Yrsa Sigurðardóttir - I Remember You

‘No.’

The woman’s reply was so categorical that Freyr chose not to argue. ‘Of course you know I’m never far away and you can send for me if you feel you need to. The nurses are always here as well, so you just let us know if you’re feeling bad.’ He turned to the nurse. ‘But I think that’s enough for today.’ He placed his hand on the woman’s and felt how she stiffened at his touch. Her dry skin was ice-cold. It was quite depressing to think how low a percentage of those who suffered from serious mental illnesses had any hope of a reasonable recovery. For example, Úrsúla had had to live her life with the unshakable belief that she was in danger; that someone was after her and wanted to harm her. No common sense or explanation could remedy this delusion, and without medication she constantly feared that some mysterious entity was on the verge of sinking its claws into her. Her medical records ran to hundreds of pages and they made for sad reading; a more oppressive life was hard to imagine. She had a major birthday this year: she was turning seventy, but that milestone would doubtless pass as quietly as everything else in her life: a slice of cake from the staff, who might also sing her ‘Happy Birthday’. Freyr resolved to remember to bring her a beautiful gift when the day arrived; he was sure it would please her. Several times he had heard her lament that she hadn’t been confirmed – four months before her confirmation was due to take place, she’d been admitted for the first time, and despite being ill and not entirely herself, she had clearly hoped to go through with the ceremony, having no doubt been looking forward to it for some time, like most adolescents. It had always struck Freyr as sad that no one had arranged for her wish to be fulfilled, but perhaps it would make amends to do something for the woman now, when another festive occasion was imminent.

‘She doesn’t refuse her medication.’ The nurse had followed Freyr out. ‘I think it’ll all work out. As long as she doesn’t have a serious attack. Of course, we can’t monitor her twenty-four hours a day, but we do look in on her and sit with her as much as we can. We’d feel better if there were a night shift here, but as long as she takes her sleeping pills before bed we can manage without it.’

Freyr nodded. In Ísafjörður there was no communal residence where the woman could live and the nursing home was the only appropriate place for her. Its staff also looked after home care in Ísafjörður and its neighbouring towns, so they had enough on their plates even before taking on a woman who had spent so many years in a psychiatric ward. He knew these regional transfers were a significant factor in his being hired by the Regional Hospital; there was no psychiatrist in Ísafjörður or in this region of the country and it was difficult for general practitioners to provide the woman and others like her with the proper care. Upon coming to Ísafjörður, Freyr had been assigned the task of holding a course for the few staff members of the nursing home on the care of the mentally ill, and although it wasn’t as good as a specialized training course of several years’ duration, it had proved useful. This wasn’t necessarily all down to him, either – the staff had worked hard and shown a great deal of interest in what he’d had to say.

After specifying what time he would come the next day and saying goodbye, Freyr went out to his car. Before getting in, he looked up at the building and saw Úrsúla’s face in the window where she always sat. It was devoid of any emotion. She stared at him, following his every move. Freyr halted, surprised, and they caught each other’s eye. He raised his eyebrows when she opened her mouth and started speaking to him through the double glazing. The fact that he couldn’t hear her didn’t appear to stop the woman; she was still absorbed in her monologue when he looked away and got into his car. Until now Úrsúla had always been almost silent in his presence, communicating only in very short sentences, and certainly never making speeches such as the one he’d just witnessed. He couldn’t work out what had prompted it, but knew from previous experience that a variation in behaviour wasn’t a good sign. It could indicate that she was starting to go downhill. As he left the car park he called the nurse to express his concern to her and ask that they keep an eye on her. He didn’t want these conscientious staff to end up in a situation like the one when Úrsúla had lost the hearing in one ear after sticking a knitting needle into it. This had occurred several years ago and Freyr had only read about it in reports, but that was enough. She had wanted to silence a voice in her ear which was threatening her, a voice that was entirely imaginary and could therefore just as easily have started plaguing her from her belly or her toes. An attempt to silence it in one of those parts of her anatomy would have been even bloodier. In any case, they had every reason to remain alert.

Freyr’s next visit was also for monitoring purposes. He’d been asked to look in on the husband of the woman who had killed herself in Súðavík. The man’s local GP had contacted Freyr the previous evening and expressed concerns about his condition, saying that he was grateful to be able to turn to a specialist who had more experience with psychological problems than he himself did. Freyr had made several of these house calls in the south, treating people who were having difficulty coping with bereavement, although he’d encountered no suicides since moving west. So he knew what to expect, as well as the most appropriate ways to assist the grieving and bewildered spouse. According to information from the hospital, the woman had never been diagnosed with depression or any other serious disease, nor shown any signs of mental disturbance. In other words, there was nothing obvious to explain her last, desperate act. In cases like these, family members would usually start by saying that they had noticed no changes in the deceased’s behaviour, and that the suicide had hit them like lightning out of a clear blue sky. But more often than not the truth would turn out to be a different story: the person who’d chosen to put an end to their life had in fact gradually sunk so low that death had been welcome. Because this process could develop slowly, family members didn’t notice the decline or simply didn’t recognize the warning bells that rang with increasing intensity.

There was no traffic in the tunnel and Freyr allowed himself to drive faster than normal. He was well aware that the structure was safe and the mountain wasn’t about to flatten him, yet he was always glad to see the opening on the other side. The lighting wasn’t strong enough to overcome the night-blindness that always hit him when he drove into the tunnel in daylight. He had never got used to the light on this six-kilometre long journey, but thought it more likely that his discomfort had a psychological rather than a physical origin. The thought of being in a place where man was not originally intended to travel aroused in him a primitive fear that he couldn’t handle. But this time it wasn’t the thickness of the rock above him or the unnatural light that bothered him.

The image of Úrsúla speaking silently to him through the window troubled him, as well as the nagging feeling that he had failed, that he should have postponed his trip to the widower in Flateyri, turned round in the car park and gone back in to hear what she wanted to tell him. He had no idea what that might possibly be, but it increased his curiosity and regret at failing to investigate the matter while he’d had the opportunity. He would probably never know what she had on her mind. A ridiculous idea nestled deep in his brain: that the woman had meant to tell him something concerning his son. But he was well aware that she couldn’t possibly know a single thing about his situation, and that this feeling was most likely a result of the phone call from his ex-wife, which was still bothering him.