Page 6 of The Happiness Blueprint
KLARA
How do I drive a van with manual transmission?
Google Search I’m Feeling Lucky
The smell of coffee reaches me as I walk down the stairs, each step creaking in a different tone, reminding me of an out-of-tune piano. I pour a cup for myself and fill up a bowl on the floor with cat food I find under the sink. I’m trying to remember how many cats my dad currently has and what their names are. When we adopted four kittens from a neighbor when I was a teenager, we struggled to think of things that came in fours. The seasons, the elements, the directions. I remember suggesting the four physical states, but for some reasonsolid,liquid,gas, andplasmawere voted down.
I’m pretty sure the ginger one that now struts into the kitchen is Björn and the black one following him discreetly is Benny. I saw a shy third one in the garden yesterday. Which would be either Agnetha or Frida: the last of the quartet ran into the woods some years ago. Benny arrives and attempts to push Björn out of the way, but the latter hisses and shows pointy yellow teeth. Benny settles a yard away, sadly watching his meal disappear.
“The winner takes it all,” I tell him sympathetically, before getting another bowl and pushing it across the floor toward him.
It’s like being seventeen again and practicing for my upcoming driving test. My dad’s hand hovers anxiously above mine, which is firmly gripping the gearshift, knuckles white and trembling. Considering it took me three attempts to pass my test, I can understand his unease.
“I’ve got this.”
“You almost hit the garbage can!”
“It’s moved since yesterday. How am I supposed to know where it is if it keeps moving?”
“So it’s the can’s fault you reversed into it? I don’t think that would hold up in court.”
“It’s like driving a tractor.”
“At least if it were a tractor, you would be on a field driving slowly, not out on the roads with—God help us—other vehicles.”
I am a good driver, I really am. I can even drive in London, and Alice and I sometimes pick up a car from the car-share program where you just find the location close to you and drive off. She is in charge of snack provision (road trips are all about the snacks and cheesy tunes at top volume), and I am usually the designated driver. I map the trip in advance and drive it in my head as I shower:visualization, they call it. Left on North End Road, I would think to myself. The problem with my dad’s home is that the roads are not normal, and they are not marked by signs. They extend and end at what feels random, and I cannot say to myself, Turn right on Kensington High Street, which leaves me lost.
Also, this is not a car, this is a monster. It looks a lot like the cars I drew as a child. A tall and wide box-shaped monster of a van that I somehow need to learn to maneuver before my first working day shadowing Dad—tomorrow.
We have been driving up and down the gravel road outside for half an hour now, attempting parking and reversing at angles. Like yesterday, a discreet rain falls, and the sky looks hormonal, unpredictably dark with clouds fleeting past.
“Just try to relax. Stay calm,” Dad says, getting ready for a new attempt. Has there ever been anyone in the history of mankind that calmed down when asked to? I would guess no.
I make another go at it, this time narrowly escaping a flowerpot when I try to parallel park.
“I need a break.”
“God, me too.”
We sit at the kitchen table, polished pale wood and floral coasters for our coffee cups and cakes. Coffee is in Sweden what tea is in England: we drink it morning, midmorning, afternoon, midafternoon and, if not suffering from insomnia, after dinner. I take a large sip from the dark, watery brew that fills my whole cup and inevitably will cool by the time I get to the bottom.
We have just a couple of days until I have promised to fully take over from Dad, the first day of treatment looming. His hospital bag is packed and his music downloaded, and I have snuck in a pack of juice boxes with straws, the kind I got in my lunch box whenever we had a school outing. Saga has read that sipping fruit juice can reduce nausea from the chemotherapy. She is keeping her promise of helping out so far, sharing useful information and links, but has yet to look at the website. Dad is as ready as he can be for his first day. Me less so. I try to assume the expression of a responsible adult.
“What’s the schedule like?” I ask.
“This week you’ll shadow me, and then starting next week, I will have my treatments Monday through Wednesday, then the rest of the week I will be at home.Resting.” He says it as if it’s a filthy word. Like me, he is antsy and dislikes sitting still for too long.
“I will drive you in and pick you up afterward,” I tell him, giving myself a small dose of insulin at the same time, pushing the clumsy buttons of my pump. The stress seems to be getting to me. I’ve been running high sugars since I arrived.
“Thank you, but I will manage. Klara, you’ll have things to do. You don’t realize it yet, but you will be busy, and you may not have time to be my driver. I much prefer to know things are under control with the business than to have you worry about my logistics. I can order taxis—they do exist, you know, even here.” Yes, at insane rates and arriving half an hour late after having gotten lost among the fields that surround us out here.
“I get it. I’ll try my best, I really will. How about I do the driving when I can, and the other times, I’ll accept you organizing it.” I know not to push help on my dad. Having to rely on his child is more mentally taxing than the disease itself, I can see that from the tension in his shoulders. He is the rock, the one we call when we mess up. Who bails us out when we lose our wallet at a Shoreditch gig and can’t get home unless someone links their credit card to an Uber account (Saga), or when our dishwasher is broken and we need FaceTime assistance to troubleshoot it (me).
I’m also starting to sense that my job will involve more than just a brushup of the website, which I had initially told myself. Speaking of the website...
“I emailed the web guy to add my email address, but he still hasn’t replied,” I say.
“Why not give him a call?” Dad asks me.
