This Will Kill You

All in the family by Moeen Farooqi. Image Courtesy: ArtChowk Gallery

By Maja Elverkilde

Translated from Danish by Peter Woltemade

(Click here to read the original Danish text)

My father has stopped eating. Karl doesn’t believe me; he says that it just seems so because Lilly eats so much and generally makes such a big impression. She talks the entire time and laughs at everything. She is fat. Karl would never use that word, but it is true. And Father has stopped eating since meeting her.

Father invited us home for supper so we could meet Lilly. Even though she was meeting Lukas for the first time, she just picked him up. He didn’t protest, even when she pinched his cheek. He stared at her but didn’t say anything. When we sat down at the table, she had him on her lap. “He’s big enough to sit at his own place,” I said, but Karl nudged me. “Look how happy he is,” he said and smiled at Lilly, who smiled back. “He is really a sweet boy,” she said, “if one were not so old, one could certainly get baby fever.” She laughed and winked at Father, who turned red.

Lilly works in a thrift store. She told us that right now they are collecting clothes for a children’s home. “Something like that really gets you thinking,” she said, pointing at the food on the table, “everything we have, and we don’t think about it at all. We take it for granted that we have enough.” She laughed and continued, “Now I’m not saying this to take away your appetites—of course we should be allowed to enjoy what we have, but it doesn’t hurt to think a bit about those who have nothing.”

I looked at the food—it was indeed plentiful, but she was taking her share, in fact she was shoveling it in. I could easily have said something, but Karl would have gotten angry. Father looked admiringly at Lilly, who was stroking Lukas’s hair. He was leaning back and resting his head between her full breasts; his eyelids were heavy; he was falling asleep. Father laid a hand on Lilly’s arm and gave it a squeeze. “You’re right,” he said, “it doesn’t hurt to think about it a little and appreciate everything we have.”

I said it already in the car on the way home, as soon as Lukas closed his eyes in the child seat in the back. “Father has gotten so thin—he’s not eating anything at all,” I said. But Karl didn’t listen. “Lilly seems really sweet,” he said.

Outside Father’s house, the cobblestones between the tiles have been pried up. They are lying all the way along the hedge. Only outside his house; on the rest of the street they are untouched. I slide aside some sand that has come up with the cobblestones and is lying on the tiles.

“What a mess,” I shout already out in the entranceway, while I am hanging my jacket on the coat rack. I go into the living room—he’s not in there—I continue, into the kitchen, into the utility room, out into the yard, back to the living room.

“Father,” I call. I hear the toilet flush and sit down on the sofa. He is still buttoning his trousers when he comes in. “I don’t like you letting yourself in,” he says and remains standing in the middle of the room. “You know I don’t like it,” he says, and I nod. “I’ve done a little shopping,” I say and lift the bag off the floor, “are you hungry?”

I go into the kitchen, and he follows me. I spread butter and liverwurst on rye bread and top this with pickles. He doesn’t touch the food but sits on the bench with his hands resting on the tabletop, folded, as if he were praying.

“I know why you’re here,” he says.

“Is it the city that’s doing something out there?” I ask. He looks out the window—from here one can only see the hedge. “I mean on the sidewalk, the cobblestones that have been pried up—are they doing something?” He shrugs his shoulders and looks at me again. “I know that it must be strange to see me with another woman,” he says. I sit down on the chair across from him. Immediately, I regret this. I should have sat down at the end of the table; then we would have sat at an angle to each other. He is looking directly at me, and I don’t know what to say. It’s not about him seeing someone else, it’s not about Mother. “It’s been such a long time since she died,” I say, “of course you should do what you like—you deserve to be happy.” Father tilts his head, wrinkles his brows, looks into my eyes so intensely that I feel queasy. I say it straight out. “Father, have you stopped eating again?” He sighs and leans back, closes his eyes. I get up and walk over to the window. “I just don’t understand it,” I say, “why now, when you’ve finally found someone? It seems like you really like her—why now?”

I look at the hedge—now I am again thinking about the sidewalk, the cobblestones. “Wouldn’t you like me to call the city and ask what they are doing out there?” I say, but he does not answer this either.

I make lasagne for the freezer. All our plans have been wrecked because Lukas is sick. Now the food simply has to be used for something before it spoils. I quickly stir the béchamel sauce, break up the clumps. I put two star anise in the tomato sauce, but when I want to remove them, I can only find one of them. No matter how much I look, the other one is gone. It will be unpleasant to chew on, but not as bad as a lemon seed.

