They go back to the house, where the people continue to live their lives. Once every other week, Alf gets into Taxi and drives Maud and Lennart to a large building where they get to sit in a little room and wait for a very long time. And when Sam enters through a small door with two large security guards, Lennart gets out some coffee and Maud produces some cookies. Because cookies are the most important thing.
And probably a lot of people think Maud and Lennart shouldn’t do that, and that types like Sam shouldn’t even be allowed to live, let alone eat cookies. And those people are probably right. And they’re probably wrong too. But Maud says she’s firstly a grandmother and secondly a mother-in-law and thirdly a mother, and this is what grandmothers and mothers-in-law and mothers do. They fight for the good. And Lennart drinks coffee and agrees. And Maud bakes cookies, because when the darkness is too heavy to bear and too many things have been broken in too many ways to ever be fixed again, Maud doesn’t know what weapon to use if one can’t use dreams.
So that’s what she does. One day at a time. One dream at a time. And one could say it’s right and one could say it’s wrong. And probably both would be right. Because life is both complicated and simple.
Which is why there are cookies.
Wolfheart comes back to the house on New Year’s Eve. The police have decided it was self-defense even though everyone knows it wasn’t himself he was protecting. That could also be right or wrong, possibly.
He stays on in his flat. The woman in jeans stays on in hers. And they do what they can. Try to learn to live with themselves, try to live rather than just existing. They go to meetings. They tell their stories. No one knows if this is the way they are going to mend everything that’s broken inside them, but at least it’s a way towards something. It helps them breathe. They have dinner with Elsa and Harry and Mum and George every Sunday. Everyone in the house does. Sometimes Green-eyes also comes. She’s surprisingly good at telling stories. And the boy with a syndrome still doesn’t talk, but he teaches them all how to dance beautifully.
Alf wakes up one morning because he’s thirsty. He gets up and has some coffee and is just on his way back to bed when there’s a knock on the door. He opens it, taking a deep slug of coffee. Looks at his brother for a long time. Kent is supporting himself on a crutch and looking back at him.
“I’ve been a bloody idiot,” mutters Kent.
“Yes,” mutters Alf.
Kent’s fingers grip the crutch even harder.
“The company went bankrupt six months ago.”
They stand there in craggy silence, with a whole life of conflict between them. As brothers do.
“You want some coffee, or what?” grunts Alf.
“If you have some ready,” grunts Kent.
And then they drink coffee. As brothers do. Sit in Alf’s kitchen and compare postcards from Britt-Marie. Because she writes to them both every week. As women like Britt-Marie do.
They all still have a residents’ meeting once every month in the room on the bottom floor. They all argue, as ever. Because it’s a normal house. By and large. And neither Granny nor Elsa would have wanted it any other way.
The Christmas holidays come to an end and Elsa goes back to school. She knots her gym shoes tightly and carefully tightens the straps of her backpack as children like Elsa do after the Christmas holidays. But Alex starts in her class that day and she is also different. They become best friends immediately, as you only can when you’ve just turned eight, and they never have to run away again. When they’re called into the headmaster’s office the first time that term, Elsa has a black eye and Alex has scratch marks on her face. When the headmaster sighs and tells Alex’s mum that she “has to try to fit in,” Alex’s mum tries to throw the globe at him. But Elsa’s mum gets there first.
Elsa will always love her for that.