Silver Tears(14)

FJ?LLBACKA—THEN

I was raped for the first time on my thirteenth birthday. It was a day like any other, really. It was mostly chance that it happened on my birthday. There hadn’t been any celebrations. Dad always said that kind of thing was a waste of money and what was more, he had no interest in getting up before work to sing.

We also sat in silence at dinner, which was fish gratin. Me, Sebastian, Mom, and Dad. Mom attempted small talk—a couple of run-of-the-mill questions to start a conversation, to create a few seconds of something akin to normality. But after Dad had roared at her to shut it, she too had sat there in silence, poking her food. I still appreciated her trying. Maybe it wasn’t true, but I believed that she had made a little extra effort because it was my birthday. Beneath the table, I briefly caressed her hand in a soundless thank-you, but I don’t know whether she noticed it.

When Dad was finished, he got up and disappeared, leaving his plate on the table. Sebastian put his on the drainboard. Mom and I had no problems dealing with the washing up. Quite the contrary. Mom would usually mess around as much as she could in the kitchen while cooking and clearing up dinner to make sure the time we got to ourselves would last for as long as possible.

The TV in the living room was switched on and we smiled at each other, relieved to be alone. Protected by the clatter of dishes and the running tap, we began to tell each other about our day in whispers. I usually invented and added things—things that sounded fun—so that she wouldn’t get upset. I think she did the same thing. That time in the kitchen was our breathing space. Why ruin it with something as depressing as reality?



“Come with me.”

Mom took my hand and left the water running so that Dad would think we were still doing the dishes. I crept after her into the hallway. She put her hand in her coat pocket—carefully, so that the rustle wouldn’t be audible—and handed over a small package with a ribbon around it and a rosette on top.

“Happy birthday, darling,” she whispered.

I carefully removed the rosette, pulled off the paper, and quietly removed the lid of the box inside. Within it was a silver necklace with a charm in the shape of silver tears. It was the most beautiful thing I had ever seen.

I hugged Mom. I put my arms tight around her, drawing in her scent, feeling her heart beating anxiously in her breast. When we separated from our embrace, she took the necklace out of the box and put it around my neck. Then she patted my cheek tenderly and went back to the dishes. I touched the tears. They seemed fragile between my fingers.

Dad coughed in the living room. I let go of the tears, quickly tucked the necklace inside my top, and went to help Mom with the washing up.



* * *



—

When we were done, I went up to my room, which was next door to Sebastian’s. I quickly did some homework. Even though I was in sixth grade, I was already using the eighth grade math book. I had tried to protest—I knew it would only antagonize my classmates, ramp up the war against me. But my teacher insisted and said it was important to make an effort if you wanted to get anywhere in this world.

My desk was old, wonky, and crooked—and it was covered in marks from when my pen had missed the page. I had to adjust the folded piece of paper under one of the legs at regular intervals so that the table didn’t wobble.



I put down my pen and craned my neck. As it so often was, my gaze was caught by the bookcases. Thumbed, well-read books. Sometimes I had to sort through it with a heavy heart to make space for new books I had picked up at rummage sales or been given by Ella, the kind librarian, whenever the public library in Fj?llbacka was clearing old stock.

Some of the books were ones I’d never get rid of. Little Women. Tess of the d’Urbervilles. Lace. The Life and Loves of a She-Devil. Kristin Lavransdatter. The Thorn Birds. Wuthering Heights. Not only were they books I had inherited from Mom, they were memories. They were moments when I had been able to climb into another world. To escape my own. To become someone else.

Where the walls weren’t covered in bookcases, I had put up pictures of my favorite authors. While the other girls in class had Take That, Bon Jovi, Blur, and Boyzone, I had Selma Lagerl?f, Sidney Sheldon, Arthur Conan Doyle, Stephen King, and Jackie Collins. Once upon a time they had been my mom’s idols. Now they were mine. My heroes. They lifted me out of my own reality and transported me somewhere else. I knew it was nerdy. But no one ever came around, so who would see them?

I moved to the bed, skipping brushing my teeth. I could hear Sebastian moving back and forth across the floor in his room. Downstairs, Dad was yelling at Mom. She was silent, no doubt gritting her teeth. I assumed she would promise to mend her ways, hoping that would be enough to avoid being beaten to a pulp today. So far this year, she had been to see the doctor four times. They must surely have seen through her excuses about doors she had walked into, stairs she had fallen down. The interior fixtures and fittings of a whole house seemed to have it in for her, like some mighty enemy made from wood. No one could have believed it. Yet no one did anything. In this little community, they let people keep their secrets to themselves. It was easier that way when everyone was tied to one another, dependent on one another, like a gigantic spiderweb.

I lay down on my side with my head in my hands. My face was toward the wall. When we had been younger, Sebastian and I had communicated with knocks through the wall. Especially when Mom was taking a beating. The last time we had done it had been about a year or so back. Sometimes Sebastian had slept in my bed when Mom and Dad fought, looking to his little sister to keep him safe. But most often we knocked. One evening he simply stopped answering. I tried, for weeks, until the day I frenetically knocked with increasing desperation for a reply, and he rushed into my room and roared at me to stop hitting the wall.