A lemon press—that’s the only thing we have never managed to acquire for the kitchen. Every time we make something with lemon juice, we squeeze the lemon directly over the food, and a lemon seed always falls out. That happens both to me and to Karl. On good days it’s something we laugh about. We play a kind of reverse treasure hunt game, and Lukas laughs loudly when one of us grimaces at the bitter taste if we happen to crush one.

I can have a little present ready when we are going to eat the lasagne and tell the others about the star anise hiding in there. That could be fun. I put the two finished lasagne dishes on the kitchen counter to cool. Two finished evening meals—that is worth something, after all. Then I realize that we will not be able to play the present game because I do not know which of the two dishes the star anise is in. I look intensely at the two dishes as though I have suddenly acquired X-ray vision or some kind of special intuition. I wash my hands and go to check on the sleeping Lukas. He is breathing heavily, and the whole room smells sweetly of medicine. Tomorrow it is Karl’s turn to be home and my turn to go to work. Karl has suggested that I speak to Lilly.

We agree that I should come by the thrift store on my way to work. “I thought we should talk, too,” says Lilly. She shows me around in the store, which is not open yet. I walk behind her while she squeezes past the many racks of clothing. She spreads her arms when we reach the back room. There are stacks of cardboard boxes everywhere. On all of them there are large stickers with the delicately written text “To the Sunbeam Children’s Home from the Thrift Store Ladies.” In all of the os a smiling face has been drawn. Yellow chalk has been used for this, and the person who has done it has not been able to stay inside the line.

“This is just what we have collected in two weeks,” says Lilly, “we’ll drive off with this soon, and if they want more, we’ll keep on collecting.” She looks at the boxes and smiles broadly. She does not seem to notice the sweat running down into her eyes and continuing in a stream along her nose. “It sure is warm today,” I say and wipe my forehead. “Would you like something to drink? We have lemonade,” says Lilly. “No, thanks,” I say and wipe my forehead again. My hand is sticky and raw; the air in the room is full of old dust. Lilly opens a box and roots around as if she were looking for something. “Could we talk?” I say. Lilly stops and turns toward me, wipes her hands on her shorts. “Of course,” she says and claps her hands together, “I completely forget time and place—so typical of me.”

There are two chairs in the back room; they are close together, with their backs against the wall. She sits down on one of them; I pull the other one out into the room so that we are sitting at an angle to each other. Not directly across from each other, not alongside each other either, but somewhere in between, with an appropriate space between us. She looks at me with a waiting expression.

“This is not the first time he has stopped eating,” I say. She nods but does not say anything. “Mother always had to keep an eye on him,” I say. Still no questions. I shrug my shoulders and continue, “I don’t know why. He says that he is happy and that there is nothing wrong, he just doesn’t feel like eating anything.” Lilly nods again.

“Would you make sure he eats, at least a little?” I say.

Lilly nods and nods, then she suddenly stops. She leans forward and lays a hand on my knee. “Is it difficult for you to see your father together with another woman?” she says. I shake my head. “No, it’s not that at all,” I say, “I’m really happy he met you.” Lilly tilts her head and looks at me for a long time, still with her hand on my knee. She sighs. “I want you to know that I in no way intend to act as if your mother did not mean a great deal to you and your father. I’m not out to steal her place.” She lets go of my knee and looks directly at me, narrowing her eyes a little. I look at my watch. “I’m really happy you’re together,” I say, “it’s wonderful to see him so happy.” I extend my hand, and she takes hold of it with both of her hands. “I like your father very much—he makes me happy, too,” she says.

“I have to go now,” I say, gently retracting my hand, but I’m really happy that we could talk.” “I certainly am, too,” says Lilly and lays her hand on my shoulder, “I’m so happy.” She laughs and shakes my shoulder a little. “I’m sure we’re going to get along well—I can tell,” she says. I laugh, too, and look at my watch again. “Now I really have to go,” I say.

Every time we visit him, he eats a little, or pretends to. He tells stories, and Lilly laughs; they play with Lukas, and it really seems as though they are enjoying themselves. Karl holds my hand. I say nothing, but I scrutinize their faces, study them. Father’s cheekbones and jawbone are prominent; his eyes are sunken; his hair is almost completely white; it is only around his ears that there is still a little gray hair. Lilly. She was surely pretty once, even very pretty, I think. She still carries herself like someone who is pretty. She cooks well; that’s not the problem.

I visit him often. In the morning on the way to work, in the afternoon on the way home. I ring the doorbell; I don’t just let myself in. Father sits down at the table and fingers the sandwiches I fix him. He takes tiny little bites; a mouse might as well be eating those sandwiches. I scold him; he looks out the window.

