You Were Made for This Read online

  Never mind; it’s worth it, isn’t it? What more could I hope for. What more do I need? The love of a husband, the gift of a child. It is enough—it is everything.

  Sometimes this new life makes me feel as though I am living as a quaint eighteenth-century settler wife. Growing things, baking bread, going to the weekly farmer’s market to choose my box of greens: zucchini, kale, celery, whatever I can’t grow in my own garden. Sam marvels at the offerings—the freshness of wild Norwegian salmon, the taste of real farm butter or eggs plucked right out from under a hen.

  How did we ever survive in the States? he says.

  You’d wonder, I reply.

  We do this frequently, compare life before and after; new world and old. Sweden always wins. There is seldom much need for debate. Sweden is Sam’s gift to me, to us. It is the answer to everything, it has been the cure for all that ailed us before. Paradise, he calls it, and waits for me to agree.

  I always do. How could I not.

  As well as jam and baby food, it was a bathroom and kitchen day, so after finishing with the food, I made my homemade cleaning paste of vinegar and baking soda—the recipe courtesy of a blog Sam found for me. It’s full of household tips, like how to make scented candles and the best ways to remove stubborn mold from the grouting. He subscribed me to the newsletter so I need never miss a single tip.

  He’s good like that. Proactive. I admire that quality in a person, the ability to decide and do, to set plans in motion. It has never been something I’m particularly good at. I often wonder what my life might look like if I was.

  On my knees in the bathroom, I started with the bath. Scrubbing and shining the taps till I could see myself reflected back, distorted and inverted, pulling our week of collective shed hair out of the drain in a single swampy ball. The toilet next, finicky work, head in the bowl. What would my mother say if she could see me now? In the mirror, I looked at myself. Unkempt, that’s what my mother would say. Or, more likely, hideous. Unwashed, no makeup, skin slicked in oil. A thin trickle of sweat pooling down my T-shirt. I sniffed under my armpits.

  Then I smiled into the mirror, dazzling and wide. I opened my arms in a gesture of gracious welcome.

  Welcome to our home, I said aloud. Welcome to our lives.

  The woman in the mirror looked happy. Convincing.

  There was a phone call earlier this morning from Frank. She woke the baby.

  I’m coming to Sweden, she said.

  What?

  I’m coming to visit!

  I’ve said it to her again and again in the year we’ve been here, at the end of every email and phone call. You must visit, it’s wonderful; we’d love to have you.

  And now she is coming. She will be here in a few weeks.

  Your best friend, Sam said when I told him. That’s great news.

  Yes, isn’t it, I said, smiling.

  I’d emailed her just a few days ago. Another missive about my wonderful Swedish life, with photographs as proof. Something home-baked, a smiling child, a shirtless husband. She replied almost immediately, informing me of her new promotion, a sparkling new penthouse in Battersea. She attached a photograph of herself from a recent break to the Maldives. Frank in a pineapple-print bikini, sun-kissed and oiled, the lapping Indian Ocean in the background, a coconut cocktail in her hand.

  I wonder what she’ll make of all this. The picture of my life, when she sees it in the flesh.

  I wiped the mirror and opened the windows to air the room of the stench of vinegar. In the kitchen, I moved the dishwasher and cleaned the dirt gathered against the wall. I scoured the oven of fat and grease, climbed up on the ladder to clean the top of the refrigerator. Sometimes I like to carve out messages in the dust. HELP, I wrote this morning, for no particular reason.

  The baby woke up and began to cry just as I was halfway through bottling the last of the excess vegetables in brine. Pickling is another of my newfound skills. It’s very rewarding. I went into the baby’s room and stared at him in his crib.

  Boiling over, face red with rage at his neglect. Spit foaming out of his mouth as he cried. He saw me and frowned, held out his arms, rocked on his haunches to try to propel himself up and out.

  I watched him. With all my heart, I tried to summon it. Please, I thought, please.

  Instincts, they call them, but for me they are the very furthest thing. Buried somewhere deep inside under too many layers, or altogether missing.

  Please, I urged again, I coaxed, I begged. But inside, like always, there was only emptiness. Cold and hollow. The great void within.

  I could do nothing but stand and watch.

  The baby’s cries grew more urgent, his face twisted with hot and vicious need. Almost purple. I stood helpless, rooted to the spot. I turned my head away so he would stop appealing to my eyes, imploring me to alleviate his rage. Unable to comprehend that I could not do it.

  I looked around his room, filled with books and stuffed toys. A map of the world on the wall, along with stenciled illustrations of Arctic mammals. Polar bear. Moose. Fox. Wolf. I’d done it myself, the last month of pregnancy, balancing a paint box on the mound of my belly. The whole world, just for him. And still it is not enough. I am not enough.

  And he is too much.

  In the noise, I tried to find my breath, to feel the beating of my heart. It was pounding today, loud with upsets of its own; an angry fist in a cage.

  I edged closer to the crib and peered down at the hysterical child. My child. I shook my head.

  I’m sorry, I said at last. Mommy is not in the mood.

  I left the room and closed the door behind me.

  Sam

  Karl and I sat outside while the women finished up the salads in the kitchen. He and his wife, Elsa, are our neighbors from across the field, good solid Swedes, wholesome and hardworking. She’s in adult education; he runs a start-up that converts heating systems into more energy-efficient models. They invited us to their midsummer party last year right after we moved in, and this is how long it’s taken us to have them over.

  New baby, I apologized, and Karl shrugged. Of course.

