Page 93 of The Living and the Dead

“Right. Of course.Mirage. Let’s see now, ‘Swede at the dinner table?’ eight letters. The first one is therin ‘mirage.’ ”

It was hard to say what Felicia got out of this. Maybe women needed to stick together because they were the survivors. In Skavböke, it was the men who died. Or maybe she felt guilty about what had happened, for some reason.

Just like me,Isidor thought, and silently went on his way.

—

It must have been sometime in 2004 when he received a call from Rasmusgården. Isidor hadn’t been in the office at the time; as the priest in Oskarström he seldom was. The works of the church are performed among the people, he liked to say, and not in an office. It was arduous work, of course, and he was getting on in years even then, but no one ever said faith would be easy. In fact, not having faith is the much easier way to go. But Isidor was a believer even so, almost resigned to his status as one.

The woman at Rasmusgården left a message but didn’t say why she was calling. Treatment centers seldom did, as eager as they were to protect their patients. If “patients” was the right word in this context. It probably was.

Isidor called back and was informed that a resident there had been asking for him, time after time. When Isidor heard the resident’s name, he jumped in his car and got on the E6 highway heading north toward Rasmusgården.

It was in Skrea, just outside of Falkenberg. Filip Söderström would be turning twenty in less than a month, and he was sitting alone on some patio furniture without cushions, a cup of coffee in front of him. It was him—Isidor recognized him, but barely. All sinewy joints and knobbly bones, cheekbones sharp and protruding like the corners of a triangle, and skin so pale it had taken on a bluish tone. His hair was longer and his features stiffer, grown considerably more weathered and rough in just a few years. His voice was different too—it had lost its verve and, seemingly, its presence. The boy Isidor remembered now sounded dull, slow, and absent.

“I didn’t think you’d come,” Filip said, addressing the air in front of him.

Isidor took a seat beside him. “How are you, Filip?”

“Things haven’t been great. But now, here, this is better.” Filip squinted in the sunshine. “This morning I saw a deer give birth to a baby, what are they called…fawn. Nature re-creating itself. Just like at home. It’s nice.” He lifted his coffee cup in a toast. “I’ve discovered I like coffee too.”

Was a confession close at hand? That was all Isidor could imagine, that Filip was about to tell him what had happened during those days and nights in December five years before.

“They said you wanted to see me.”

“They’re always saying I need to talk to someone. They suggested you, since you’re from home. I guess I wanted to talk to someone who was there.”

“There for what?”

“You know, when everything happened. Back then.”

Isidor cleared his throat. It sounded rather more ceremonious than he’d meant it to. “Did you play a part in it, Filip?”

“I would like to…” Filip began, seemingly ignoring Isidor’squestion. “I would like to start over. I don’t know if that’s possible, but that’s what I want. I can’t live like this. You know, I spend so much time thinking about everyone who was around back then. About all the stuff that happened. But it’s like no one gets it. No one gets that mybrotherwas murdered and he was the only brother I had, and he’s never coming back. And Mom and Dad, you know, how can I possibly start over? When the very basis of my life just isn’t there anymore?”

“That must be incredibly painful,” Isidor said. “That, and everything that happened after.” He paused. “Have you thought about writing it down?”

“What do you mean?”

“You could just write about what happened that day. When Mikael died. It might help you process it.”

“But I can’t write.”

“You don’t have to show it to anyone if you don’t want to. It would just be for you, to work through it.”

Isidor waited for a long time, but Filip said no more. He gently placed a hand on the boy’s shoulder. He felt the bones there under his shirt, fragile but hard. Filip looked surprised. He touched his chest as though something were growing inside, something he didn’t recognize.

Isidor couldn’t say how long he sat with his hand on Filip’s shoulder. But he believed in forgiveness and mercy, and in letting them develop in their own time.

“I’ll be back tomorrow, Filip.”

—

Stupid,he thought as he walked home from the co-op.So stupid of me, I never should have gone up there that time. Should have just let him sit at Rasmusgården.That would have been better. Maybe he’d still be alive today. But how could he say so to someone else? Some burdens had to be carried alone.

And all around Isidor, the merciless summer wenton.

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