Page 40 of The Happiness Blueprint
Slowly his home was becoming a shell.
Pappa stood restlessly by the door, not knowing where to start or what to look at first, as if he’d gone to visit a neighbor and arrived at an inconvenient time. After fifteen minutes he quietly left. Found him later sitting in the lobby researching fitted-shelving designs on his phone.
Go through the sparse rooms now trying to figure out what has gone this time. It’s the desk in the corner of the living space along with its chair.
Am alone today, checking mail and catching any subscriptions or bills that Dan has missed. He is in Stockholm this week, doing his best to move on, and maybe it’s easier for him, away from all this. I have nothing more to do, the pile of envelopes torn open and tossed into the recycling bin and the worthy documents in my pocket, folded into neat squares.
Leave the apartment, stopping when the door closes smoothly to take in the name still on it, etched on a metal plate above the mailbox. I suddenly feel an impulse to remove it. I pick the Swiss Army knife from my trousers side pocket, where a screwdriver also lives, and start tugging at the sides of the sign. It is already pretty loose; it’s never been attached completely but stuck on with some wood glue. I get away with only a small scratch on the door. I hold it in my hand and touch the empty surface where it used to sit.
Carl and Daniel Kristiansenit reads.
Carl and Daniel Kristiansen don’t live here any longer. Carl Kristiansen—Calle—doesn’t liveanywhereany longer.
Talk to Klara later that day. She is obviously going somewhere because, well,whoa.It’s Klara but a different version, one I haven’t seen yet. Her hair is long and shiny, hanging off her shoulders and bouncing when she moves. Her curves are hugged by a wrap dress in a hideous pattern, something my grandmother would have on a cushion in a guest bedroom, big ’60s-style flowers and geometric shapes, but on her it’s breathtaking, completely unique. I can’t stop looking at her.
“You look...nice.” Understatement of the year. I can hear myself swallowing.
“Thank you,” she says. I wait for her to say something else; she looks like she’s about to, eyes fixed on me. I smooth my sweater. I want to ask her if I can stay a little longer. She wriggles uncomfortably and glances at her phone on the table, as if expecting it to chip in on the conversation.
“I’m trying to find someone,” I say, not sure why I’m sharing.
“Anyone?”
“No, a specific person. Sorry—that was odd. I’m trying to track down someone who can help me.”
“I’m assuming you’ve googled?”
“Woman with dog and red fleeceunfortunately doesn’t return many results,” I say gloomily. Let’s pretend I haven’t tried that exact search in a weak, desperate moment.
“No, but you have to ask the right question. Give details and Google gives answers. What type of dog was it?” I think. I did find out and put a poster up in the local service station.
“A schnauzer.”
“Great. Write down everything you know, every detail you can remember. Then, send it to me. I can help.” I look at her and realize she is the first person that’s offered to do something. That hasn’t just told me it’s mission impossible and referred me for psychological help. I know nothing will come of it. How could it? But I’m seriously grateful. She didn’t even ask why I’m trying to find her, just offered help.
“Right, I better get going. Tom will be waiting,” she says, and I agree. She better go before I do something crazy like tell her how she’s the most awesome human being there is and that her ears are the cutest things and—
“Have a good one,” I say.
After she leaves, I pull out my phone and do what I can.
She should really be home on time. Because it’s good for people to sleep. And we have a big workday tomorrow. Definitely not because I find myself suddenly unnerved at the thought of her being out with another man. That would be weird and possessive and pointless because she’s none of my business.
• NEW EVENT (ADDED TO SHARED CALENDAR):7:30 staff meeting (there will be croissants)
That should hopefully get her home and in bed on time.
KLARA
Can I sleep with a guy on the 60th date?
Google Search I’m Feeling Lucky
I remember reading a list of the world’s most stressful life events. Like, death obviously tops it, then illness, having a baby, changing jobs. Well, a date in a fancy restaurant should be on that list. The silence, which makes me think my date can hear me swallowing, the upright posture I need to maintain throughout, and finding the balance between looking into my date’s eyes and the food in equal parts, especially tricky if the food is more exciting than the date (pizza, pasta, bread basket, fried calamari, tiramisu—I’m looking at you). I’d much rather go for a walk, visit an exhibition or go horseback riding after finishing work.
But that’s not where Tom has taken me.
“The wine is good,” I say. Itisgood, better than the Waitrose Finest selection one I usually buy, feeling very grown-up when I do.
