Fredrik Backman - Britt-Marie Was Here [Britt-Marie var här]

“I can only wait till tomorrow morning, Britt-Marie. I’ll stay with Toad’s parents. If you don’t come knocking on the door in the morning I’m going home on my own.”

He tries to say it in a confident way, even though he knows he has already lost her.

She is already halfway to the recreation center.

Omar and Vega see her before she sees them. She has already run past them when she hears them calling out irritably to her.

“Goodness grac… Liverpool have… well I certainly don’t know exactly what they’ve done, but I am under the impression that they’re going to win against these… whatever their name was. Villa something!” pants Britt-Marie, so out of breath that she sees stars and has to steady herself, in the middle of the road, by resting her hands on her knees. The neighbors must surely be wondering whether she’s started using narcotics.

“We know!” Omar joins in eagerly. “We’re going to win! You could see it in Gerrard’s eyes when he scored that we’re going to win!”

Britt-Marie looks up, breathing so heavily that she feels a migraine coming on.

“May I ask what on earth you are doing here in the middle of the road, then?”

Vega faces her with her hands in her pockets, shaking her head as if she has come to the conclusion that Britt-Marie is even slower than she’d thought.

“When we turn it around we want to see it with you.”

Liverpool never turn that match around. The final score is 2–2. It makes no difference and it makes all the difference in the world.

They have eggs and bacon in Bank’s kitchen that night. Vega and Omar and Britt-Marie and Bank and the dog. When Omar puts his elbows on the table, it’s Vega who tells him to take them off.

Their eyes meet for a moment, and then he does as she says without protest.

Britt-Marie stands in the hall as they put on their jackets. She curls up her toes in her shoes and brushes their arms until they have to hold her hands to make her stop.

The young woman from the social services is standing on the lawn, waiting for them.

“She’s okay, she doesn’t like soccer but she’s okay,” says Vega to Britt-Marie.

“We’ll teach her,” Omar assures her.

Britt-Marie sucks in her cheeks and nods.

“I… the thing is that I… I just want to say that I… that you… that I never,” she begins.

“We know,” mumbles Vega deep into the fabric of Britt-Marie’s jacket.

“It’s cool,” Omar promises.

The children have reached the road when the boy turns around. Britt-Marie hasn’t moved at all, as if she wants to preserve the image of them on her retinas until the very last. So he asks:

“What are you doing tomorrow?”

Britt-Marie clasps her hands together on her stomach. Inhales for as long as she can.

“Kent will be waiting for me to knock on his door.”

Vega shoves her hands in her pockets. Raises her eyebrows.

“And Sven?”

Britt-Marie inhales. Exhales. Lets Borg bounce around inside her lungs.

“He told me he hopes it’s me every time there’s a knock on his door.”

The children look so small, illuminated by the streetlights. But Vega stretches, straightens her back, and says:

“Do me a favor, Britt-Marie.”

“Anything,” she whispers.

“Don’t knock on any door tomorrow. Just get in the car and drive!”

Britt-Marie stands on her own in the dark long after they have gone. She never said anything, has not promised anything. She knows it would have been a promise she could not keep.

She stands on the balcony of Bank’s house, feeling Borg blowing tenderly through her hair. Not so hard that it ruins her hairstyle, just enough to feel the breeze. The newspaper delivery drives past while it’s still dark. The women with the walkers slowly make their way out of the house opposite, towards their postbox. One of them waves at Britt-Marie and she waves back. Not with her whole arm, obviously, but with a controlled movement, a discreet movement of one hand at the level of her hips. The way a person with common sense waves. She waits until the women have gone back into the house. Then she sneaks down the stairs and carries her bags out to the white car with the blue door.

Before dawn she’s standing outside a door, and knocking.

If a human being closes her eyes hard and long enough, she can remember all the times she has made a choice in her life just for her own sake. And realize, perhaps, that it has never happened. If she drives a white car with a blue door slowly down a road through a village, while it’s still dark, and if she winds down the window and takes deep breaths, then she can remember all the men she has fallen in love with.

Alf. Kent. Sven. One who deceived her and left her. Another who deceived her and was left by her. A third who is many things she has never had, but possibly none of the ones she has been longing for. And she can slowly, slowly, slowly unwrap the bandage from her hand and look at the white mark on her ring finger. While dreaming of first love and other chances, and weighing up forgiveness against love. Counting the beats of her heart.

If a human being closes her eyes she can remember all the choices in her life. And realize they have all been for the sake of someone else.

It’s early morning in Borg, but the dawn seems to be holding off. As if it wants to give her time to raise her hand. Make up her mind.

And jump.

She knocks on the door. It opens. She wants to say everything she feels inside, everything she has been carrying, but she never gets the chance. She wants to explain exactly why she’s here and nowhere else, but she is interrupted. It makes her disappointed to realize she was expected — and that she’s so predictable.

She wants to say something about how it feels, to open her chest and let everything flow for the first time, but she is not given the opportunity. Instead she is led with a firm hand back to the road. The pavement is dotted with plastic petrol cans. As if they’ve fallen off the back of a truck.

“Everyone in the team collected money. We’ve worked out the exact distance,” says the boy.

“Those of us who can count have worked it out, yes,” the girl interjects.

“I can count!” the boy cries angrily.

“Just about as much as you can kick a ball, so, yeah, like, you can count to three!” The girl grins.

Britt-Marie leans forward and feels the plastic jerrycans. They stink.

Something brushes against her arms and it takes a good while before she realizes the children are holding both of her hands.

“It’s petrol. We’ve worked it out. There’s enough here to get all the way to Paris,” whispers Omar.

“And all the way back,” adds Vega.

They stand there waving while Britt-Marie gets into the driver’s seat. They wave with their entire bodies, the way grown-ups never do. Morning comes to Borg with a sun that controls itself and waits respectfully on the horizon, as if wanting to give her enough time to make a last choice, and then to choose for herself for the first time. When daylight finally streams in over the rooftops, a white car with a blue door starts pulling away.

Maybe she stops. Maybe she knocks on just one more door.

Maybe she just drives.

God knows Britt-Marie certainly has enough fuel.

It’s January in a place that is one of millions rather than one in a million. A place like all the others, and a place like no other.