The Dinosaur Feather(133)

“You look awful,” Anna blurted out. She gave him a quick hug and noted to herself she had been right. He reeked of stale booze.

“I had a late night, and when I finally went to bed I couldn’t get to sleep.”

“It’s an old wives’ tale that booze helps you sleep. It prevents it, in fact,” Anna said.

“I would have preferred a bad night’s sleep to no sleep at all,” Jens mumbled. They sat down in the living room. The sofa frame was made from varnished bamboo, and the cushions were ancient. A low coffee table, piled high with newspapers, stood in front of it. The apartment had a sloping roof and consisted of a large room divided up by a wall that reached all the way to the ceiling. On the living room side, the wall was covered with books from top to bottom; an ingenious contraption consisting of an iron pole and a ladder enabled Jens to reach the top shelves. Anna caught a glimpse of the open-plan kitchen on the other side, a loaf of bread half out of its bag, a stick of butter. A lumpy patchwork rug lay on the floor.

“Why don’t we go out,” Jens suggested, apologetically. “I don’t mind. I could buy you a hot chocolate?”

Anna stared at him in disbelief.

“Are you trying to wriggle out of this?”

Jens gave her a weary look.

“Yes, I suppose I am. Let’s stay here. Do you want some tea?”

“No, thanks,” Anna said. “All I want is an explanation.”

Jens looked haggard. Then, all of a sudden, he began to sob. Anna was shocked. She had never seen her father cry.

“We never meant to hurt you, Anna sweetheart,” he said. He stood with his arms dangling, looking lost and lonely in his jeans and shirt; his stomach had grown too big and he needed a haircut. Anna gulped. Jens sat down on a worn armchair, facing her. For a long time he stared at his hands which now rested in his lap.

“Cecilie doesn’t know you’re here,” he began, with trepidation. “I spoke to her yesterday, but I didn’t say anything. I thought the two of us should talk first . . .”

“That’s all right,” Anna said, calmly.

Jens looked momentarily relieved.

“But you can’t shut me up.” Anna’s eyes flashed. “You’re going to tell me who Sara is, where she is, and why I’ve never heard about her. I’ll listen to what you have to say, and I’ll try my best to understand.”

Jens gave her a frightened look.

“And if you ever lie to me again,” her voice was trembling, “you’ll lose me. I’ll count to ten, Jens. I mean it. You have ten seconds to start talking.” When she reached three, Jens cleared his throat.

“Everything was fine while Cecilie was pregnant. We were in love; we were looking forward to the baby. I couldn’t believe my luck. I had yet to turn twenty and this wonderful, attractive, older woman had chosen me. I had moved into her apartment, she went to work, I was studying, the summer seemed endless. We decorated the nursery. Your mom put up a Che Guevara poster above the changing table and made a giant, foam-filled snake for you. Her belly grew; the sun was shining. Then you were born. It was winter and pitch black. I was there at your birth. It was a long labor; Cecilie fought hard, and finally, out you came. It was minus ten outside and the sky was full of stars the night I came home to Brænderup. I remember standing in the conservatory, gazing at it. I was a father. You came home five days later between Christmas and New Year.” Jens clutched his head. “And I knew instantly that something was wrong.”

Anna realized she was tense all over.

“Mom’s back?” she asked.

Jens gave her a dark look.

“She had postpartum depression. She didn’t want you. We made up the story about her back.”

Anna was dumbstruck. Jens’s revelation hit her like a thunderbolt that went in one eye, across the roof of her mouth, down her throat, and into her stomach, where it lodged itself like an anchor on the sea bed. She wanted to throw up.

Jens looked away.

“I didn’t want to admit it. But I could see it. She wouldn’t look at you when she fed you. You looked at her. You could barely open your eyes and yet you were trying with all your being to get her attention. But she looked out of the window, at the birds on feeder. When she had fed you, she would put you down quickly. In your crib or on a blanket on the floor. She would sit down to read. I’m just tired, she would say whenever I summoned the courage to challenge her. After only a short time, Cecilie said her milk had dried up, and I believed her. But then I saw her in the shower one day. Her eyes were closed and the water jet was aimed at her face. I happened to be in the bathroom to fetch something. And the milk was running down her belly, dripping into the drain. When we went to bed that night, I confronted her. It was mid-January, you were about a month old, I think, and she freaked out, like I had never seen her before. She screamed and she shouted and slapped her own face. ‘I’m a bad mother. Is that what you’re saying?’ You were in your crib, crying and crying. In the end I took you to my study. It was awful. I settled you down, but you woke up in the middle of the night, hungry. I went back to the bedroom where Cecilie was sleeping, but she didn’t want you. Take her away, she said. I didn’t know what to do. I ended up feeding you milk with a spoon. We had nothing else. No bottle, no formula. Cecilie had been looking forward to breastfeeding you all through her pregnancy. The next day I went shopping for everything, bottles, nipples, and formula. I left you at home while I did it; it was still freezing cold outside. Cecilie was sitting by the window, staring at the garden, when I left. You were lying on a blanket with your blanket over you. I remember asking Cecilie if she wanted to pick you up. ‘Not now, she’s asleep,’ she snapped. I drove into town and bought what I needed. I was gone an hour, maybe. You were still asleep when I came back, but Cecilie wasn’t there. I looked in all the rooms; I called her name. She returned two hours later. Covered in powder snow, her cheeks flushed. She was in a slightly better mood. I prepared a bottle for you and asked Cecilie if she wanted to feed you, but she preferred to have a bath. ‘You do it,’ she said. ‘I already know how.’” Jens breathed in deeply. “A few days later I went back to work.”