The Blood Spilt

37

Lisa gets into the car.
“Lie down,” she says to the dogs in the back.
I should have lain down myself, she thinks. Instead of wandering round the house waiting for Mildred. Then. The night before midsummer’s eve.
It’s the night before midsummer’s eve. Mildred is already dead. Lisa doesn’t know that. She wanders round and round. Drinking coffee, although she shouldn’t do that when it’s this late.
Lisa knows Mildred was conducting midnight mass in Jukkasj?rvi. All the time she’s been expecting Mildred to come to her afterward, but now it’s getting very late. Maybe somebody stayed behind to chat. Or maybe Mildred’s gone home to bed. Home to Erik. Lisa’s stomach ties itself in knots.
Love is like a plant, or an animal. It lives and develops. Is born, gets bigger, grows old, dies. Produces strange new shoots. Not so long ago, her love for Mildred was a burning, vibrating joy. Her fingers always thinking about Mildred’s skin. Her tongue thinking of her nipples. Now it’s just as big as before, just as strong. But in the darkness it’s become pale and needy. It absorbs everything that is in Lisa. Her love for Mildred makes her exhausted and unhappy.. She is just so incredibly tired of thinking about Mildred all the time. There’s no room for anything else in her head. Mildred and Mildred. Where she is, what she’s doing, what she said, what she meant by this or that. She can yearn for her all day long, only to quarrel with her when she finally arrives. The wound on Mildred’s hand healed long ago. It’s as if it had never been there.
Lisa looks at the time. It’s well after midnight. She puts Majken on the lead and walks down to the main road. Thinks she’ll go down to the jetty to see if Mildred’s boat is there.
On the way she passes Lars-Gunnar and Nalle’s house.
She notices that the car isn’t there.
Afterward. Every single day afterward, she thinks about that. All the time. That Lars-Gunnar’s car wasn’t there. That Lars-Gunnar is all Nalle’s got. That nothing can bring Mildred back to life.