Welcome to America. Linda Boström Knausgård

columns and statues, a man and a woman holding up the balcony of the apartment above ours, the only one facing the street. The paintings on the stairway, the angels on the ceiling, the stone stairs with the fossils in them. We live on the first floor. The key slides into the lock, the door opening into the hall with the piano I sometimes played without being able. Home, home. Before, there was my dad to consider, the mood he might be in and what he could do. You never knew if it was going to be a quiet afternoon or if he’d be wanting company. But I didn’t need to worry about that anymore. Death stood between us now, like a river running by, and I could wade through that river, across to the other shore, and know I was safe.

      My mum’s thick, blond hair, her wide mouth and full lips, her laughter, so vibrant and fluid. So much joy. In one seamless movement, upwards, ever upwards, she could lift me and I would rise with her, rise to the ceiling and out into space, we rose and rose together. We flew. Flew over the city, looking down at the rooftops below, laughing as we picked out our own, onwards, upwards, away into the world. The air grew thin and cold, darkness surrounded us, until we turned and fell through the layers, all the way back to the apartment, and were again standing in our living room with the view of the park. It was night and thundering. Lightning lit up the park, the trees showed themselves fleetingly to us as light, before darkness took over again. Mum laughed at my fear of thunder. I had come running to her, crying, and we stood there together in the middle of the floor, staring into the night as it was ripped apart by electricity, and she laughed. What more did she do? Did she go with me back to my room again? Did she sit with me, on the edge of the bed? I can’t remember.

      Maybe this was where I should have resisted. Resisted the memories. I sat here in the darkness thinking about her, even though I didn’t want to. What did I want?

      I wanted to sit in enduring silence, to feel it grow strong and take everything into its possession. Was that what I wanted? Yes, that too.

      I surveyed the room. The bunk beds with the curtain mum had sewn, the night table with the books I no longer read, left there. The desk and the floral armchair where my clothes were dumped, the ones that weren’t in the wardrobe. The flowery wallpaper. Why were there so many flowers in my room?

      I went to the kitchen, knowing no one was there. I filled a glass with water and scurried back, drank the water and put the glass down on the desk. The notebook lay there with its soft, black cover. I ran my hand across it. Something inside me liked it being there.

      The first time I went to see my dad at the hospital he showed me off to everyone: patients, nurses, doctors. He was jaunty, glowing almost as he told them: This is my daughter. This is my daughter. He couldn’t sit still, he went off into the day room where the TV and the games were. I made sure not to look anyone in the eye. Mostly, I stared at the floor. A doctor sent him back to his room. Sit here and stay with your daughter, he said, and closed the door when he went out. It was as if suddenly dad came down to earth. He said: I’m no good. I’m no good. Several times in a row. He looked down at his hands, I at mine, until the visit was over and I could leave the ward and go back to mum who was waiting in the cafeteria.

      That was the first time. There were some more visits after that. And then mum no longer wanted him to live with us, so he went and lived on his own in a flat. I never felt guilty about wishing he was dead. It was the best thing.

      Sometimes, though, I felt guilty about him being on his own. At home he’d had us, even when all he could do was lie on the sofa, though occasionally, if he was up to it, he might make dinner after we’d played cards.

      We were a family of light. Mum’s light shone out to us all. Her light poured on us. Before, I’d been proud of my mum. The most beautiful of all the mothers at the parents’ evening. Conversing with the teacher and the other parents. She made an impression. No one could resist her. Least of all me. And could I now? Resist her? Was my silence down to her? How could anyone allow someone else to take up so much space in their lives?

      You’re only a child, she used to say, lifting my chin to make me look at her. You’re only a child, and now it’s enough. Do you hear me? Enough.

      I saw my brother in the playground. I saw him, and he saw me.

      The first few days had been a rush of excitement. The fact that I could. That it was so easy. Just stopping. From one moment to the next my life was changed. It was more than a refusal.

      It wasn’t running away. It was the truth. The truth about me.

      Now and then I wondered what my voice would sound like if all of a sudden one day I said something. Whether it was still there inside me, waiting, or if it was gone. What would it sound like? That was one question I asked myself.

      I asked myself others too, like about responsibility. Was I making my mum go mad? Most often she was calm, but when she flipped it felt as if it was my fault. It wasn’t so much what she said, it was more that she became small all of a sudden. I made her small. It was scary. I wondered whether I had to start talking again to stop her from disappearing. If I had to choose between her and myself, wouldn’t I choose her?

      Wouldn’t I choose her strength over mine?

      Yes. I would. That was still the way it was.

      Sleep came like a mist in the night. It settled over me, only a few centimetres of air between me and it. I filled that air with a prayer. Always the same: Dear God who art in Heaven. Look after mum. Make her happy and never let anything bad happen to her. Amen.