This Will Kill You

Karl and Lukas are up; they are sitting in the kitchen eating breakfast. There is just barely enough room for the three of us around the little fold-down table. Karl pours me coffee. He smiles as I squeeze into my place. I know what he thinks, and he is right. “Shouldn’t we wait a little before we decide?” I ask nevertheless. “We can look around; maybe there are other options. Maybe we’re going to live in a completely different city or another country.” Karl looks at me with surprise, then he laughs. “I know you,” he says. “You’re just saying that to drag things out—you hope that I will forget all about it. You’ve always hated it when something changes, but just wait, I’m sure you are going to be happy about it.” I drink coffee. Lukas eats oatmeal. Karl looks at me. I look out the window. “Do you remember how much you protested when we decided to move here?” he says. I lean back—he is right. I will be happy, I always become happy again.

I know it before it happens. I can see it, and I have prepared myself several days in advance. Finally, Lilly calls. Father has been hospitalized. I leave immediately and call Karl on the way. He wants to come, too, but I say that it is better for him to stay at home with Lukas. This is not something for a child.

Father looks small in the hospital bed. He has a white robe on and is lying on top of the comforter. Even though the window is open, the room is hot. He has an intravenous needle in his right arm; clear liquid is dripping slowly into the tube. He will get nourishment through a tube, but first liquid.

He opens his eyes when I come in. “Are you here, my girl,” he says and smiles weakly. I sit down on the bed and gently take his hand between mine. Tears run down my cheeks, and I do nothing to hide them. “You can’t die, Father,” I whisper. He closes his eyes and opens them again. It looks as if this requires a great effort. “I’m not going anywhere. Don’t worry,” he says and tries to laugh but coughs instead. A rattling cough that won’t stop—I help him sit up and gently pat him on the back. Finally it stops. I sit down on the bed and take his hand again, lightly brushing the thin, dry skin. He leans back, sighs, and smiles again.

“Why are you smiling? There’s no reason to smile,” I say. He doesn’t get angry. “You know what? If I die now, I will die happier than I ever would have dared to hope,” he says. I let go of his hand. “That’s a horrible thing to say.” I look at the thin curtains, which are blowing a little, and the sun, which is shining. There is not a cloud in the sky; it has been like that for several days now. Lilly comes into the room with a vase for the flowers. I have also brought chocolate; Lilly thanks me and opens it immediately. It lies on the table near Father’s pillow, but neither of us touches it. Lilly has cried while she was out. Now she is smiling. She talks about the thrift store. Then it gets quiet again; Father falls asleep. Lilly starts crying again; I take her hand. “He’ll get well again,” I say, “it’s like this every time. One thinks he’s going to die and then he gets better.” Lilly wipes her nose; she has a handkerchief with an embroidered border and initials. “It’s more difficult than I thought it would be,” she says. I nod.

I let myself into Father’s house with my key. Lilly is at the thrift store, and I should be at work. Her shoes are lying around in the hall. Sandals, boots, and rubber shoes—there is footwear for all kinds of weather. In the bedroom her nightdress is wadded up on the floor. In the bathroom Father’s things are pushed together so she has room for hers. She uses a greasy blue Nivea cream and a special toothbrush with an extra round brush at the tip. On the floor there is an open tube of hair removal cream, the kind one uses while bathing. I open the window and let the warm, moist air out. She has not dried the floor in the shower stall either.

I go downstairs again, into the kitchen, and open the refrigerator. It is full—there are several liters of milk and many kinds of sandwich meat and tired-looking vegetables. At the bottom there is a little lake of water containing pink, milky sediment. I close the refrigerator again and sit down on the bench. Lilly’s breakfast is still on the table; I slice a piece of white bread and spread the nearly liquid butter on it. I take a bite and chew, but the bread swells up, and I cannot swallow it. I spit it out again and look at the half-dissolved mass on the cutting board.

In my thoughts I plan thorough cleaning. Father will soon be released again. Everything must be taken out, aired out, turned over, sorted. All the windows must be opened wide, every corner cleaned.

At home we have agreed for once and for all on what is to be done and who will do it and when. Bed linens are changed every other week, and all toothbrushes are replaced every third week, as dentists recommend. Everything has been written down in a schedule, so no one has to make an effort to remember it. Suddenly, I am struck by dejection over the whole arsenal of cleaning products, care products, clothes, towels, bed linens, furniture, and food that is required for us to be clean and healthy. We can’t let things slide. We can’t give in.

The tube nourishment has fattened Father up enough, and he is released. Karl thinks this is a good thing. He doesn’t understand that everything will start over once Father is back home—this is just a pause, a breathing space.

“I love you,” I said to Father last time I was at the hospital. He smiled in the irritating, mild way that he has made his own and is no doubt encouraged in by the entire white, quiet hospital environment. I always think about the song about the tubercular girl when I see him—it makes me so angry.

“It doesn’t make any sense,” I hissed, “why did you eat for all those years in which you were grieving over Mother and were lonely? Why do you want to die now, when you have Lilly? She loves you, and you love her, it makes no sense, why?” Father looked into the air, at the blowing curtains, at nothing.

Maja Elverkilde is the author of two volumes of short stories, Alt det der er mit (“All That Which Is Mine”) (Borgens Forlag, 2008) and Det dør man af (“This Will Kill You”) (Forlaget Republik, 2014). She lives in a house in a forest in Sweden, an experience about which she has blogged in Danish and English.

Peter Woltemade is an American-born literary and commercial translator based in Copenhagen. He is a former Fulbright Graduate Fellow (Berlin) and holds a Ph.D. in medieval German literature from the University of California at Berkeley. His work has appeared in The Brooklyn Rail and The Missing Slate. His current projects include translation of short fiction by Julia Butschkow and Thomas Boberg.