sometimes I couldn’t be sure it was for real.
Daniel came back too, with Erland and Signe. Signe was pleased to see me, and Erland was just an ordinary little boy. He read a lot, and that’s something I had never seen him do before. Daniel had got some new clothes and glasses and for the first time I heard him speak of Erland and Signe’s mum. She lives in Germany with a new man, and Erland and Signe visit her in the school holidays.
I didn’t see Wilma again until a year after Henrietta died. I didn’t even speak to her on the phone, and I thought that perhaps she was angry with me. At first I tried to understand why, and then I tried to be angry as well.
But then one summer morning when I came out into the garden, Wilma was sitting on the steps talking to Mum and Dad. I shouted out and threw myself around her neck. I couldn’t stop myself.
We talked all day, and Wilma told me that she wasn’t angry at all. At least not with me. But she had quarrelled a lot with Kajsa and her dad. They wanted her to study economics at college and go into sales like they had, but Wilma refused. When the time came to choose a new school, she picked an art college, which was a long way away, and now she lives in a completely different town.
Wilma comes and stays quite often during her holidays, and I think she sees us more often than her own parents. She says that she loves Kajsa and Kjell, but that she has to be allowed to decide for herself. She says that she always felt like that, and she probably believes it is true.
I have tried to talk to Wilma about everything that happened with Hetty in the house of mirrors, but it is as if she has forgotten. Everyone else seems to have forgotten, too. But I remember.
I look through Henrietta’s albums sometimes, and sometimes I still play hide-and-seek with Signe and Erland. It’s just an ordinary game now, and the wardrobe with the mirrors has been furnished with wallpaper, a rug, a chair and a table.
It’s like a real little room.
My study, actually.
The mirrors from the wardrobe hang in various rooms around the house, and when I stop in front of one of them I can sometimes see that I look older. My eyes are as dark as ever, but I can see a hint of Hetty’s gentle gaze underneath. They look into me saying: wait a while, it will get better.
It’s good to think about, but I don’t have any great desire to grow up, like Wilma does. Life is what it is, and there is no specific day when it starts, is there?
Well, yes. Sometimes there is, actually.
The day we all long for most of all, Dad, Mum and me, is the eighteenth of August. Or at least some time around then, towards the end of thesummer. That’s when the baby who’s growing in my mum’s stomach will be born, and I will be a big sister again.
As soon as the baby is old enough I’m going to take it out into the conservatory and we can sit on the bench and see how nicely Dad has fixed the pond, with new tiles, a new water-treatment system and plenty of water lilies. We will sit there, the baby and I, and I will tell the baby about our brother Martin, who disappeared.
I will show the baby the photo albums and talk about all the people who have lived in Henrietta’s house before us. I will point at their faces and speak their names, just as Hetty wrote them down.
And who knows, if the baby wants me to, I may make up stories about all the people who will live here after us. There won’t be any magnificent adventures about princesses and wars and magic, just stories about being born and living and dying. Adventures get no greater than that, I think.
About the Author
M Å RTEN SAND É N was born in Stockholm in 1962 and spent most of his childhood in the university town of Lund, in southern Sweden. He has been writing, in one way or another, more or less full-time since his early twenties.
Starting out as a professional songwriter for music publishers in Europe and the US, Sandén began writing children’s books in the
Daniel came back too, with Erland and Signe. Signe was pleased to see me, and Erland was just an ordinary little boy. He read a lot, and that’s something I had never seen him do before. Daniel had got some new clothes and glasses and for the first time I heard him speak of Erland and Signe’s mum. She lives in Germany with a new man, and Erland and Signe visit her in the school holidays.
I didn’t see Wilma again until a year after Henrietta died. I didn’t even speak to her on the phone, and I thought that perhaps she was angry with me. At first I tried to understand why, and then I tried to be angry as well.
But then one summer morning when I came out into the garden, Wilma was sitting on the steps talking to Mum and Dad. I shouted out and threw myself around her neck. I couldn’t stop myself.
We talked all day, and Wilma told me that she wasn’t angry at all. At least not with me. But she had quarrelled a lot with Kajsa and her dad. They wanted her to study economics at college and go into sales like they had, but Wilma refused. When the time came to choose a new school, she picked an art college, which was a long way away, and now she lives in a completely different town.
Wilma comes and stays quite often during her holidays, and I think she sees us more often than her own parents. She says that she loves Kajsa and Kjell, but that she has to be allowed to decide for herself. She says that she always felt like that, and she probably believes it is true.
I have tried to talk to Wilma about everything that happened with Hetty in the house of mirrors, but it is as if she has forgotten. Everyone else seems to have forgotten, too. But I remember.
I look through Henrietta’s albums sometimes, and sometimes I still play hide-and-seek with Signe and Erland. It’s just an ordinary game now, and the wardrobe with the mirrors has been furnished with wallpaper, a rug, a chair and a table.
It’s like a real little room.
My study, actually.
The mirrors from the wardrobe hang in various rooms around the house, and when I stop in front of one of them I can sometimes see that I look older. My eyes are as dark as ever, but I can see a hint of Hetty’s gentle gaze underneath. They look into me saying: wait a while, it will get better.
It’s good to think about, but I don’t have any great desire to grow up, like Wilma does. Life is what it is, and there is no specific day when it starts, is there?
Well, yes. Sometimes there is, actually.
The day we all long for most of all, Dad, Mum and me, is the eighteenth of August. Or at least some time around then, towards the end of thesummer. That’s when the baby who’s growing in my mum’s stomach will be born, and I will be a big sister again.
As soon as the baby is old enough I’m going to take it out into the conservatory and we can sit on the bench and see how nicely Dad has fixed the pond, with new tiles, a new water-treatment system and plenty of water lilies. We will sit there, the baby and I, and I will tell the baby about our brother Martin, who disappeared.
I will show the baby the photo albums and talk about all the people who have lived in Henrietta’s house before us. I will point at their faces and speak their names, just as Hetty wrote them down.
And who knows, if the baby wants me to, I may make up stories about all the people who will live here after us. There won’t be any magnificent adventures about princesses and wars and magic, just stories about being born and living and dying. Adventures get no greater than that, I think.
About the Author
M Å RTEN SAND É N was born in Stockholm in 1962 and spent most of his childhood in the university town of Lund, in southern Sweden. He has been writing, in one way or another, more or less full-time since his early twenties.
Starting out as a professional songwriter for music publishers in Europe and the US, Sandén began writing children’s books in the
Similar Books
