Christian Jungersen - You Disappear

I stop to catch my breath. I cannot live with a man like this , I think, waiting for him to settle down. There’s no way anyone can expect me to. There’s just no way .

Beneath me, his body grows tired and limp. I’ve still got him pinioned down when he begins to speak, in a sad voice that I haven’t heard since he became sick.

“The words just rushed out,” he says. “I knew I shouldn’t say something like that to her. I can’t understand why I did.”

I let go immediately. For he sounds like the real Frederik. The “voice” is gone. I want to help my poor husband, I want to lift him up. Who is he now? Has he been set free?

We stand in the middle of the floor. The room grows bright, and it feels as if all the anger was flushed from my body after I hit him. I’m appalled that I could have done that. A sick man. A poor sick man .

I can’t stand to look him in the eye. Instead I glance around, trying to find the best place to sit him down.

“Well, it’s certainly good that you know it’s wrong,” I say.

“I do know. It’s utterly, utterly wrong!”

His eyes are desperate, and opened wide. As if he’s just this moment discovering who he’s become, and everything he’s done these past months.

“It’s utterly, utterly wrong! Utterly, utterly, utterly!” Suddenly he’s shouting. “It’s awful! Why do I say such things?” And he’s crying at the same time, so that tears or snot gets caught in his windpipe and he starts coughing as he shouts. “Why do I do it?”

In seconds his cheeks are sopping wet. He’s no longer a human being; more like some animal that bellows. A long-limbed, bony animal. He’s a moose, standing alone in the forest and bellowing its grief.

“Too awful! Too awful! I don’t know why I say those things!”

“No, you don’t know why.”

“I don’t want … I don’t … I … too awful!”

And then something new happens: the tears grow less animal. Without thinking I reach out my hand to stroke his cheek, and he doesn’t push it away. It’s the first time he’s let me touch his face while he’s crying.

Immediately I start weeping too. It’s such a change — that I may touch him when he’s sad. I press myself against him, and he lets me do that too.

“Frederik, I know that you think everything’s awful.”

“It is awful!”

“But you’re making progress.”

“No, no, no!”

“You are. You’re beginning to get better.”

“No, it’s just too too awful!”

“Yes, you shouldn’t say things like that to Niklas’s friends, but now you know that. Now you know when you’re doing something wrong.”

“No I don’t!”

“Yes you do. And I’m also allowed to hold you and touch you. That makes me very happy.”

“You are allowed to! I’m so wretched!”

“Yes, you’re wretched. But it’s good that you know you’re sick. That’s a very good thing. And it’s good you get unhappy when you’ve done something wrong. That’s very good too.”

“No, no, no!”

Fifteen minutes later, his sobbing suddenly ceases. We sit down on the sofa, and from other times I know just what he needs. I go out into the kitchen and spread jam on four pieces of bread, which he then bolts one after the other.

To think that I struck him, just a short while ago. I don’t understand. I’m an awful person. I’ve just struck my sick husband. Battered him. With a small stainless-steel bowl. And I don’t have any brain damage to blame.

The telephone rings. Then the cell rings, and then I hear a text come in, and then the phones ring again. I don’t answer them. I know what they’ve all heard. The news. Something on TV about the charges. I turn off the phones.

Later, another kind of peace falls over him.

“So maybe I’m sicker than we thought?” he says.

“Yes, maybe you are.”

“But I was really looking forward to going back and working at the school. Do you think I’ll have to wait a couple more weeks?”

“Yeah, I think that’d be a good idea. You should wait a little while.”

We rest our heads against each other, and I drape an arm over his shoulder. That’s how we sat in the old days. That’s how we sat during our three good years together.

From:Else Vangkær, Farum Church To:Mia Halling Date:Tue, March 1st, 2011, 8:52 pm Subject:Re: Does the soul reside in the brain?

Dear Mia,

Everyone is welcome in church! That applies equally to people who usually only come for “weddings, confirmations, and funerals,” as you wrote.

I understand how difficult it must be for you to write that you feel as if your beloved husband is already dead — that his soul is dead. You have promised to stay with him “till death do you part.” But what if his real self is already dead, and only his body remains behind?

Your question has a philosophical history that goes back several thousand years, and there are different views on the soul’s relationship to the body in the New and the Old Testaments. There are also differences between Catholic and Protestant beliefs.

It is hard to discuss such serious matters via e-mail, so I sincerely hope you will come by for a chat sometime during the week. I can see that you wrote to me at 2 in the morning. If you are too busy to meet during the day, I’m sure we can arrange another time.

It is clear that, during a time like this, you must be feeling profound grief and great loss, and perhaps that is something you would like to talk about as well.

You’re also very welcome to call me at 70 27 25 95.

Best regards,

Else

Else Vangkær

Pastor

Farum Church

At a quarter to seven the next morning, I run from the sculpture park behind the senior housing units and down the path through the woods. The path is still full of potholes from the winter, and for a long stretch it skirts the lakefront, just a few yards from the water.

As I run, I think about Niklas. How he no longer dares to bring friends home. And I think about Frederik, who wants to have sex with one of his son’s friends. Has he always been like that? Are all men that way? Maybe the only difference between Frederik and other men is that the others keep quiet about it because their inhibitory mechanisms are still intact.

As my feet find their way around the potholes and slush on the path, I think about Frederik during the years he was unfaithful. I think about Hanne’s boyfriend, who drove her to jump from a high-rise. About my father just wanting to ball hippie chicks . About the married men who made passes at me in the weeks after I’d thrown Frederik out, and my tennis coach, all those years ago when I was in gymnasium. They’re everywhere. I think about all the drunk married teachers running around, potbellied and red-cheeked, during faculty Christmas parties. How can a woman ever have a trusting relationship with a man?

Through the low-hanging branches I can see the mist over the lake, which is itself the color of thickened mist. That’s what it is after all, I think, and I stop by the pier. I walk quickly out over the water and suck the air deep into my lungs.

I had thoughts like this before Frederik became sick. And I’ve spoken with Helena about it often. Her attitude is Yes, all men are like that. But in a few years it’ll all be over; we should enjoy it while we can .

That’s where we disagree.

Still in my running clothes, and with sweat pouring down my face, I pop into the mini-mart at the train station. I only have a few minutes before I need to be home and shower, but we’ve run out of milk, since I never went shopping yesterday after all.