Free To Mervas by Elisabeth Rynell Page A

went to the hospital to see the boy a few weeks after his operation, the nurse at the reception desk cheerfully told me that Grandfather was there to visit.
    I just stared at her.
    â€œGrandfather,” I said incredulously, as if I didn’t know what the word meant, as if it were as complicated to figure out as who somebody’s “partner” or “sister-in-law” was.
    â€œYou’re saying my father’s in there?” I asked.
    The nurse laughed.
    â€œYes, I suppose so. From your looks, it’s obvious you’re related. Gosh, I didn’t do anything wrong now, did I?”
    I said nothing, only shook my head a little and took a few steps out of her sight. At first, I felt empty inside, as if I’d lost my moorings and were drifting. Then my feelings swelled up inside me, hatred and anger mixed with an incomprehensible joy, and I was mortified. Would my dad be sitting in there with the boy? Was that even possible? I hadn’t been in touch with my father for ages. He had, however, been meticulously faithful in sending Christmas and birthday greetings every year, but I’d rarely responded to his little messages, particularly not when he’d beencareless enough to write things like “Daddy’s own girl” or “my own favorite” on them. Those words made me feel things that would prevent me from sending Christmas greetings to him for years to come.
    I walked slowly down the corridor. Underneath my coat I felt cold, as if I’d caught a fever, and my heart was pounding in my ears. It felt impossible that I could walk into the room and he’d be there, with the boy. What right does he have, I thought angrily, what right does he have to burst in here? Over and over I asked myself: What right does he have? With each step I repeated the question, probably because I was actually quite confused and because so many other words and voices were crowding inside me, complicated words, dangerous voices. By asking myself this question, I could keep the other voices at bay.
    I paused when I reached the boy’s room. The walls facing the corridor were made of glass, and even though they were covered by drapes, you could look into the rooms through the openings between them. I stood still for a moment, barely breathing, and then I leaned forward a little and peeked through an opening right where the boy’s room began. I had to close my eyes quickly, because Dad was sitting in there, it really was him, and the sight of his familiar figure burned me like fire. I opened my eyes and took another look. Yes, he was sitting there; I saw him from the side and he was an old man, I could see he had some white hair on his head and he was thinner, more bent, as if he had shrunk. “You have to look,” something inside me said when I wanted to close my eyes again. At once, my whole past fell upon me; the memory moved like a hard gust through my entire nervous system. And I looked.
    He was seated next to the bed, leaning forward, holding the boy’s hand. As far as I could see, his eyes were closed, while the boy was lying still in his crib with his eyes wide open, gazing at his grandfather’s face. I stood breathless outside the pane of glass and watched them, waitingfor a motion, for something to happen. But nothing changed, nothing happened in there. Dad kept his eyes closed and held the boy’s hand and they were both completely still. It was like a tableau vivant, and I couldn’t help myself, I felt calm; it was a beautiful and strange image. It was also quite incomprehensible. Why had Dad traveled here, and who had told him about the boy? It couldn’t be my older sister; since Mom had died, she hadn’t spoken to Dad once. It really made no difference who’d told him; what I couldn’t understand was that he’d ventured to visit my boy. That he’d traveled here to visit a child who was neither healthy nor normal.
    I couldn’t