Page 67 of The Happiness Blueprint
• NEW TASK:Clean shower curtain
• NEW TASK:Repeat. Move on to any other unsexy task I’ve ignored for the last six months. Bonus if it will help kill any thoughts of Klara Nilsson...
Restless. Turns out, thoughts of Klara can coexist with cleaning tasks. Think of the way her body language changes and she becomes a fidgety mess when I’m near her.Can’t help but smile at everything she says. “I don’t come here often.” Loudly in the waiting room.Part of me was desperate to tell her, to put all my cards on the table, the low and weak ones. But she’s made clear she’s not interested in that from me, and I promised to not mention it again. How fucking stupid is that?
Keep myself busy since I got home, but close to midnight I find myself doing something I haven’t done since it happened—reliving the moment. Documenting it. Thinking maybe that’s something. If I can share it with my Drafts folder, perhaps can share it with someone else too—say, Dr. Hadid.
SAVED TO DRAFTS
Dear you,
Keep coming back to the night it happened. We are standing outside the restaurant, I kick at a pointy piece of cobblestone sticking up in the pavement, wearing my Timberland boots since its bloody freezing. Calle is unlocking his new bicycle from the railing.
“You really can’t leave it here until tomorrow and hop in the car with me?” Dan asks Calle.
“No way am I leaving this beauty on its own here. It’s central Lund, and this is a brand-new bike.” Calle is planning to commute by bicycle to work from now on, do his bit for the environment and get fit while he’s at it. The bicycle is black and too sporty for him.
“It won’t fit in the car.”
“Alex has a van.”
“And a 7:00 a.m. start,” I remind them.
“Exactly. You don’t have to take me. It’s a five-minute ride to the train station. You take the car home, Dan, and I’ll see you there.” Calle leans in and meets Dan’s lips, lingering there with closed eyes.
“Get a room, you guys. Preferably a teenage bedroom since that’s where you seem to belong,” I say, obviously equally thrilled and jealous as hell of my brother and the love of his life.
“Do you even have a helmet with you?” Dan says as he hovers. “Sure you can’t give him a lift, Alex?”
“I’ll be fine, Dan. It’s evening and town’s dead.”
“He’ll be fine. Just down to the train station is all.” I echo my brother’s sentiment.
“Exactly. Bye, Alex! Be good!” Calle sets off, shaky and unsteady first, then when speed picks up, he disappears around the corner, the bicycle only noticeable through its blinking light.
Two hours later, I get the call from Dan. The vehicle had crushed Calle with all its weight. If he had gone in Dan’s car, he would have lived. If I’d driven him and his bicycle home, he would have lived.
Instead, he bled out in surgery, and Dan didn’t even get to say goodbye. And I’m left with a clip I’ve seen on social media playing on Repeat day in and day out. The first few days I forced myself to watch it. Look what happened because of you and your fucking 7:00 a.m. start, I’d think. It’s got a watermelon in a helmet; it gets dropped to the floor, and the fruit is intact. Then there comes another watermelon, without a helmet, and it also gets dropped to the floor. The fruit cracks. Pink juice seeps out of the crack onto the pavement, and the guy in the video makes a shocked face. The camera zooms in on the gaping crack, like a canyon. It’s an educational video to show how important helmets are.
Except in my mind, it’s a fucking horror movie where every second feels like an hour, and the gaping Grand Canyon melon is replaced with my baby brother’s head.
KLARA
How could I miss that he liked me all this time?
Google Search I’m Feeling Lucky
The building is fancy, about the fanciest thing I’ve seen during my trip. It reminds me of a riverfront luxury apartment complex in London. The Turning Torso is a landmark in Malmö. I did some research beforehand and found out that it was built in 2005 by the renowned Spanish architect Calatrava and that the finishing interior touches were designed by the famous Philippe Starck. This is no ordinary home address. For interested tourists and visitors, it’s possible to book a guided tour to see it up close and enjoy the view from the top. It sits on the edge of the city with panoramic views of the sea. I make my way through the blue-lit foyer to a large elevator and look at the board, which shows fifty-four floors. I look down at the message from Dan, the man who came to see me a few days ago. It’s apartment number ninety-eight on the thirty-second floor. There is no name at the door, but I find the number imprinted in small writing at the side of it.
The key slides in easily, the opposite of my family home’s door where you need two attempts at least and simultaneous pushing on the door with your hip for it to be in the correct position to open. Old buildings protest and grumble when you want to go in them, like a relationship that’s full of conflict but eventually gives way. New buildings always welcome you.
I’m met by a large space with uninterrupted views of the sea. The symmetry is striking, the type of thing I would find in my architecture books. I find the light switches by the door, but there is no need to use them, even at close to seven o’clock it is still light enough. I guess summer really is coming after all.
I remember the chat in the office. A dividing wall, positioned to keep as much of the spacious feel as possible. Two bedrooms instead of one to increase the sale potential. Something jumps inside me when I think of maybe, maybe being able to sketch it out. Dan may want an architect ultimately, but I could do the first drawing and email it. I see it all in front of me. I run my hands along the clean kitchen countertop. The oven clock has stopped at 2:13 p.m. I open the fridge, even though I have no reason for doing so. It’s empty apart from a pack of butter, ketchup and a six-pack of beer.
I walk into the bedroom. It’s empty apart from a bed made with ironed white sheets. Half the room opens up to the sea. This room will be untouched by the renovations, so I carefully close the door behind me and walk back to the living area. There is a lot of mess inside of me; like a tumble dryer, my insides churn with a mismatched load. Dad’s illness, my sister’s distance, Tom, Alex, tiling projects and autism. I stop in front of the large windows and look out over the calm water and the shores of Denmark in the far distance.
I’m not sure how long I’ve stood there when a noise startles me. I hear the familiar sound of a key in a keyhole. Strange. Who would come here?A robber? A murderer?! Please don’t let me die today!The door opens, although I can hardly hear it, and then I can make out footsteps. This is it. I’m about to be murdered by a crazy robber targeting empty penthouses. I can’t even call for help because my bag is on the floor by the front door. I remember wildlife advice, information I’ve looked up in case I ever run into a bear or a wolf in the Swedish woods.Walk away slowly. If it chases, play dead.I can’t play dead standing up. The steps come closer. Closer.I’m now convinced I will suffer a heart attack any second.
