Tore Renberg - See You Tomorrow

‘Dad?’

If he only had one more chance.

‘Daaad!’

Pål props himself up on his elbows, throws back the duvet, swings his body round and sits on the edge of the bed. His holds his head in his hands, then drops them on his knees, lets his blood settle.

Footsteps. Then stomping on the stairs. Tiril.

The door’s going to be opened in a moment. He gulps, tousles his hair and plasters a smile on his face. His eyes. There’s still sand in them.

If he only had one chance to erase everything he’s done.

There. The door’s opening.

‘Hi, Tiril,’ he says, smiling. ‘Good morning, love. Come here and give me a hug.’

He stretches his arms out towards her, noticing straight away how weak they feel. She remains standing in the doorway. She’s wearing so much make-up, so black around the eyes. Her clothes, the red-and-black skirt, the cut-up tights, the braces, all the button badges, skulls, band names and slogans, the lank hair.

Zitha comes scurrying in. Pål takes a hold of her under the snout, looks in her eyes and she licks his face before lying down obediently, expectantly at his feet.

‘There’s no bread,’ Tiril says, folding her arms and planting her feet apart. ‘And there’s no milk or fruit. And you’re never up out of bed.’

He shrugs awkwardly, reaches for his trousers on the chair and takes his wallet from the pocket.

‘Here, look—’

She sighs. ‘That’s just great, Dad.’

‘What do you mean—?’

‘Whatever. Give me the money. That’ll fix everything. Why not just leave the fridge empty?’

She stands with her hand out in front of him, refusing to meet his gaze.

‘But Tiril, honey, I just forgot … it’ll be fine, listen, I’ll get to the shops after—’

She remains unmoved, her hand out. She reminds him so much of his wife sometimes. Barging into the room, no hug, no good morning, nothing, just instructions and demands. Pål hands her the hundred kroner note, wants her to know that he has money, that he’s taking care of what needs taking care of.

‘Will that cover lunch too?’

She crosses her arms again.

‘Imagine we ate a normal breakfast now and again,’ she says.

‘But … but we do?’ He rubs his eyes, pulls on his trousers. Holds out another hundred. ‘Don’t we? I mean, at the weekends—’

New footsteps on the stairs. Sounding easier, lighter. Malene. Zitha raises her head, wags her tail. Malene walks in the door, glances at both of them and then at the hundred kroner note he’s waving.

She goes over and stands beside her sister. Both of them look at him as he pulls on his T-shirt, puts on his socks.

‘What?’ Pål tries to laugh but can’t manage. ‘What is it?’

Malene’s chest rises and falls. She doesn’t make a big deal of it as she takes the money from his hand. She tilts her head slightly to one side. The fact that the two of them are sisters. Hard to comprehend sometimes. He remembers taking them to the playground when they were small. Tiril triggered into life as soon as she caught sight of the place, the colourful apparatus, the sandbox, sprinting towards them with almost frightening excitement, jumping on to the swings, never getting enough, faster, Dad, faster. Malene would walk in calmly. Go over to a swing. Sit down upon it. Examine it. Begin to sway, carefully, that’s high enough, Dad, that’s enough.

Tiril’s eyes are red, she turns on her heels and leaves the room. While she’s tramping down the stairs she shouts: ‘Zitha’s been fed! I won’t be home for dinner! Be back late! Got rehearsals!’

‘But—’ Pål tries to raise his voice a notch. But he lacks the strength.

Malene remains standing in front of him. He knows he treats her as though she was an adult and not his daughter, but he can’t help himself. ‘What was that?’ he asks. ‘What is it now? Have I done something wrong? I forgot to go shopping, but there’s a lot happening in work at the moment, Malene, you’ve no idea — do you think I deserve that kind of treatment? Hm? Do you? I’ve done my best for the two of you, you know I have, and it hasn’t been easy either—’

What am I doing now?

‘…as I’m sure you know, it hasn’t always been so easy … Being practically a single parent, for the both of you, that’s not easy either, Malene, trying to keep things together, I do my best, you know that, right? You know that, don’t you? Honey? That I’d never do either of you any harm? That I’m doing the best I can? And she comes in and then storms back out accusing me of all sorts…’

What am I thinking of?

‘…you understand, don’t you, Malene?’

He forces himself to cry. Jesus, I’ve sunk so low, he thinks, while he squeezes out a few crocodile tears. What kind of father am I, what am I doing. Why can’t I get out of bed, check the day’s school times, wake my girls up and make them both a packed lunch, what am I doing?

The tears come, he almost believes they’re real.

Malene puts her arms around him, hugs him, in that grown-up way of hers.

‘Dad,’ she says. Runs her hand up and down his back. ‘Shhh. I understand.’

He lets her hold him tight. It feels good.

Then he sniffles, breaks free of her embrace.

‘Oh dear,’ he says, ‘your Dad is such an fool, eh?’

Pål bends over to Zitha.

‘Dad’s such a fool, eh, Zitha? Yeeah, good girl, yeeah.’

Malene nods and smiles. ‘Go downstairs now,’ she says, ‘get yourself some coffee, put on your Adidas and get off to work. How are your eyes?’

They make their way to the kitchen. The coffee is made, he pours a cup and drinks it quickly. Takes a look in the fridge. Must fill it up today. Get to work. Things are going to be okay. Pål turns around, his head doesn’t feel as heavy, his troubles are absent, he watches Malene put on her coat and shoulder her schoolbag.

‘Tiril,’ she says.

‘Hm?’

‘It’s just that concert tomorrow. The thing is Mum isn’t going to be there, she … I think the reason she’s so worked up is just that she really wants you to be there.’

Pål throws his arms wide in exasperation. ‘Jesus, I mean I’ve told her I’m coming. Does she think I’ve forgotten? I might seem like a bit of a scatterbrain sometimes but that’s because there’s so much happening at work. Of course I’m going to go along and watch her sing. I’m going to be sitting in the first row clapping every chance I get. Isn’t that what I’ve always done?’

He takes a big, warm slurp of coffee and shakes his head.

‘I’m not too sure Tiril feels you’ve told her that,’ Malene says, ‘the way you did just now, I mean.’

Pål takes a Ryvita from the corner cupboard and starts eating it. Not that he likes Ryvita, but he needs something in his stomach.

‘No, I guess I haven’t. I’ll make sure I do.’

‘You are going to work, right?’

‘Yeah, the usual time, yeah of course I’m going — work? Why are you asking that?’

Take it easy now, he thinks, easy, Pål.

‘You got in late last night.’

Easy now. He pictures Rudi and Cecilie, feels shame well up inside for what happened in 1986. Jesus, that girl was younger than Malene is now.

‘Late?’ He clears his throat. ‘Was I?’

She’s talking to me like I’m the kid here.

‘Yeah.’

‘Right, yeah, maybe I was. Took a longer walk than usual, I guess.’

Easy now.

‘By the way,’ says Malene, fixing her hair in the mirror, readying herself to go, ‘I was down in the basement this morning emptying the washing machine—’

‘Oh good, yes, must have slipped my mind—’

‘Anyway, there was a light on in the study and a pair of your socks were lying on top of the stove, they were really hot, Dad, I mean roasting hot.’