Page 20 of The Happiness Blueprint
I don’t think you need to worry about Dan anymore. I know you would—always did—and old habits can be hard to break. Do they break in death, old habits I mean?
I saw him today. He is sad but healthily sad. You know how you check to see if a child or an animal is doing okay? I did this with Dan. He is eating well, sleeping well (at least from what he reports), and I have no reason not to believe him. Went to the Indian place on Stortorget, and he had about three naans, so that should reassure you. Tells me he doesn’t need the ring back so it’s still on my finger. “Alex, it would just go in a drawer to be kept safe. I know you won’t want it forever,” he said. And he’s right: it was your wedding ring after all, not mine, but for now it helps, and I need all the help I can get. Keeps saying, “Stop saying thank you and stop apologizing. What happened wasn’t your fault.” Still don’t believe him.
Mamma and Pappa are good, as good as they can be when they lost half of what they had. Building less, baking less. Avoiding them as much as possible, as my current emotional fragility remains not understood. It’s different from theirs, so Pappa in particular doesn’t get it. Feel guilty for it, emotional fragility increases, avoiding continues, and so the cycle keeps repeating itself.
I have this nagging feeling that things would be better if it were me. They have had me for an extra three years. Got more of me than you. Their time with you was cut short, but their time with me keeps ticking. Ticking like a clock or a bomb, though? That’s the question.
Sometimes my life feels more like a bomb than a clock.
Yours, A
KLARA
What to do if penis is too long for toilet?
Google Search I’m Feeling Lucky
I have to attend a wet-room conference.Wet room.It sounds like some kinky environment used for orgies or those fancy, private dress-up parties named something utterly unsexy, like Killing Kittens, that Alice’s ex-boyfriend was trying to drag her along to once. It turns out it’s just a term for bathrooms and a certification for tiling that needs renewal every fifth year. It requires an employee to be present at a half-day workshop with lectures and speakers. (I mean, who will they be? The suspense is killing me.Distinguished professor of tiling and wet rooms?). Since I’m the only one that isn’t useful in the actual construction work (Dad’s words followed by quick apology), I am the chosen one.
I walk into the Radisson Blu in central Malmö at 8:03 a.m., safely within the not-late allowance. There is a blue synthetic carpet with red dots covering the aisles and a palm tree next to reception. I soon find out the dress code for construction worker workshops is Levi’s jeans (or similar, cheaper versions purchased at Dressmann), shirt tucked into said jeans and a shoe that is either a boot or a sneaker. I spot two ties in happy colors.
The speaker is one of the men with the happy-colored ties, and he seems moderately passionate about the topic but highly passionate about the fact that he is speaking. After seventy-five minutes of PowerPoint slides and him repeating what they say as if providing voice-over, he opens the floor to questions.
I feel like Ishouldask a question. Something about the EU regulations for joints, or perhaps about whether drying time of joint compound is affected by the humidity level in bathrooms. But as I raise my hand, index finger pointing up as if I’m attempting to pop a balloon, the room goes silent and forty or so men stare at me.Pop.
“Will we receive our new certification by email?” The speaker looks at me, as does the sea of heads around me, and tells me that, yes, it will be issued within twenty-four hours. Then I put my hand up again for no other reason than the first question went so well. These are the intelligent words that escape my mouth: “When is breakfast?” There is a muffled laugh. And a distant snort. I feel myself turn pink. I only tried to ask the question on everyone’s mind. Dad had said everyone was there for the buffet. Turns out we were meant to keep that to ourselves.
“Since the young lady here is hungry, why don’t we break up the first session ten minutes early? That is, if there are no more questions.”
I don’t have any more questions.
Standing in a corner of the room, I nibble at a croissant. I tried the fruit salad, but the chef must have used the same knife to cut onion with not so long ago, so I left it on the counter half-eaten. There are chairs free, but I don’t know which one to choose, the one next to an older man with a colorful tie or the one next to a couple of younger men in sneakers. I wouldn’t like to hurt any of the chairs’ feelings, and I haven’t had enough time to figure out a classification system for fair choice so decide to remain standing.
A voice makes me turn.
“Are you enjoying breakfast?” The speaker is next to me, a coffee cup in his hand. I glance at him quickly. Age around forty, boots and blue jacket. Some of the hairs on his chin are white, but I’m guessing he assumes they blend in with the blond.
“Croissants alone are a reason to stay in the EU, am I right?” He nods to my left hand. The way he pronounces the word makes me think of across antand wonder if he’s ever even been to Europe. His eyes are on my cleavage. I don’t understand why women complain about this: it’s much less intense and more pleasant than eye contact. I can’t think of anything to say so he continues.
“Are you free this lunchtime? I have the afternoon off before heading back up to Gothenburg. You seem to be a keen learner.” This is a lie. I only asked about the breakfast. I was simply keen to learn when the buffet was served. “I have substantial knowledge and would love to share it.” Now I get it. It takes a while. “You aresonot street-smart, Klara!” Alice would howl at me regularly. “You would hop into a car with any guy offering you sweets.” It’s true. It’s only when my heart starts pounding in my chest and I find my eyes look for the nearest emergency-exit sign I realize that someone is chatting me up. Luckily, he has asked me ayesornoquestion; those I can answer in about two seconds as opposed to the other ones that require careful analysis beforehand.
“No, I’m not free.”
“Well, that’s a shame.”
“Not for me.” He stares at me. I wave with the croissant, and this has me thinking back to his pronunciation of it—notcroissantbut rathercross-ant, a butchering of the beloved pastry. I want him to get lost so I try to imitate the look of a cross ant, although this is tricky since I’ve never actually seen one.
He steps aside, muted, and I dash off to the bathroom and then on to the safety of my lavender-scented van. The van is not bad. I have wiped it down with a nice-smelling cleaner and put some snacks in the side of the door, and the heating settings are perfectly tuned so that it’s a small oasis of calm and recuperation. Like one of those cocoons you can rent at a large airport to rest and sleep in.
I put on my R and B playlist. When I was a child, Saga used to calm me down. When the stress was building up, she found the one thing that could divert my attention and relax me.
“What happens in the second chapter ofThe BFG?” she would ask me, and I would recite to her how Sophie sees the giant, which turns out to be the BFG, and he has a suitcase and a cloak, and she hides under the covers in her bed. I would then stop for a breath, and Saga would say, “Good. Now the third chapter?” When I got older, she did this with Eminem songs. I preferred them to pop. The rhythm. I had to recite them quietly so that others didn’t hear because they contained a lot of bad words, and if I were loud, it might offend those within earshot. Saga was brilliant at comforting me until we passed teenage years; then I seemed to acquire an unknown quality or perhaps it was a habit that made her tolerance for my company dwindle. Any longer than an hour and it felt like one big sigh.
On my Apple music playlist all my favorite calming songs are marked with anEforexplicit content. It helps you know what to expect.
I glance at the screen now, starting to regain composure.
I don’t mindgoing out of my comfort zone.I mean, Iwouldn’t, if only my comfort zone were larger than a van.
