hours on end. It never grew dull. It still doesn’t. Perhaps this is my gift. The ability to slip in and out of selves, as though they were dresses hanging in a wardrobe, waiting to be tried on and twirled about.
I’m Lars, by the way, the man said.
He extended his hand and I let it linger in mine. While he ate his lunch, I entertained him with stories from my recent trip to the Maldives.
Can you imagine, I laughed, two weeks on a tropical island with only the winter wardrobe of Mr. Oleg Karpalov in my possession!
Which island? he asked.
I tried to recall Frank’s email and couldn’t. I glanced at my watch.
I have to go, I said.
He grabbed my wrist.
Wait, he said. Give me your number.
He took his phone from his pocket and wrote down the digits I offered.
I smiled.
I had won.
It was late and I had to hurry to Drottninggatan to find a department store. I needed to be Merry again. In the baby section, I threw piles of clothes over my arm. T-shirts, miniature chinos, cargo shorts with dinosaurs on the pockets, little track pants and pajama bottoms.
The phone rang and my heart sank.
Where are you? Sam asked. I thought you’d be back by now. He sounded irritated.
I apologized profusely. I had a hard time finding what I was looking for, I explained. You know I always get lost here, in the city.
Well, come back soon, he said.
Yes, Sam, I said, apologizing once more before I hung up the phone.
I paid for the baby clothes and slipped into the restroom. In front of the mirror, I wet a wad of paper and wiped off the remnants of my makeup under the bright white light. Inside one of the stalls, a woman was retching. Probably an eating disorder, I thought, though it could have been anything.
I made my way back to the car and did find myself lost – the cobbled lanes, the tasteful storefronts, the quaint boutiques and antiques shops – all of them blend into the same tepid view: spotless streets, polite pedestrians, the too-orderly flow of people and traffic. The heady freedom of earlier was already in retreat. My chest was constricting, the streets narrowing in parallel, closing me in, squeezing it all back down to size. I hate to upset Sam. It fills me with terror, any time he has a reason to find me lacking.
At last I found the parking lot. An old Roma woman sat begging at the entrance. She looked at me, sucked her teeth, and wagged a finger. A witch casting a curse.
I drove home too fast. When I got back, Sam handed me the baby.
He hasn’t eaten yet, he said. And he needs his bath.
He did not kiss me.
Already there was a message waiting from Lars. I deleted it quickly from my phone and went to attend to my child.
Email this morning from the guys in Uppsala. They’re going with another director for the snow tires. Assholes. Top of the class, I was, graduated cum fucking laude. Fellowships, scholarships. Tenure. Now this.
It’s all right. I’ll get there. Just got to stick it out. Keep at it.
From the studio I could hear Conor whining. He’s been out of sorts for a couple of days.
Teething, Merry says. She tells me it’s normal. She read it in the parenting book I bought her.
Let’s take a long walk, I said. I want to encourage Merry to exercise. Tone up. Lose the baby weight that’s still sticking to her. Discipline, I say, all it takes.
I lifted Con into the backpack and hoisted it onto my shoulders. Merry put sunscreen and a hat on him, and dabbed the back of my neck so I wouldn’t burn.
We closed the door behind us and made for the forest trails that surround the reserve. The day was warm but not too hot, a low hum of insects and birds. We walked in silence.
A sweat will do us good, I said, heading for one of the more difficult routes.
Merry walked behind us. I could hear her breathing.
Beautiful, I said. The summers here are incredible.
Merry was quiet.
Hon?
Sam, I say it all the time, don’t I. It’s beautiful. It’s perfect. It’s amazing.
Jesus, I said. Guess you’re not pregnant this month after all.
What?
Take it easy, I said. I’m joking. Clearly this is some heavy-duty PMS, right? Your foul mood. Hormones in a spin.
I laughed. You women, always so sensitive. And you think you want to run the world.
I walked on, leaving her to stew. I won’t indulge these moods; she knows better than to think that I will.
Tuesday morning and I’m taking a hike with a baby strapped to my back. Guess this is life in Sweden for you. Transculturation. In anthropological terms, it’s what happens when you move to a new society and adopt the culture.
Professor. I always liked being called that. Guess it doesn’t work so well out here. Hey, Professor Hurley, can you zoom in on the snow tires?
Conor started to whine and I stopped to check on him.
He’d pulled off the hat and was damp with sweat. Merry caught up to us.
He feels really warm, I said.
He’s fine, Merry replied. Just needs some water. She gave him a bottle and he pushed it away. She poured some water onto a cloth and nestled it against his neck to keep him cool.
Wonder-mom, I said. You know all the tricks.
Sorry about earlier, she said. You’re probably right. It must be PMS.
We looped back along the trail and made our way down toward the lake.
I bent to feel the temperature. Icy, I said. Give it a couple of weeks, it’ll be just right.
Merry stood staring into the endless blue of the water, transfixed.
Thinking about going in? I teased.
Something like that, she said vaguely, and stayed a moment longer, lost in her head.
Back at home, Merry prepared a light lunch, cheese and fresh bread, a salad. She seemed to be distracted still. She forgot the lemon in my soda, the oil for the salad.
You’re not yourself today, I said, and she appeared to shrink.
