"Well she's the one failing the class. She's been very unfocused lately and hasn't done well on the tests. I'm sorry, but I have to fail her. I told her she could take a summer class to make up for it."
"Yes. I heard that. But you see there is the problem that we're planning on going to Paris all summer, to visit an old friend of mine who lives outside the city in a big wine-castle and who has children the same age. We’ve had this all planned out and now ... well we can't just change something that has already been planned, now can we? You see my problem, Mr. Berendsen?"
"It's just for a week. If she passes the test, she'll be fine. You'll still be able to go to France for several weeks."
I slam my clenched fist onto the table. Mr. Berendsen jumps. "Exactly how many weeks we have isn't the problem here, Mr. Berendsen. It's the fact that we have to CHANGE our plans, that you force us to rearrange everything just for you, just to make you happy. This is what is wrong with this world today. NO one respects anything or anyone any more, everything is just me, me and me. It's all about what I can get out of it and someone simply has to put a stopper for this behavior, don't you think Mr. Berendsen? I mean how are the young people to learn how to respect other people's plans if all they see is that we can just CHANGE it to fit everyone's need and do whatever they lust after whenever they lust for it. Not everything in life is like a marriage that you can just CHANGE and throw away like you want to, Mr. Berendsen. Some things have to be steady in life; some things just can't be CHANGED!"
I am standing up now, without even realizing it. Mr. Berendsen is staring at me. I close my eyes for a second while pressing my gloved hands against each other. When I open my eyes again, I'm smiling at him. "So you must understand that you need to let my daughter pass. Do we understand each other? I think we do."
"Mrs. Rasmussen. I simply can't let your daughter pass this class just because you've planned a trip to France this summer."
I walk closer to him. He holds the knife out in front of him. I can tell he's afraid of me. "You can't or you won't?" I ask.
He never answers. I'm thinking tenderloin for dinner tonight.
4
THE BABY keeps me awake almost all night and I attend to her, sit in the nursery and rock her in the rocking chair while singing softly to her. It helps her calm down, but she doesn't fall asleep. When the sun comes up I'm too tired to get up and I ask Christian to take care of the older kids, to make their lunches and drive them to school. He does so without arguing. I tell myself I should give him that blow-job soon, since I was too tired last night. The baby is finally sleeping, and I try to get some rest, but it's too bright outside for me to fall asleep. I stay in bed and listen while the house becomes quiet. After that I feel restless and take a shower.
I walk downstairs and pick up the paper. I read it while sipping my skinny-latte and gulping down a smoothie made from raspberries, rice milk, honey, ginger, flaxseed and lemon juice. Rebekka Franck has a story in the paper about a man who had acid thrown in his face in an accident at work and is now in the hospital. I find a grammatical error almost at the end of the article and call the newspaper to let them know. The lady answering tells me she can't see what it is, but tells me she will let whoever is responsible know. I hang up. I drink the rest of my smoothie and go to the bathroom. The baby is still sleeping. I should get some sleep too, but can't seem to rest. The house is dirty and needs to be cleaned. I can't seem to relax when the house is filthy. So I clean it. I wash the windows, mop the floors and polish the silverware I inherited from my grandmother when she died. I think I can still smell her sickness on it. I rub it again and again trying to get the smell off, but without success. I still feel restless when the house is cleaned. I think I need to get out of the house, so I grab the baby and put her in the carriage without waking her. I go for a stroll in the city and feel better. I walk through a park where I meet other mothers. They smile at me and I smile back. Children are playing at the playground, but I am afraid they're going to wake up my princess, so I keep walking. My mother calls me and asks me out for lunch. We meet at a café and have a salad. I don't eat the croutons or the bread that comes with it to not get too many carbs. The chicken tastes good but a little dry.
"Your dad and I went to the opera last night," she says. "They play Il Trittico these days. It's splendid. You and Christian should go soon. Get out a little you know. It would do you good."
I nod while chewing. Discreetly she lets me know I have something on my lip. I wipe it off with my napkin.
"We had dinner at Restaurant Bojesen just before we went. It wasn't Noma, I tell you that," she laughs. "At least it was better than this," she continues. "I mean what have they done to this poor chicken?"
I don't answer. I focus on my food and glance at the baby carriage outside. Josephine is still sleeping. I'm thinking about dinner tonight. I'm torn between spaghetti Bolognese or an oven dish with my special sauce. I can't seem to decide.
"Have you done something with your hair?" my mother asks. "You really should. I have the best new hairdresser. He's in Copenhagen, but I don't mind the drive. He's the best. Did the crown-princess' hair before she married the prince. Oh, he's excellent. Can't you tell?"
