His voice is soft when he eventually speaks. “I was so worried about you, Jo. And I’m so glad you’re getting better.”
I force myself to look him in the eyes. Was there ever a time in my life when I had felt so torn? I should be thanking this man, should be down on my knees with gratitude, for the fact that he had risked his own life to save me. And I’d do it too, without hesitation, if it wasn’t for this other possibility. The possibility that I wouldn’t even have needed to be saved if he weren’t here in the first place. The possibility that he intentionally put me in danger, all just to extort gratitude from me.
I decide to lift up my oxygen mask after all. “They’re saying it was the boiler?”
Erik hesitates for a moment, then nods. “It’s not just what they’re saying. That’s what it was. And—Jo…” He buries his face in his hands, rubbing it, then looks up again.
“I found the scarves.”
I have no idea what he’s talking about. “The scarves?”
“Yes. The boiler’s exhaust vent was blocked with three bunched-up scarves, the large ones that you like so much. That’s why…”
That’s why.
It wasn’t a technical defect. Or a maintenance error. Someone took my scarves out of the wardrobe and used them to build a little deathtrap.
“I took them out before the firemen arrived. They were really puzzled, because the exhaust should have been vented normally. They said that accidents like this can happen without the boiler being blocked, but in those cases the carbon monoxide only gets pushed back down into the vent when it’s humid outside and the air pressure is low.”
Erik doesn’t say any more, but I’m well aware of what he’s thinking. It wasn’t humid yesterday. And I was alone at home for hours. I would have had time to do it.
He probably talked with Ela already. Hence her suggestion earlier.
“It wasn’t me,” I say, and even I can hear how flat my voice is. Exhausted. Unconvincing.
I clear my throat and try again, making an effort to sound stronger. “Believe me, Erik. I didn’t do it. I wouldn’t even know how to; I’ve got no idea about gas boilers and vents and…” I run out of air, and press the oxygen mask back down over my face, for three, four breaths. “I’m not trying to kill myself,” I say then. “Neither myself nor you.”
He doesn’t smile. Staring at the floor, he says, “I hid the scarves; maybe that was stupid of me. But I didn’t want you to get into trouble with the police, or for them to lock you up in a psychiatric unit.” Now he looks up, and for the first time since I’ve known him, I feel the urge to take his hand. To hold it and squeeze it.
I don’t, but when he reaches for mine, as if he can sense my thoughts, I let him.
“I still believe that we can get over our problems,” he says. “But you have to want it, Jo. You’re making it so unbelievably difficult for me right now. I’m doing everything I can, but you have to help me. Please.”
I don’t know why I nod. Probably because I’d like to believe what he’s saying. Because I need something to hold on to, too. Or someone.
And maybe that’s exactly what he was after the entire time. If that’s so, he’s achieved his goal.
14
“You were lucky.” The ward doctor looks up from the clipboard holding my patient chart, and puts it down at the foot of the bed I’m sitting on, all dressed and ready to go. Lucky? That seems like an absolute mockery, given the chaos of the past few days.
“All in all, your blood levels are OK. Your paperwork is being prepared as we speak, and after that you’re free to go. I’ll write you a sick note for the next two days. You should use the time to recover.”
He gives me a firm handshake. Then I’m by myself again.
I can go. Leave this room with its whitewashed walls that threw back my thoughts like an echo when I was staring at them, for hours on end, searching in vain for answers. .
But I’m still reluctant about the prospect of leaving the hospital. About leaving Joanna, who’s lying in a room only a few doors down from mine.
If I leave now, I won’t be able to protect her. From … from what, really?
From herself? From me?
What if it’s not Joanna who has mental problems, but me? How can I be so sure her head is the one that’s out of whack? She’s fighting the idea that something’s wrong with her just as desperately as I would be. As I am. But maybe it really was me who plugged the boiler’s vent, and I just don’t remember it? I do know where you’d have to stuff the scarves to block it, at least.
“OK, Herr Thieben, here’s your sick note and the letter for your doctor.”
A rotund nurse is holding an envelope out toward me. I get up and take it from her. “Thanks,” I say, and I truly do feel thankful. Because she showed up at exactly the right moment and pulled me out of these frightening thoughts.
“And that’s all. You can go now. Get well soon.” She gives me an encouraging smile, and a moment later she’s gone. Next patient, next smile.
I leave the room, turn to the left, and walk to the room five doors down. I decide not to knock.
Joanna seems to be asleep as I carefully shut the door behind me and go over to her bed. I stand there and look at her. The oxygen mask over her pale face, the tubes, the monitor next to her bed. Three jagged lines, one underneath the other. Green, blue, white. Some numbers as well. Blood pressure, oxygenation, ECG, heart rate. She looks so incredibly helpless, so fragile. I scream silently on the inside. I desperately want to take her in my arms, hold her against me. Whisper into her ear that everything’s going to be OK. That I love her more than words can say, that we’ll get through everything together. Everything.
If only I could at least hold her hand.
But I leave it. She needs her rest.
Get well quick, I think. I’ll be back later. I leave the room on tiptoe. Hallway, elevator, foyer, and reception. I register them all as though they were props in this nightmare I’m stumbling through, this horror film in which I’m inadvertently playing the leading role.
I get into a taxi and tell the driver my address. Stare out the window as we drive off in silence, leaving the hospital behind us. The concrete faces of the suburban houses gawp at me with cold indifference.
I’ve been put on sick leave for two days, but I don’t want to sit around the house, especially not now, when things are quite clearly going off course for me at work.
On the other hand, it would give me the chance to look after Joanna without having to invent any stories. Stories that would give Gabor, or Bernhard, even more reasons to speculate.
“You want me to drive up there?” The driver points at our driveway.
“Yes, please.”