Tore Renberg - See You Tomorrow

Was it like that for Mum as well? Back when she was a little mite inside her own mother? Did she wonder if the baby was already dead?

Cecilie opens the bathroom door. She gives a start when she catches sight of Jan Inge. He’s sitting fully clothed on the toilet seat, his feet dangling a little above the floor. He has dark, blue rings beneath his eyes, one finger stuck into his mouth. He’s chewing on a nail and doesn’t look up at her. He blinks, his eyes going from side to side. He’s been crying. He looks about twelve years old. He looks like he did when he was twelve. Back when he was in here biting his nails, crying and shouting to her outside in her nightdress: ‘Cecilie! Don’t come in! I need to think! I need to think!’

‘Tiril? Malene? Breakfast!’

He has his foot placed in a jaunty fashion on the bottom step, his chin tilted towards the first floor. Zitha stands beside him, her tail wagging, the end of her snout also raised, as though imitating him. Pål lifts his eyebrows, elevates his cheeks, arranges his features into a pleasant expression, as if this were a summer day and he were a father from a film on children’s TV. In his hands he holds a milk carton and a plate of sliced cucumber, tomatoes and pepper.

‘Come on, girls! Breakfast!’

That’s the way. He keeps his back muscles tensed as he returns to the kitchen. Setting down the milk and the plate on the already set table, he takes the matches from the mantelpiece and strikes one off the box. He lights the candles and glances at the coffee maker gurgling by the window. Sides of meat, cheese, pâté, sliced fruit and veg, lettuce even, as well as milk, juice and coffee.

This looks good. This’ll do the trick.

‘Zitha! Good girl. Lie down now.’

This day exists. And it doesn’t.

He hears Tiril’s footsteps, firm and lively, coming down the stairs, ostensibly saying everything about his youngest daughter, the trampoline kid , as Christine once called her. She could be like that now and again, original in her choice of words, as if she ought to have been a writer as opposed to a businesswoman. Behind Tiril he hears Malene’s footfall, steady and mature. The difference in their footsteps is like hearing his wife and himself. Back before the break-up, back when she jumped out of bed in the mornings, after a good night’s sleep, already at work long before she had actually stepped out the front door and got into the car. He takes a little longer to wake up — usually about twenty minutes before Pål is ready for the day. Christine was awake before she awoke. As soon as she opened her eyes her energy level was running at maximum. He smiles to himself at the memory, which was annoying back when it was reality and not reminiscence. The recollection of Christine drinking coffee while she dressed, putting on make-up, preparing the kids’ lunches, reading the paper and hey presto — suddenly she was in front of him, radiant and ready, car keys in hand, giving him a routine peck on the cheek before telling him he had to ‘have a nice day’ and then disappearing out the door.

A mutual tempo of sorts was something they never shared. Pål would make an effort now and again to get up to her speed. He convinced himself that somewhere within him lay a kind of variant of her that he could be. He planned the day in accordance with her pace, attempted to imitate her. If she took it upon herself to start vacuuming on a Saturday morning, he would let breakfast wait while he got stuck into the dishes from the day before. But it just drove Christine round the bend. Jesus, Pål, please, this here is just weird — do you have to shadow me?

Tiril’s body is electric, she has headphones on and she’s sharply defined in black-and-red attire.

‘Hi, honey,’ he says, in as friendly a tone as he can, stopping her with his arms outstretched, but she ignores his invitation to hug. He drops his arms without making a fuss about it. Tiril forces a smile, he can hear the music from her iPod, stripped of bass; she has no time for Dad now, she needs to concentrate.

‘Christ,’ she says, pointing at the breakfast table, ‘somebody die?’

He laughs, even though he doesn’t find it funny. ‘Just wanted to make you a nice breakfast, with you having such a big day and all,’ he says, feeling a swelling in his chest as though what he was saying was pure and true. ‘Sit down there and I’ll get you some coffee. Can you take off those headphones, just while we’re eating?’

Tiril raises her darkly pencilled eyebrows, but leaves the headphones on. She takes her mobile from her pocket, flips the cover up and begins texting.

‘I need an iPhone 5, Dad,’ she says, without looking up, ‘but I don’t suppose we can afford that?’

The door of the hall toilet can be heard opening and moments later Malene appears. She looks tired and unwell. Pål grows anxious and forgets Tiril’s complaint, but he thinks how he mustn’t allow the feeling to take root, probably just a morning thing, soon blow over — talking about your troubles only makes them materialise.

‘Hi, Dad.’

Malene bends down to greet Zitha, giving her a rub before coming over to Pål. She looks towards the kitchen table.

‘Wow, what an amazing-looking breakfast.’

He strokes her hair. ‘Sleep well?’

‘Not really,’ Malene says. ‘Do we have any bread?’

‘Yeah, of cour—’ Pål stops himself. ‘Hold on, of course we’ve got bread…’

He scurries over to the breadbin, feeling the girls’ eyes on his back as he lifts the lid up. A little bag with a stale heel. He places his palms on the worktop. Turns to the girls. Malene has dark rings under her eyes, it won’t soon blow over. Tiril’s thumb works away at the screen of her phone, the treble from her iPod hissing about her head like a swarm of wasps.

‘Ryvita?’ Pål asks, hearing how poorly his voice is carrying.

Malene shrugs. Tiril scrolls on her mobile and moves her lips, but no sound escapes her.

Pål breathes in, fastens a smile on his mouth, brings his palms together with a clap and says: ‘Ah, it’s going to be a lovely day. Thursday. I’ve taken the day off work, thought I might get us something really nice for dinner, tidy the house and live it up, the three of us, and then, yes, then it’s — eh, Tiril?’

He walks over to her. So much make-up, where’s the girl under there?

‘Eh?’

He stands in front of her.

‘Eh? Your big day, isn’t it, eh?’

She removes the headphones, puts down the mobile: ‘You coming to watch?’

He keeps his smile fixed and brings his hands to her face, one on each cheek: ‘Of course I am, honey. I wouldn’t miss it for the world.’

Tiril’s phone vibrates, reverberating on the tabletop. She frees herself from his hands but he can see the joy in her eyes, the effect his assurance has had. She picks up the phone, taps the screen. Her features contort and she rises from the seat, her head shaking. Then it vibrates again and she reads once more.

‘Jesus,’ she says, not looking at them, ‘asshole.’ Tiril breathes through her nostrils and looks up from the display. ‘This here, this is seriously screwed up. Sorry, I gotta go. Kenny has kicked the shit out of Shaun and Sandra is flipping out. Malene, you need to come along, let’s go. See you tonight, Dad.’

Night arrived with creeping darkness. It covered Madla, covered Stavanger, the west of the country, Norway, Europe, the world and the universe in the same ever-increasing circles she’s pictured since she was a little girl, back when she could hear. She was six years old when she lost her hearing and her memories of sounds are as clear as glass, but she doesn’t like them; her mother’s voice, the sound of a toilet flushing, a car starting. It’s nicer to think of the noises she’s never heard.