Page 59 of The Happiness Blueprint
Hard to focus on the Thai food or the conversation, though it’s good to have them both here. Find it even more difficult to focus when her readings are not back two hours later, the alarm still sounding at thirty-minute intervals.
“Something could have happened to Klara,” I say.
“Why would anything have happened?” Paul asks, kindly.
“The data is always there. Never gone for more than an hour max. The last reading was low. Then nothing.”
“You’re checking up on her?”
“She’s okay with it. It’s a work thing.” It does sound odd, but then none of this is conventional, is it?
“Maybe I should go over there? Just to check.”
“Alex to the rescue,” Paul teases. Dan stops him with a look.
“Remember, she’s got her dad. It’s not like she’s all alone. You don’t have to put this kind of pressure on yourself, man. You don’t have to carry all this weight all by yourself.” Dan is right, of course. Spent months looking for someone to blame an accident on. Why do I want more responsibility?
“You genuinely worried? Ring her, then. No harm in that, right?” Paul says, looking worried now.
He’s right: I’ll just call her, no reason I can’t dial a friend out of the blue. Pick up the phone and hit Call, listen to the endless ringing in my ear. No answer. Now I’m even more worried, with reason to be. “I can’t explain. I just have a feeling...” Shouldn’t drive with alcohol in my system. Would never drive with alcohol in my system. I’ve only had a quarter of a beer, though. Still, grab a glass of water and down it before I pick up my keys and phone. “Thanks for being here. If you leave before I’m back, just close the door behind you.” And with that, I’m out the door.
Even if it’s silly, even if it’s all for nothing, even if she’s not for me to worry about, if there is the smallest chance that I can be there for someone when they need me, I will. Just realize how late it is, and I have a 7:00 a.m. start tomorrow, but this time I don’t fucking care.
KLARA
Is autism genetic?
Google Search I’m Feeling Lucky
A week after her call Saga is here, and I couldn’t be happier. She gives me a big hug. I haven’t seen her in person in so long, and I notice that her hips have widened and she has a new vertical line where her eyebrows meet. A worry line, I think. Her smile is infectious and warms me up. I don’t know if it’s just me or if all people feel the same, but I think she is the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen.
She has been in the house for two hours, but already the windows are cleaned and a pink flower is planted in a pot on the front stairs.
“Therapy,” Saga says. “I don’t even get to clean alone at home anymore, since apparently the vacuum scares my toddler and the toilet brush is more fun than his train set.” She is now washing her hands, scrubbing away at them with lavender soap (she cleans without gloves) and progresses to preparing dinner with the ingredients I bought earlier in the day. A white lasagna with spinach and ricotta. She chops onion like a professional.
“Can you believe that Heinrich gave me a French-cooking course for Christmas. Like, really? You think now is the right time? That I’m going to learn to make béarnaise sauce and pastry. This is the era of plain pasta, only butter allowed, and if you dare add pepper the toddler will frown as if he’s an Italian being served it overcooked. Fish fingers, boiled peas and tinned corn is how we currently roll.”
“I do have respect for you because, like, you get home from work and—whoa, there’s a kid in your house! And you have to feed him and bathe him and get him to sleep for the night and make sure he, you know, doesn’t die.”
“Yes, that’s how parenting works, Klara...”
Dad comes in the room holding an iPad where his grandson, Harry, is currently putting his mouth to the screen and doing something which is supposed to be a kiss, leaving a wet mark where Dad’s chin is on his side of the connection.
“See you later, elevator!” he calls before turning around, looking for his next distraction.
“Elevator?” I ask Saga with a laugh.
“What? It’s cute! I’m not correcting him,” she replies. “Right, food is ready.”
“Call your mum. She asked if she could join the family dinner,” Dad says as he deposits the iPad on the table next to my place.
“So she can see that you’re eating healthily?” I ask, placing the lasagna and the salad I made next to it on the table.
“I think she’s given up hope on me. She now just sends me a daily text, which I try to remember to reply to but often forget. It always has the same content—Am I eating well? Is Klara managing? Should she send more vitamins?—like one of those mass emails. I wish there was an unsubscribe button.”
I laugh and sit down.
“Okay, let me get her, then,” Saga says, adding to no one in particular, “Wash your hands!”
