and stared at him in his crib.
Boiling over, face red with rage at his neglect. Spit foaming out of his mouth as he cried. He saw me and frowned, held out his arms, rocked on his haunches to try to propel himself up and out.
I watched him. With all my heart, I tried to summon it. Please, I thought, please.
Instincts, they call them, but for me they are the very furthest thing. Buried somewhere deep inside under too many layers, or altogether missing.
Please, I urged again, I coaxed, I begged. But inside, like always, there was only emptiness. Cold and hollow. The great void within.
I could do nothing but stand and watch.
The baby’s cries grew more urgent, his face twisted with hot and vicious need. Almost purple. I stood helpless, rooted to the spot. I turned my head away so he would stop appealing to my eyes, imploring me to alleviate his rage. Unable to comprehend that I could not do it.
I looked around his room, filled with books and stuffed toys. A map of the world on the wall, along with stenciled illustrations of Arctic mammals. Polar bear. Moose. Fox. Wolf. I’d done it myself, the last month of pregnancy, balancing a paint box on the mound of my belly. The whole world, just for him. And still it is not enough. I am not enough.
And he is too much.
In the noise, I tried to find my breath, to feel the beating of my heart. It was pounding today, loud with upsets of its own; an angry fist in a cage.
I edged closer to the crib and peered down at the hysterical child. My child. I shook my head.
I’m sorry, I said at last. Mommy is not in the mood.
I left the room and closed the door behind me.
Karl and I sat outside while the women finished up the salads in the kitchen. He and his wife, Elsa, are our neighbors from across the field, good solid Swedes, wholesome and hardworking. She’s in adult education; he runs a start-up that converts heating systems into more energy-efficient models. They invited us to their midsummer party last year right after we moved in, and this is how long it’s taken us to have them over.
New baby, I apologized, and Karl shrugged. Of course.
Their daughter, Freja, was sitting on the lawn playing with Conor. Karl and I were talking, and I was trying not to stare at him too intently. It’s hard to look away. His startling blue eyes, the height and spread of him. A full-blooded Viking. He’d brought over a gift of vacuum-sealed elk meat.
You’ll have to join me for a hunt one day, he said. All the Swedes do it.
So, remind me, Karl said, what is it you do.
I shifted. I’m trying to get into film, I said. Documentary film.
You were doing that before?
No, I said. Before, I was an academic. Associate professor of anthropology. Columbia University.
He raised his eyebrows. Interesting. What was your area of study?
I smiled. The transformative masks of ritual and ceremony in West Africa, particularly the Ivory Coast. How’s that for useless information?
It’s very interesting, I’m sure.
It was, actually. The masks are fascinating, I said. The way they enable such fluidity of identity and power in these tribes, the way they depend on masking and performance for their—
I stopped myself from continuing. From remembering what
I missed.
Onward, onward and up.
Anyway, it was time for a change, I said.
I finished the last of the beer in my glass, thought back to the final meeting with that brittle spinster Nicole from Human Resources. Sign here, initial this. A swift and unceremonious dismissal that took almost two decades of work – all the successes and accolades and titles – and vanished it into the ether.
But they haven’t even heard my side, I said.
They know more than enough already, she replied coolly.
So you moved here for a new job, Karl said.
Not exactly, I said. I’m starting out. It’s going to take some time. At the moment, it’s pretty much just meetings and pitches, trying to show my reel to the right people.
I cracked my knuckles, the reassuring click of bones fitting into place. Karl wasn’t letting up.
But why pick Sweden? he asked.
I shrugged. We had the house. We wanted a different kind of life. Americans live so superficially – it’s all distraction and noise. I – well, we – we wanted something more real.
America is not real? Karl smiled. He’d already finished his second beer. I reached into the cooler and handed him a third.
America is a country built on myths, I said. Manifest destiny, American exceptionalism. The idea that we’re better than we really are.
Karl nodded. So what is the verdict? It’s better over here?
Of course, I said. Sweden feels like the best place in the world to be.
Karl laughed. Maybe you’re not looking closely enough. He raised his beer and gave a mock toast. Anyway, he said, let’s hope you’re right.
I looked at Conor on the lawn, bright-eyed and thriving.
Of course this was the place.
Freja came over to show Karl a cut on her finger. He said something to her in Swedish and she nodded and went back to Conor.
So you don’t miss home, Karl said. Being around your own people.
There’s not a damn thing I miss about the USA, I said.
Elsa came out balancing a bowl of coleslaw anda green salad. Merry followed with a pile of plates and cutlery. She looked tired. She’d been up since early, preparing for the guests. Next to Elsa, she seemed vaguely off-putting, her hair unwashed and pulled back into a messy bun.
No time, she’d said earlier when I asked.
There’s always time, I said, just not always good time management.
What about you, Merry, Karl asked. Do you miss being in the States?
Merry glanced over at me and shrugged. What’s there to miss?
We sat to eat, passed around bowls of food and saltshakers. Merry had overdressed the salad, but I said nothing.
It’s very good, Elsa said.
I noticed she hardly ate a thing.
Merry brought out a bowl with Conor’s baby food, and Freja asked if she might feed him. She took a spoon and made an airplane, flying mush into his mouth.
Look at that. I smiled. She’s a real natural.
Yes, Karl said, she can’t wait for a baby brother or sister to play with.
Elsa put down her knife and fork. Karl took a sip of his beer and gave me a knowing smile. In the meantime, he said, we have bought her a cat.
Elsa looked over at Conor and patted his arm. He is a wonderful baby, she said. Very sweet.
Sure is, I said, wondering how it was possible Karl didn’t crack her in half every time he lay on top of her.
Merry stood up to clear the dishes, scraping and stacking, refusing Elsa’s offer to help. When she came back out, she carried a cake for dessert; summer berries piled in the middle and drizzled in cream.
My domestic goddess, I said. What have we got here?
Merry passed around glass plates and silver cake forks. I recognized them