Free Dreaming of Elisabeth: A Short Story by Camilla Läckberg Page A

gaze on the sea. The boat was on autopilot. Lars was still standing next to her.
    ‘Malin …’ he began hesitantly.
    She didn’t turn to face him, merely waited tensely for him to go on.
    ‘Malin …’ he repeated. He seemed to be having trouble working out what he wanted to say. She waited.
    ‘I …’
    A deep trough in the swells surprised both of them, and the boat abruptly pitched downward. Malin lost her footing. As she was tossed towards the guard rail, she felt Lars’s hand on her back. For a brief moment she thought he was trying to give her a push, shove her over the rail and down into the foaming sea. Then she felt his fingers grabbing her jacket and pulling her back. She turned around.
    ‘That was close,’ said Lars. She saw a flicker of emotion in his eyes. Then he spun on his heel and went back to the cockpit.
    There was nothing the matter with her. One doctor after another had told her as much. They simply couldn’t find anything physically wrong. No one could explain why the babies refused to stay inside of her. No one could explain the blood that flowed out with such merciless regularity. Three months. That was the longest she’d been able to carry a foetus. Then the blood had stained the tiles red in the bathroom, and she had wept tears of resignation and despair.
    In the beginning Lars had stood by her. Comforting her, encouraging her, ensuring that she stayed calm, reminding her to take her vitamins. He had protected her. But each time she lost a baby, lost his baby, he’d retreated more and more. Until she had come to view this holiday as their last chance.
    What a joke! Nothing on this trip had turned out as she had imagined.
    She nodded to a couple in a nearby boat. They were docked in the visitors’ marina in Grebbestad, crowded together with thousands of other boat owners. She hated it. The place felt claustrophobic. But Lars had told her that he had things to do, which made it necessary to spend a few days near a town. Malin couldn’t bring herself to ask him what was so important. Probably something to do with his job. As usual. He was a doctor, which provided him with an excellent excuse to escape whenever the mood at home got too sad, too gloomy. Today’s errand had kept him away for three hours, taking care of some business or other.
    He looked stressed when he finally came walking back towards the boat. Malin watched his lean figure approach, moving with that typical sauntering gait of his. She still found him tremendously attractive. It hadn’t taken her more than a few minutes to fall for him five years ago when they met for the first time at a party hosted by a mutual acquaintance. His hair was starting to go grey at the temples, but that was the only indication that he’d reached the age of forty-five. She herself was about to turn forty. Forty years old and childless. She bit her knuckle to prevent the tears from flowing again.
    ‘Hi.’
    He came aboard without meeting her eye.
    ‘Hi.’
    Malin began feverishly draping the newly washed laundry over the guard rail. She tried hard not to ask any questions, but the effort proved too much for her.
    ‘You were gone a long time.’
    ‘Mmm …’
    Lars went below decks into the cabin. He still hadn’t looked at her.
    ‘What were you doing?’
    She raised her voice to be heard, but the only reply was the sound of clanking pots and pans. Half an hour later the food was ready. She was still brimming with questions, but the wall between them was so insurmountable that she didn’t think he’d listen to her queries. Instead they talked about trivial topics. What the weather forecaster had said. How many boats were moored in the harbour. How loud the music was on that boat crowded with young people only a short distance away. Nothing of importance. Just letters arranged into words, incapable of tearing down any walls or providing answers to anything significant. Merely air, breathed in and out.
    Towards the end of the meal, Malin