the stiff creases from the folds still in place.

She lifted it to her face.

“It smells of soap.”

I felt my own towel. The stiff fabric was rough against the skin. A clean, pure scent.

“You have to go there,” I said, and pointed at the “Ladies” sign.

“And what about you?”