Some Kind of Peace by Camilla Grebe, Åsa Träff Page B

then.
    As I reach Grisslinge, I see blue lights. It is now obvious that the car behind me is the police and that they want something from me, so I pull over and roll down the window. A man approaches from behind, and against the background of flashing blue a young police officer is suddenly standing in front of me.
    “Good evening, your driver’s license please.”
    I fumble for my purse and realize I didn’t bring it with me. I can see for myself how erratic and uncontrolled my movements are, so I place both hands on the steering wheel, squeeze it hard, take a deep breath, and look up again toward the policeman, who now has a wrinkle between his eyebrows.
    “Uh, I’m really sorry, but I’m on my way to see a friend who’s in the emergency room and… I’m afraid that I didn’t… well, that I didn’t bring my things.”
    I can hear how lame my excuse sounds, but the policeman’s facial expression is inscrutable. If he is surprised or irritated, his face does not show what he is thinking.
    “Okay, we would like you to take a Breathalyzer test. Have you done it before?”
    “Yes… sure.”
    There’s something about the overly serious expression on the young policeman’s face. I can’t help it; suddenly the whole situation seems so absurd I have to laugh.
    I look up at the policeman and hope that my laughter will get him to see the humor in the situation, but he only looks self-consciously toward the police car. For some inexplicable reason this gesture provokes me even more, causing me to laugh even louder. I really try to subdue it, but before I can collect myself I double over in another uncontrollable laugh attack. My whole body cramps up in a convulsion of laughter and tears stream down my cheeks.
    The policeman says nothing, only hands me the Breathalyzer and clears his throat.
    I exhale red. Once. And once more.
    Curtain.
    I have to get out and follow the policeman to his car. I hope it’s not too obvious that I am swaying, but when I see the meaningful look the younger policeman gives his partner as we approach his car, my stomach knots up.
    There are two of them: a middle-aged, stocky man with reddish hair and a gap between his teeth, and the younger guy who is evidently called Amir. During the drive I desperately try to explain the seriousness of the situation: Aina’s accident, the call from the hospital, the head injury, the intensive care unit. There is something indescribably humiliating about all this, as if I were trying to cover my shameful behavior by presenting a long, drawn-out excuse that is as embarrassing for me as it is for them.
    They kindly explain that they can’t release me, or drive me to the hospital, but promise to call the hospital from the station. I give them Aina’s cell phone number, too.
    Five minutes later I am overwhelmed with dizziness and nausea. In the meantime my headache has grown into an intense pain that drums under my eyebrows like dull thunder and I can feel cold sweat gathering between my breasts and traveling down toward my belly in small rivulets.
    “Please stop…”
    My voice is a feeble whisper, but both policemen hear it and from experience stop by the side of the road.
    “Are you feeling sick? Do you have to throw up?”
    “No, no, of course not,” I say as I empty the contents of my stomach on the passenger seat.
    •  •  •
    When we arrive at the station, the redheaded policeman goes with me to a room that appears to be down in the basement. If he is upset or disgusted that I soiled his car, he doesn’t show it. He looks like he’s thinking about something completely different: dinner, the hockey game this weekend, or his ex-wife’s new boyfriend. I assume he encounters my type several times a week, and that this is not something he is going to think about when his shift is over. A routine case. A drunk broad who decided to drive into the city from Värmdö even though she should have known better. A traffic hazard, perhaps also a human