Page 145 of The Sleepwalker
‘Maybe not at first, when you were little. I mean, you had no option but to turn to me .?.?. and I looked after you, especially when Bernard needed to write. But I’ve been wondering whether, subconsciously, I also exploited the situation because I needed to be loved too. By you, as though I was your real mum.’
They pass a Maxi superstore and are approaching a roundabout.
‘I never thought of it that way, but .?.?. I don’t know, I’m super impressed by you right now,’ Hugo says, fixing his eyes on her. ‘I mean, it’s pretty brave to say what you just said.’
‘I’m just sorry things went so wrong,’ she says as she turns off onto Dag Hammarskjölds väg.
Tall, straight pines flicker by on both sides of the road.
‘I’ve decided to try to find my mum,’ he says.
‘Good.’
‘I used to be so mad with her for leaving me and Dad, for dropping everything and running away to Québec so she could get high,’ he continues. ‘But now, I feel like I want to see her anyway. I mean, sheismy mum, even if she has all these problems.’
‘Of course.’
‘She used to write to me about getting clean, but nothing ever happened. I don’t know .?.?. I just feel so fucking powerless, because she’s going to wind up dead if she doesn’t get any help.’
Agneta gives him a quick sideways glance.
‘When did you last hear from her?’
Hugo sighs and slumps back in his seat. ‘It’s been almost three years since she replied to any of my letters.’
‘Did you have an argument?’
‘No .?.?. Or maybe, a bit,’ he admits, swallowing hard. ‘She promised she’d come home for my birthday, but it was just lies like always.’
‘What does Bernard say?’
‘Dad doesn’t want to talk about her. He thinks she’s made her choice, and he’s learned not to trust her, can’t stand it when she gets my hopes up .?.?. But surely hope is better than just giving up?’
‘He’s probably just trying to protect you.’
‘I know.’
* * *
They leave the car in the small parking area and head inside. Agneta signs in at reception, and is handed a visitor pass on a black lanyard. Hugo then leads her down the corridors to Lars Grind’s office.
He presses a finger to the buzzer by the doctor’s door, the lock clicks, and the little pinkWILLKOMMENsign lights up.
Lars Grind is sitting at his desk in the cold glow of the computer screen. He is wearing a pale-grey corduroy suit and a white polo shirt.
‘Sorry again that I just bailed,’ Hugo says, pausing in the middle of the room. ‘There was something I needed to sort out.’
‘It’s OK, you know that. What we have here, it’s symbiotic – and voluntary. I try to help you, and we do our research.’
‘How did you get on with your jacket?’ Agneta asks.
‘It’s with the dry cleaner. I think it must have been oil, because I’d been watching a tutorial and trying to service my bike before I came over.’
Grind had stopped off at the house with a hamper of food on the first Sunday of Advent. He hadn’t been able to stay for long, but had agreed to a quick coffee in the kitchen, and Bernard had noticed that he had a number of dark stains on the sleeves of his jacket.
Lars gets up and gestures to the chairs by his bookcase.
‘Coffee? Tea? Hot chocolate?’