I nod even if I didn't hear half of what she said. My eyes are fixated on a woman and a man sitting in the corner of the café. They're fighting over something. She is crying but tries to hide it so no one will see. They have a child with them. He's fussing, he doesn't like them arguing. He is no more than two, I guess. He wants out of his high chair, his mother helps him, still while arguing with the man. The boy is now on the floor. He takes off. Stumbles across the room and starts to bother people. They all smile. He stops at one table where two women are eating. He puts his fingers in their food throws it across the room. He hits someone in the neck. The parents don't notice. They're still fighting. My mother goes on and on about their trip to Vietnam last month. I pretend to be listening, but can't get my eyes off the child who is now terrorizing another couple. The mother finally notices and rushes after him. She slaps him across the face and everyone in the café gasps. Then she takes him by the hand and drags him crying out of the café. I close my eyes and start counting. My mother's mouth is still moving when I open them again. I put down my fork on the plate. I get up. My mother stops talking.
"Where are you going?" she asks.
"I lost my appetite," I say.
I leave. I grab the baby carriage and run after the couple down the street. They're still fighting and the kid is crying. I walk right behind them. They don't notice me. Still fighting they walk into an alley pushing the child in a stroller in front of them. I follow them. Now they see me and stop and look at me.
"What do you want?" the man asks.
"Don't you know it's wrong to hit a child?" I ask. "It's actually illegal in this country."
The man steps forward with a menacing look. "What did you say?" he asks.
I stare into his eyes then repeat it. "It's wrong to hit a child."
He doesn't seem to understand and it annoys me. It troubles me that people that stupid are allowed to even have a child.
He looks at me like he wants to slap me. I can tell he has been hitting his girlfriend by the look of the bruises on her face.
"I give you three seconds to get the hell out of here, before I beat the crap out of you," he says.
I don't move.
5
AMALIE IS at home when I get back. Josephine is awake and I place her in the playpen after changing her.
"You're home early?" I ask when I get out into the kitchen where she is eating her sandwich leaving a mess I know I eventually have to clean up.
Amalie smiles for the first time in weeks. "Math was cancelled today."
"Really? How come?"
Amalie shrugs. "I don't know. I guess Mr. Berendsen was sick or something."
"But they didn't send a substitute? They usually do?"
"Yeah," she says while chewing with her mouth open. "It's weird. It
was like no one knew he wasn't there. We waited in class for him for twenty minutes, when he still didn't come someone went to the front office to ask what was going on. They said they hadn't heard from him. He only had one class today. Maybe he forgot?"
I take an apple and wash it before I bite it. It's juicy but firm, just the way I like it. I chew while thinking. "It sure doesn't sound like him," I say.
Amalie shrugs. "Nah, what do I care. I'm just happy to be off early."
I smile. "If you're happy, then I am too," I say.
Amalie leaves and I clean up after her, thinking I should have told her to do it herself, but also know why I didn't. She was finally so happy and we had a nice time together. I didn't want to ruin that.
"Learn to pick your battles carefully," I mumble to myself, quoting an article in my magazine about disciplining teenagers. I wash her dish and put away the bread. Then I walk to the playpen and pick up Josephine. I play with her on the floor till my husband comes home with Jacob. I put Josephine back in the playpen while I attend to my son and his needs. I kiss him and ask him about his day while finding a healthy snack for him in the kitchen.
"Did you have fun today in pre-school?" I ask.
He nods and eats the apple-bites I cut out for him. My husband takes a cup of coffee and loosens his tie.
"How was your day?" I ask.
He shrugs, while drinking his coffee. "Okay, I guess. Like most days. Trying to land the Boyesen account, but it's harder than expected."
"Well it will be yours, I'm certain," I say and cut up more apples for my son.
"I'm not so sure anymore," my husband says.
"What? How come?"
"Well I've been gone a lot lately so I'm afraid Martin will give it to Gert instead."
"He wouldn't!"
Christian shrugs again, then sips his coffee while slurping.
"Don't do that," I say.
He looks at me.
"Don't slurp the coffee, please."
Christian sighs then takes his cup and walks into the living room. I hear the TV turned on. I close my eyes and count to ten again. I debate within myself if I should go in there and tell him that the rule is no TV in the afternoon, but I restrain myself, repeating the sentence from my article: "Pick your battles carefully."
Jacob looks at me and smiles. I smile back. My husband returns to the kitchen and takes another cup of coffee and takes a bag of licorice out of the cupboard. I count to ten again, then speak anyway.
"Don't eat candy right before dinner," I say. "You know those salty things are bad for your blood-pressure and it'll ruin your appetite."
My husband opens the bag with a grin anyway, eats a handful, chewing them with his mouth wide open, smacking his lips.
I calm myself down.
"What's that?" my husband asks and points at my shirt. I look down and see a big red spot on my new white silk shirt.
"Blood," I say and try to wipe it off with a paper towel.
My husband laughs showing the black half-eaten licorice in his mouth. "Good one," he says. "Looks more like fruit-juice."
I take it off and throw it in the washer.
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