Tore Renberg - See You Tomorrow

Pål studies her. The strong cheekbones that seem to force her face upwards. Her gymnast’s body, strong, supple and erect. Never any nonsense with Malene. Such a pity about that injury. It’ll heal soon enough. He smiles, and for a moment he forgets who he is and what it is he has done.

‘Can’t I come along?’

A daughter standing there asking to go with him. He hopes it will always be like that.

‘No,’ he says, ‘it’s late. You’ve got homework.’

‘Dad, I told you, I’ve finished it.’

‘Good,’ he says. ‘But, it’d be nice if you were here when Tiril gets in.’

‘Aww.’ She pouts and pulls Zitha close: ‘Don’t you want to stay here with Malene, eh?’

The dog licks her across the face, the tongue pink, wet, the tail beating the floor.

Next to the hall mirror hangs the old photo of his wife. It has started to fade. The kids wanted it put up after she left. A photo of Mum for the sake of the kids. Funny that. One year you want to tear her eyes out and the next it’s like you miss her.

‘Someone rang, by the way.’

He’s startled out of his musings. ‘Hm?’

‘On the landline,’ says Malene. ‘Someone rang. They asked after you.’

‘Did they give a name?’ He tries to sound as nonchalant as possible.

‘No, but they said they’d call back.’

‘The rubbish,’ he hears Malene say, feeling the fog thicken in his head, wishing he could drop everything and collapse on to the floor. ‘Bin collection tomorrow.’

‘Oh, yeah, the rubbish,’ he says, perplexed. ‘What would I do without you?’

Malene stands up, and lets go of the dog. She shrugs. ‘That’d be the end of you, Dad.’

‘Heh heh. Where’s your sister, by the way?’

‘I told you, she’s at work.’

He rolls his eyes and grins at himself.

‘You’ve become such a scatterbrain.’ Malene lets Zitha jump up on her; she takes a paw in each hand and dances with the dog. She sends Pål a playful look: ‘Is it your age? Eh? Is my dad an old fogey now?’

‘No, no.’ He runs his hand over his eyes and laughs awkwardly. ‘Just a lot on my mind. Bit too much going on at work. It’ll be all right though. Your dad always comes through in the end, you know that.’

Malene peers at him, squinting so intently it makes her cheekbones even rounder: ‘Still sore?’

‘Yeah.’ He blinks. ‘Like there’s sand in them.’

‘What can it be?’

‘Dunno. But I’m sure it’ll go away.’

‘Have you been to the doctor?’

She’s got that grown-up look in her eyes. She looks like Christine when she’s like that.

‘No, not yet, but I will, of course.’ He forces a smile.

‘Yeah, well make sure you do, okay?’

Pål suddenly feels his teeth begin to chatter, feels his eyelids close and the oxygen drain from his head. He bends over. Pushes the dog aside, pulls Malene close to him. He swallows a lump in his throat.

He holds her tight, doesn’t say a word.

This is never going to work out, he thinks to himself.

‘Dad?’

They say you love your kids equally, and you do, but it’s different with Malene. He’s never quite understood Tiril, never quite connected, like she’s off somewhere else, in a whole different direction, moving too fast for him. Is it Thursday she’s going to sing?

‘Dad? What is it?’

He holds her tight. Swallows, sniffles, blinks. Then he lets go.

‘Is it Thursday Tiril is singing?’

‘You know it is.’

‘Yeah,’ he says, shaking his head, ‘what are you going to do with me, sentimental fool that I am, eh? Do you know what I was just thinking of? Iron Maiden in Drammenshallen , sure it was good, but Maiden in London, Malene, nothing beats that. Six, six, six, the number of the beast, sacrifice is going on tonight . Heh heh. Your old rocker dad, eh? Your daft dad has gone all soft. How’s your ankle? Soon, Malene, you’ll soon be back on the mat. Now, go and do your homework, and I’ll take Zitha for a walk.’

She looks at him askance. ‘I’ve done my homework…’

Pål tousles her hair. It feels soothing to the touch. What a girl. He’s so proud of having such a great daughter.

Imagine if he told her? Imagine he suddenly told her everything?

‘You know what?’ He strokes her cheek. ‘The two of you should hang up another milk carton for the birds. Autumn’s arrived, you know.’

Am I a storm? Am I electric?

She’ll be sixteen in a few months, her forehead is sweaty, under her hairline too. Her mouth is trembling and she knows she needs to hurry up — her knees wobble as she walks. Her heart is wild and emboldened; she feels weak, she feels strong.

One metre sixty-one, two burning eyes, three freckles on her nose, straight blonde fringe and glittering lip gloss.

The white bra, the one she bought without her mother’s knowledge, the one her mother would probably think was tawdry, would he like it?

Is she the one he just has to have? Is she irresistible?

Sandra doesn’t need any sleep, doesn’t need any rest, why sleep the seconds away? She’s never going to sleep again, she’s going to stay awake twenty-four hours a day, because she doesn’t have the time to waste a second of the life she’s living.

Terrorism, environmental disasters, financial crises. They might well exist out there, they might well be important, to Mum, to Dad, to the teachers, to grown-ups, but to her they don’t exist. The world has vanished. All she’s got is heat and dread, haste and apprehension. All she feels is this drizzle within, like a strange rain falling inside her, wonderful and dangerous. Because Sandra is going to meet the one she loves.

He must be there by now?

She clutches the silver cross resting in the hollow of her throat, wipes her damp forehead with her arm. It’s embarrassing, she’s inherited it from her father. He always has patches of sweat under his arms when he hangs up his jacket after work and says, ‘Ah, it’s good to be home’.

Maybe she should get herself a headscarf she could tie from the back of her neck round her forehead. Maybe he’d like that. He wouldn’t have left yet, would he?

Sandra drags the heavy industrial hoover as quickly as she can across the shop floor. She’s not checking the time on her mobile every minute, more like every five seconds and now it’s way too late, 20:50.

He’s going to be waiting for her by the substation in Gosen Woods. Just by Madlavoll primary school. Close to Gosen kindergarten. She’s attended both of them. He’ll be waiting for her. And he’s not lying now is he, because love, that doesn’t lie, does it?

Jesus, imagine if Mum had seen her?

He took her face in those warm hands, his pupils were aglow. She held her breath, felt his thumbs stroke her lips, then he kissed her and said what she wanted to hear: ‘I’ll be there at nine. See you tomorrow.’

Love doesn’t lie.

It’s nice outside now. After a few weeks of rain, the September sky is brightening up even though the temperature has dropped and everybody can feel what’s coming: there’s a nip in the air. Everything living will fade and die.

It’s all the same to Sandra. Come rain, come storm, come everything. War could break out, and that would be fine, as long as she gets to be with him, with him. The girl can hardly understand what she was doing before she met Daniel. All the days and nights spent with her friends, standing around the schoolyard, hanging about outside the shop, walking arm-in-arm, sniggering, and singing out loud in unison. It seems so insignificant, so stupid, so childish. They can go on about how preoccupied she’s become lately. Mira can say it as loud as she likes, Sandra’s let us down, Sandra’s losing it. And Mathilde, poor girl, looks like she lives in squalor, as Mum would say, she can say it too, Sandra’s changed. Makes no difference what they think, it’s air, it’s wind, it’s really less than nothing. All that matters is running towards the one you love and letting your heart melt into his.