with dessert.”
* * *
Jana Berzelius watched as her father held his fork clumsily, bringing it to his mouth with great concentration. But his hand seemed to have a mind of its own and the food ended up on his cheek and chin. She was sitting with him and his nurse in the kitchen in Lindö.
Her mother had told her that meals took time and that her father had finally begun to eat by himself, but Jana had never imagined that she would see him eating like a child, undignified, a bib around his neck and food around his mouth.
He dropped the food again, then lowered his fork to scoop up another bite when the nurse stopped him. She smiled, took the fork from him and picked up a small mound of mashed potatoes.
“Open your mouth,” she said softly.
But he refused, turning his head away and pressing his lips together like a defiant child. She bumped the mashed potatoes against his mouth.
“Come now, open your mouth now, Karl.”
Jana had no desire to sit there any longer and watch him struggle with his meal. She left the kitchen soundlessly.
She went up the stairs and through the hallway, opening the door to her father’s office. From the doorway, she surveyed the shelves, desk and paintings on the walls.
It had all happened in this room.
Jana had tried to stop him that day from shooting himself with the pistol. The bullet had traveled diagonally, injuring the left side of his brain, which meant that he couldn’t walk or move his body properly.
She stepped into the room now and walked around the desk. She saw the mess of papers and thought how nothing was like the old days. Her father’s strict order was gone, the sense of control that had been his signature all these years.
She paged slowly through bills for water, electricity, trash collection. Various dates, all out of order. Dozens of papers in no organization whatsoever.
She had just begun straightening them into a neat stack when she heard someone clear their throat behind her. She looked up and saw the caretaker standing in the doorway.
“Yes?” Jana said curtly, irritated at the woman’s curious gaze.
“You’re the daughter, Jana, right?” she asked. “I didn’t have the chance to greet you properly in the kitchen. I’m Elin Ronander.”
“I didn’t want to disturb him while he was eating,” Jana said.
“And I’m sorry to bother you now, but I’m just wondering where Margaretha is...?” Elin said. “She always leaves a note on the kitchen table if she is going somewhere. When we came home early this morning from the overnight stay at the rehabilitation center in Örebro early, she wasn’t here. I was surprised and there wasn’t a note. I called her cell, but...”
Jana looked at her. “How long have you been taking care of my father?”
“Since he came home from the hospital. Your mother hired me because she was feeling overwhelmed. I work twenty-four-hour days.”
“So how well do you know Karl?”
“Well, I take care of his physical needs,” she said. “But I don’t know much beyond that.”
“I want your objective opinion. I need to know exactly how he’s doing and what his prognosis is.”
Multiple wrinkles appeared on Elin’s forehead as she took off her glasses and polished them on her knitted cardigan.
“Karl has made considerable progress in recent weeks,” she said.
“And what about the future?”
“That I can’t say. You’d of course have to ask his doctors.”
Jana picked up the stack of papers, tapping it twice against the desk.
“But do you think he might make a full recovery?”
Elin sighed and put her glasses back on.
“I imagine it’s going to be a long and difficult rehabilitation for him, but I’m seeing distinct improvements all the time. Just a week ago, he couldn’t get out of his wheelchair without help. This morning he not only got out of it, but took a few steps all by himself.”
“So the answer is yes?”
“Look, it’s very difficult to say for sure, but if everything goes well, he should eventually be able to walk in the garden here.”
“And his speech?”
“He will need to work on that regularly, too. Every day. He needs that stimulation in order to learn to speak again,” she said. “And it’s important that family members help as much as they can.”
“I can’t come here that often,” Jana said.
She walked around the desk, past Elin.
“Then your mother will have to bear a heavy load. My contract is only for two more months.”
Jana froze.
“I’ll renew the contract if you will take full responsibility for his rehabilitation. Is that acceptable?”
Elin nodded yes.
“Good,” Jana said. “And one more thing.”
“Yes?”
“Tell Father that his wife is dead.”
* * *
Anneli Lindgren stood on the staircase landing and raised her hand to knock. It felt odd standing there like a stranger outside her own front door. She unzipped her jacket as she waited and ran her hand down over her shirt in an attempt to smooth out any wrinkles that had formed over the course of the day.
Gunnar opened the door but wouldn’t look directly at her. He hadn’t last time, either.
“It’s all in the bedroom,” he said, leaving the door ajar as he walked back into the kitchen.
She noticed the odor of fried food and saw an empty frying pan on the stove. A jar of lingonberry jam and two empty plates sat on the kitchen table.
“Don’t you use the hood vent?” she asked.
“There are six boxes,” he said, ignoring her question and putting the lid back on the jam jar. “They’re right by the door.”
“Does Adam know I’m here?”
“Adam!” Gunnar yelled at the top of his lungs.
“Well, he certainly does now!” Anneli said, smiling in an attempt to lighten the tense atmosphere.
But Gunnar didn’t smile. He didn’t say anything. She felt her cheeks begin to flush, and she shifted uncomfortably.
“I
