need you to stand up now. I’ll lift you on the count of three, OK?” Ulrika places an arm around her, helps her to her feet, and pulls the dressing gown away. Doris is left standing there, in the kitchen, in the cold light of day, naked but for her underwear. That needs changing too. She covers herself with one arm as her bra is unhooked. Her breasts fall loosely towards her stomach.
“Oh, you poor thing, you’re freezing! Come on, let’s get you to the bathroom.”
Ulrika takes her hand and Doris follows her with cautious, hesitant steps. She feels her breasts swing, clasps one arm tight against them. The bathroom is warmer, thanks to the under-floor heating beneath the tiles, and she kicks off her slippers and enjoys the warmth beneath the soles of her feet.
“Right, let’s get this dress on you. Lift your arms.”
She does as she is told, but she can raise her arms only to chest height. Ulrika struggles with the fabric and manages to pull the dress over Doris’s head. When Doris glances up at her, Ulrika smiles.
“Peekaboo! What a nice colour, it suits you. Would you like some lipstick as well? Maybe a bit of blusher on your cheeks?”
The makeup is set out on a little table by the sink. Ulrika holds up the lipstick, but Doris shakes her head and turns away.
“How long will the food be?” she asks on her way back to the kitchen.
“The food! Ah! What an idiot I am, I forgot all about it. I’ll have to heat it up again.”
Ulrika hurries to the microwave, opens the door and slams it shut again, turns the dial to one minute, and presses start. She pours some lingonberry juice into a glass and places the plate on the table. Doris wrinkles her nose when she sees the sludge, but hunger makes her lift the fork to her mouth.
Ulrika sits down across from her, with a cup in her hand. The hand-painted one, with the pink roses. The one Doris herself never uses, for fear of breaking it.
“Coffee, it’s liquid gold, it is,” Ulrika remarks. “Right?”
Doris nods, her eyes fixed on the cup.
Don’t drop it.
“Are you full?” Ulrika asks after they have been sitting in silence for some time. Doris nods and Ulrika gets up to clear away the plate. She comes back with steaming coffee in yet another cup. A dark blue one, from Höganäs.
“There you go. Now we can catch our breath for a moment, hmm?”
Ulrika smiles and sits down again.
“This weather, nothing but rain, rain, rain. It feels like it’s never ending.”
Doris is just about to reply, but Ulrika continues:
“I wonder if I sent any extra socks to the nursery. The little ones will probably get soaked today. Oh well, there must be spares they can borrow. Otherwise I’ll be picking up a grumpy sockless kid. Always this worrying about the kids. But I suppose you know what it’s like. How many children do you have?”
Doris shakes her head.
“Oh, none at all? You poor thing, so you never get any visitors? Have you never been married?”
The caregiver’s pushiness surprises Doris. These young women don’t usually ask this kind of question, at least not so bluntly, anyway.
“But you must have friends? Who come over occasionally? That looks thick enough, anyway.” She points to the address book on the table.
Doris doesn’t answer. She glances at the photo of Jenny. It’s in the hallway, but the caregiver has never even noticed it. Jenny, who is so far away and yet always so close in her thoughts.
“Well, listen,” Ulrika continues. “I’ve got to rush off. We can talk more next time.”
Ulrika loads the cups into the dishwasher, even the hand-painted one. Then she turns the machine on, gives the counter one last wipe with the dishcloth, and before Doris knows it, she’s out the door. Through the window, she watches Ulrika pull on her coat as she walks, and then climb into a little red car with the agency’s logo on the door. With shuffling steps, Doris makes her way to the dishwasher and pauses the wash. She pulls out the hand-painted cup, carefully rinses it, and then hides it at the very back of the cupboard, behind the deep dessert bowls. She checks from every angle. It’s no longer visible. Pleased, she sits back down at the kitchen table and smooths the tablecloth with her hands. Arranges everything carefully. The pillbox, the lozenges, the plastic case, the magnifying glass, and the phone are all back in their rightful places. When she reaches for the address book, her hand pauses, and she allows it to rest there. She hasn’t opened it in a long time, but now she lifts the cover and is met by a list of names on the first page. Most have been crossed out. In the margin, she has written it several times. One word. Dead.
The Red Address Book
A. ALM, ERIC
So many names pass by us in a lifetime. Have you ever thought about that, Jenny? All the names that come and go. That rip our hearts to pieces and make us shed tears. That become lovers or enemies. I leaf through my address book sometimes. It has become something like a map of my life, and I want to tell you a bit about it. So that you, who’ll be the only one who remembers me, will also remember my life. A kind of testament. I’ll give you my memories. They’re the most beautiful thing I have.
It was 1928. It was my birthday, and I had just turned ten. The minute I saw the parcel, I knew it contained something special. I could tell from the twinkle in Pappa’s eyes. Those dark eyes of his, usually so preoccupied, were eagerly awaiting my reaction. The present was wrapped in thin, beautiful tissue paper. I followed its texture with my fingertips. The delicate surface, the fibres coming together in a jumble of patterns. And then the ribbon: a thick red-silk ribbon. It was the most beautiful parcel I had ever seen.
“Open, open!” Agnes, my two-year-old sister, leaned eagerly over the dining table with both arms on the tablecloth, and received a mild scolding from our mother.
“Yes, open it now!” Even my father seemed impatient.
I stroked the ribbon with my thumb before pulling both ends and untying the bow. Inside was an address book, bound in shiny red leather, which smelled sharply of dye.
“You can collect all your friends in it.” Pappa smiled. “Everyone you meet during your life. In all the exciting places you’ll visit. So you don’t forget.”
He took the book from my hand and opened it. Beneath A, he had already written his own name. Eric Alm. Plus the address and phone number for his workshop. The number, which had recently been connected, the one he was so proud of. We still didn’t have a telephone at home.
He was a big man, my father. I don’t mean physically. Not at all. But at home there never seemed to be enough room for his thoughts. He seemed to be constantly floating out over the wider world, to unknown places. I often had the feeling that he didn’t really want to be at home with us. He didn’t enjoy the small things of everyday life. He was thirsty for knowledge, and he filled our home with books. I don’t remember him talking much, not even with my mother. He just sat there with his books. Sometimes I would crawl into his lap in the armchair. He never protested, just pushed me to the side so I didn’t get in the way of the letters and images that had caught his interest. He smelled sweet, like wood, and his hair was always covered with a thin layer of sawdust, which made it look grey. His hands were rough and cracked. Every night, he would smear them with Vaseline and wear thin cotton gloves as he slept.
My hands. I held them around his neck in a cautious embrace. We sat there in our own little world. I followed his mental journey as he turned the page. He read about different countries and cultures, stuck pins into a huge map of the world that he had nailed on the wall. As though they were places he had visited. One day, he said, one day he would head out into the world. And then he added numbers to the pins. Ones, twos, and threes. He was ordering the various locations, prioritising