I talk to Lilly again. She wants to think about it, she thinks for a long time. I ask again. She has decided that it has to be his decision whether he eats or not. We argue. Karl and I argue. He says that she is right. “He is an adult,” he says. They are right, and they are not right. It’s all wrong.

I say to Karl that I am meeting a friend, but I drive to Father’s house. Not every evening but often. I don’t go inside, I just sit in the car and watch them through the living room window. They don’t close the blinds because they have nothing to hide. They watch television, they play cards, or Father reads and Lilly knits—I guess that the radio is on while this is going on. That was how he and Mother sat, too.

But one evening they are listening to music so loud that I can hear it all the way out in the car, even before I switch the engine off. They are dancing. Lilly is holding up her skirt, dancing a heavy, breathless can-can while Father pirouettes with his arms held high over his head. The expressions on their faces are wrong—they are serious and their eyes are closed. I sit there for a long time, but nothing else happens. Lilly jumps and Father spins around and around—I don’t understand how he can last that long.

The following evenings I sit in the car outside the house, and I realize that I am waiting for them to do it again. Every time one of them gets up, I start, but then it is just to get more coffee or go to the toilet. Or they turn off all the lights in the living room and go to bed. The days pass, and Father gets thinner. Nothing else happens.

Karl has picked up Lukas from daycare early, and they are standing outside the office building when I get off work. Lukas is jumping up and down, having a hard time keeping the secret. Long before we arrive he has told me that we are going to look at a new apartment. I look at Karl, who is concentrating on driving in the heavy afternoon traffic. Then he can’t help looking at me after all. He smiles nervously—this is important. I smile back and lay my hand on his thigh.

It is a building site. There is a large poster with drawings giving an overview of the project, and Karl has gotten brochures. He explains and points; Lukas hangs on my arm and jumps up and down in time with the banging sounds from a crane-like machine that is in the process of hammering enormous steel rods into the earth. Rhythmic bangs, one for every time the top of the rod is struck. Slowly it bores further and further down. The ground shakes under us, a huge animal that someone is torturing. I feel like crying, but I laugh, jumping up and down together with Lukas. Bang, bang, bang. Further and further down.

“Wow, that’s an impressive machine,” I say while Karl talks, and I ask the right questions when he pauses. Light apartments, a green courtyard.

In the evening, when we go to bed. I think I have gotten away with it, but of course he can feel it, and he wants to talk. Now we have to talk about it. We cannot leave it any longer.

We lie in the bed next to each other. I look at the ceiling. There are no knots; it is made of concrete. This house is built the same way as the one at the building site today. I close my eyes and remember another building site, an empty building site. In the middle of the site, there was a burning wheel loader. I stood outside the fence, on the sidewalk; I held a man’s hand. It was quiet; it was nighttime. It was only him and me, our hands, the fire crackling, the black sky over us.

Karl says that he is worried about me. Karl says that I am either absent or irritable and that it is not good for Lukas. He says that it has gone on too long now. He says that of course it is horrible that Father is not eating and that he understands that it is difficult for me to watch, but what are we to do? He says that Father is an adult and that no one can force him to eat. He says that I am an adult now. He says that I have to let go. He says that I must not destroy my own life, our lives. He says that I must focus on myself, concentrate on getting my own daily life back on track. He says that he hates seeing me this way.

I say that he is right. I am glad that he says it, I say.

He rolls onto his side and strokes my hair. He says he is glad that we talked about it. I lie close to him; I close my eyes.

When Karl has fallen asleep, I get up and drive to Father’s house. It is dark; they are sleeping. Everyone is sleeping. I drive to the building site and get out of the car. I stand outside the fence and look at the machines in there. Big sleeping animals. Over me the usual black sky with the little pinpoint stars. Barely shining.

The time I saw the burning wheel loader.

I knew it while I stood there: I will never forget this. I feel like calling the man I was together with then. Asking him if he remembers it too. But what if he does? It was so many years ago. If it had not been for the burning wheel loader, I would have forgotten him long ago.

I wish I had experienced that with Karl; I wish that we had that in common. I wish that he were standing here now, next to me, and that he could see how wrong everything is.

I drive home and lie down next to him. First I get under his comforter; I lift his arm so that I can lie in the crook of his arm, I lay my leg over his legs. I listen to his breathing, I sniff, know his scent, my skin knows his skin. Then I get too warm and move over to my side, get under my own comforter.

When I wake, I cannot remember falling asleep.

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.