was not on either.
My parents had every right to do what they had done, but in recent years they had frequently declared that they would treat their children equally when it came to inheritance. However, it had now become clear that the amount of money Bård and I would get by way of compensation for the cabins was remarkably low. That was what had upset him, I realised, and the fact that no one had bothered to tell him that the transfer of ownership had already taken place. I hadn’t been told either, but then again I hadn’t spoken to my family for decades. In the last twenty or so years I’d only had contact with my second youngest sister, Astrid, and only with a few phone calls a year. So I had been surprised when, on my birthday some months ago, I’d had a text message from my youngest sister, Åsa, whom I hadn’t heard from in years. She wrote that she had texted me happy birthday before, but must have used the wrong number. And then the penny dropped. Up until now they had been two against one, Astrid and Åsa against Bård, but now that I was involved, everything was up for grabs. I’d always said I didn’t want to inherit anything and I guess my sisters were hoping that was still my position, but they couldn’t be sure. It was what I had said to Astrid every time she wanted me to reconcile with my parents. It felt like Astrid was emotionally blackmailing me; she would tell me how much they suffered as a result of my estrangement, how old they were, how they would die soon, and why couldn’t I just turn up at Christmas or for a big birthday? It was probably Mum putting pressure on her, but I wasn’t moved by Astrid’s talk of old age and death, instead I felt provoked and angry. Didn’t she take me seriously? I had already given her my reasons. Explained that being around Mum and Dad made me ill, that seeing them and pretending that everything was fine would be a betrayal of everything I stood for, it was out of the question, I had already tried! I didn’t relent, but was provoked into growing increasingly angry, not at the time, but later, at night, on email. I wrote to her that I never wanted to see Mum and Dad again, I would never set foot in their house in Bråteveien, and that they should go ahead and disinherit me.
After I had cut off contact, Mum rang me several times; this was before caller ID so I couldn’t tell it was her. She would alternately sob and yell at me, and I felt physically sick, but I had to stick to my guns if I was to survive; in order not to sink or drown I had to keep my distance. She wanted to know why I refused to see her—as if she didn’t know—she asked me impossible questions: Why do you hate me so much when you’re everything to me? I told her countless times that I didn’t hate her, until I did start to hate her, I told her over and over, would I have to explain myself—yet again—only for the next conversation to be as if I had never even tried and I felt rejected, would I be rejected yet again?
The first few years after I cut off contact, these phone calls were deeply distressing. Mum would ring with her accusations and pleas, and I would get angry and lose my temper. Eventually they tailed off, then she gave up all together; I guess that she, too, must have decided that certainty and peace were preferable to the misery caused by these pointless conversations. Better have Astrid give it a try every now and then.
In the last few years, however, Mum had started sending me the occasional text message. Sometimes when she was ill, as most old people are from time to time, she would text me. I’m ill, please can we talk? It would be late at night, she had been drinking for sure, I certainly had, and I would reply that she could call me in the morning. Then I texted Astrid to say that I was willing to talk to Mum about her illness and her care, but if she launched into her usual accusations and histrionics, then I would hang up. I don’t know if Astrid passed this on, but when Mum rang the next morning, she spoke only about her poor health and her care, and perhaps she felt like I did after I had rung off, that it had been a good conversation. At any rate, she stopped dumping her disappointments and unhappiness on me and, I gathered, dumped them on Astrid instead, and it must have been tough on Astrid to handle Mum’s disappointments and unhappiness, so perhaps it was no wonder that she tried to steer me towards a reconciliation.
~
Because of the disappointment and unhappiness I had inflicted on my parents by cutting off contact with them, I was expecting to be disinherited. And, if against all my expectations they didn’t, it would be purely because it wouldn’t look good in the eyes of the world, and they wanted things to look good.
But all this lay far in the future as they were both in rude health.
So I was surprised when, one Christmas three years ago, I received a letter from my parents. My adult children had visited them just before Christmas as they usually did, as they had done since I cut off contact—at my suggestion because Mum and Dad seeing their grandchildren eased the pressure on me. And my children enjoyed seeing their cousins and returning home with presents and money and three years ago, a letter. I opened it while they stood next to me and I read it out loud. My parents wrote that they had made a joint will and that their four children would inherit equal shares. Except for the cabins on Hvaler, which would go to Astrid and Åsa at the current market value. They wrote that they were happy to bequeath their assets to their children. My own children smiled cautiously, they too had expected to be disinherited.
It was a strange letter to get. Very generous, really, given how awful I had supposedly made them feel. I wondered what they expected in return.
Mum rang me a few months after that Christmas. I was in a market in San Sebastian with my children and grandchild; we were celebrating Easter in a flat I had rented there. I didn’t know it was Mum, I hadn’t saved her number. Her voice was trembling, as it always did when she was upset: Bård is raising hell, she said. I had no idea what she was talking about.
Bård is raising hell, she said again, the same expression Astrid would later use, because of the will, she said, because the cabins are going to Astrid and Åsa. But Astrid and Åsa have been so nice, she said, so caring. They’ve been going to the cabins with us all these years, we’ve had such lovely times together that it seems only natural for them to get the cabins. Bård has never used the cabins, nor have you; would you like a cabin on Hvaler?
I would have loved a cabin on Hvaler at the very edge of the rocks with a sea view, except for the constant risk of bumping into Mum and Dad.
No, I said.
That was the answer she wanted to hear, I realised, because she instantly calmed down. And since I hadn’t been in touch with Bård, I didn’t twig what she was really asking me. I reiterated that I didn’t want a cabin on Hvaler, that I thought their will was generous, and that I hadn’t been expecting to get anything.
Astrid would later tell me that there had been a major row about the cabins. When during a visit to Bråteveien, Bård found out that Astrid and Åsa had got them, he had stood up and said that Mum and Dad had already lost one child—he was referring to me—and now they would lose another one, then he had walked out. I could tell that Astrid thought he was being unreasonable. He hadn’t been to the cabins for years, he had a cabin of his own, and his wife had never got on with Mum and Dad back when they still went to the cabins on Hvaler.
I was taken aback by her strength of feeling, but I didn’t say anything. It was a blessing, I thought, not to be involved in the cabin feud.
~
However, now it had escalated. Ownership of the cabins had already been transferred to Astrid and Åsa, Bård was furious and Mum was in hospital after taking an overdose.
The first time I saw Klara Tank she was pushing a pram down the corridor of the Department for Literature. In it sat the son of a famous artist. When Klara attended lectures, she would bring with her the child of this artist, who was said to be in the middle of a divorce. I was a dutiful student who read everything I was supposed to read, but I spent little time at the university as I was pregnant with my second child and busy with my family. As a result I saw Klara only a few times at the Department for Literature, but I took notice of her, the student with the pram. The first time she spoke to me was on the pavement in Hausmanns gate some years later, after a talk on literary criticism. She was now the editor of a literary magazine which had mauled a popular author; she had been defending her criticism, bare-legged and waving her arms around, she had meant to say literary trial, but ended up saying literary toilet, had started to laugh and been unable to stop, then