Let the Small Things Lie
Chapter two: Everyman
"I'm sure I was wrong.
Otherwise, you'd have stayed here.
I hope you're okay."
The house was filled with silence. Everything was still, and the quiet was thick and sun streamed in through the windows, filling the house with light.
Yvonne sat at the kitchen table with a cup of coffee and a box of tissues, her eyes red from crying, her coffee watery and lukewarm. A ray of sunlight fell upon her lap, illuminating the yellow, polka-dotted sun dress she wore. Wooden bracelets clanked against each other as she reached for a tissue; her nose was red and raw from incessant rubbing.
She sipped her coffee, lost in thought. What could she have done differently? Something she could've said, a hug she didn't give? Was she too hard on him? Too controlling, too protective?
The phone rang, startling her out of her thoughts. She grabbed the box of tissues, and jumped to answer it. Probably the police, she thought.
She'd called them, worried after Oskar didn't show up for dinner. They'd told her to wait. Kids often show up again on the first night, they'd told her. She'd argued with them, yelling angrily about the massacre at the pool, about the kids who'd died, and the one witness who said they'd seen Oskar with some… thing. They'd ignored her, told her to wait, and call again the next day. She did, and the best they said they could do was to put up flyers; hope someone would call with information.
She picked up the phone.
"Hello? Yvonne?" It was Erik. She'd dreaded this call. She didn't want to explain what happened, didn't know how to. How could she tell him that Oskar-
"Yes, good-" she stopped mid-sentence to blow her nose. "Good morning, Erik. How are you?"
"I'm fine." There was a pause. "I heard about what happened at the school, it's all over the radio."
Her body started to tremble. This was all so overwhelming, she couldn't handle this. She was supposed to be the adult one, the responsible one. She'd fucked up; Oskar ran away while she was in charge, it was her fault. She suppressed a sob, while Erik continued to speak.
"Where's Oskar? Was he hurt?" He waited a beat. "Why didn't you call me?"
On the other end, Erik pinched the bridge of his nose. What was her malfunction?
She was in college when they'd met. He was tending bar in Stockholm at the time; he'd pinched himself when she made her way to the counter. Over a beer, they'd discussed life, and her big plans to reform Sweden. Business law and tax code, she had said, grinning, are the burdens breaking the backs and banks of the Swedish everyman. Big words, big plans. Where was all that drive and confidence now?
"Yvonne? Say something. Answer me," he said, clearly frustrated.
She lost it. Sobs wracked her body, folding her over. She fell to the ground, rivers of tears streaming down her reddened face and darkening her dress. Unable to breathe, doubled over in grief and fear, she squeezed words out of her lungs. "I'm a failure," she stammered between gasps of air, sobbing uncontrollably. "I'm a failure of a mother! I-"
"Yvonne!" Erik was yelling now. He'd lost his patience, which had already been worn thin with worry the moment he'd heard about Oskar's school on the news. "Don't you fucking dare! You're not a goddamn victim!"
He gripped the phone tightly, his knuckles turning white. He needed a drink, badly.
"It's been two days since the incident at the school! Nobody thought to call me!?" He balled his free hand into a fist, his forearm stretching the knit sweater he wore rolled up to just below his elbow. "Where is Oskar?" he demanded. "Let me speak to him! This isn't about you!"
A low moan began to escape Yvonne's lips, growing steadily into a loud wail. She leaned against the kitchen wall, curled up into a ball, gripping the phone tightly, as if it was the only thing anchoring her to reality. She let the hand holding the phone fall to her side, and continued to wail and sob violently against the kitchen wall.
"Yvonne! Yvonne!" Erik slammed the phone down onto the receiver, furious. "Goddamnit!"
His face was mottled red with anger. Sweat was beading on his brow and moustache. He stormed across the tiny, cozy cottage, making a beeline for the liquor cabinet. He pulled a glass out from the cupboard, and poured himself a stiff glass of scotch, neat.