  Their daughter, Freja, was sitting on the lawn playing with Conor. Karl and I were talking, and I was trying not to stare at him too intently. It’s hard to look away. His startling blue eyes, the height and spread of him. A full-blooded Viking. He’d brought over a gift of vacuum-sealed elk meat.

  You’ll have to join me for a hunt one day, he said. All the Swedes do it.

  So, remind me, Karl said, what is it you do.

  I shifted. I’m trying to get into film, I said. Documentary film.

  You were doing that before?

  No, I said. Before, I was an academic. Associate professor of anthropology. Columbia University.

  He raised his eyebrows. Interesting. What was your area of study?

  I smiled. The transformative masks of ritual and ceremony in West Africa, particularly the Ivory Coast. How’s that for useless information?

  It’s very interesting, I’m sure.

  It was, actually. The masks are fascinating, I said. The way they enable such fluidity of identity and power in these tribes, the way they depend on masking and performance for their—

  I stopped myself from continuing. From remembering what I missed.

  Onward, onward and up.

  Anyway, it was time for a change, I said.

  I finished the last of the beer in my glass, thought back to the final meeting with that brittle spinster Nicole from Human Resources. Sign here, initial this. A swift and unceremonious dismissal that took almost two decades of work—all the successes and accolades and titles—and vanished it into the ether.

  But they haven’t even heard my side, I said.

  They know more than enough already, she replied coolly.

  So you moved here for a new job, Karl said.

  Not exactly, I said. I’m starting out. It’s going to take some time. At the moment, it’s pretty much just meetings and pitches, trying
to show my reel to the right people.

  I cracked my knuckles, the reassuring click of bones fitting into place. Karl wasn’t letting up.

  But why pick Sweden? he asked.

  I shrugged. We had the house. We wanted a different kind of life. Americans live so superficially—it’s all distraction and noise. I—well, we—we wanted something more real.

  America is not real? Karl smiled. He’d already finished his second beer. I reached into the cooler and handed him a third.

  America is a country built on myths, I said. Manifest destiny, American exceptionalism. The idea that we’re better than we really are.

  Karl nodded. So what is the verdict? It’s better over here?

  Of course, I said. Sweden feels like the best place in the world to be.

  Karl laughed. Maybe you’re not looking closely enough. He raised his beer and gave a mock toast. Anyway, he said, let’s hope you’re right.

  I looked at Conor on the lawn, bright-eyed and thriving.

  Of course this was the place.

  Freja came over to show Karl a cut on her finger. He said something to her in Swedish and she nodded and went back to Conor.

  So you don’t miss home, Karl said. Being around your own people.

  There’s not a damn thing I miss about the USA, I said.

  Elsa came out balancing a bowl of coleslaw and a green salad. Merry followed with a pile of plates and cutlery. She looked tired. She’d been up since early, preparing for the guests. Next to Elsa, she seemed vaguely off-putting, her hair unwashed and pulled back into a messy bun.

  No time, she’d said earlier when I asked.

  There’s always time, I said, just not always good time management.

  What about you, Merry, Karl asked. Do you miss being in the States?

  Merry glanced over at me and shrugged. What’s there to miss?

  We sat to eat, passed around bowls of food and saltshakers. Merry had overdressed the salad, but I said nothing.

  It’s very good, Elsa said.

  I noticed she hardly ate a thing.

  Merry brought out a bowl with Conor’s baby food, and Freja asked if she might feed him. She took a spoon and made an airplane, flying mush into his mouth.

  Look at that. I smiled. She’s a real natural.

  Yes, Karl said, she can’t wait for a baby brother or sister to play with.

  Elsa put down her knife and fork. Karl took a sip of his beer and gave me a knowing smile. In the meantime, he said, we have bought her a cat.

  Elsa looked over at Conor and patted his arm. He is a wonderful baby, she said. Very sweet.

  Sure is, I said, wondering how it was possible Karl didn’t crack her in half every time he lay on top of her.

  Merry stood up to clear the dishes, scraping and stacking, refusing Elsa’s offer to help. When she came back out, she carried a cake for dessert; summer berries piled in the middle and drizzled in cream.

  My domestic goddess, I said. What have we got here?

  Merry passed around glass plates and silver cake forks. I recognized them from her mother’s silverware set.

  Merry, Karl said, you haven’t told us what you do.

  I pointed to the cake. She does this, I said, and we all laughed.

  I used to work as a set designer, Merry said, almost inaudibly.

  For movies? Karl asked.

  Movies, TV shows, often just TV commercials.

  Yes, I said, she was always constructing these little made-up worlds. Kitchens and living rooms, those generic sets you see on all the crappy ads. Disinfectant hand soap or mattresses.

  Well, there were some more interesting projects, Merry said.

  I had a sudden memory of her coming home one night with a green armchair she’d spent all day tracking down. She’d asked me to help her haul it up to our apartment. I remember how I resented that chair, and her for interrupting me for help with something so silly while I was grading papers. The job was beneath her. Beneath us.

  I looked at her now. She had that look she gets from time to time. Pensive. Melancholic. Like she is slipping away. Forgetting herself.

  I took another mouthful of cake. God, this is good, isn’t it?

  Yes, Karl agreed. It’s a very good cake.

  Merry blinked and smiled.

  Do you plan to find something similar over here? Elsa asked. There are a lot of shows shot locally, in Stockholm or Gothenburg. It would be very convenient, very close by for you.

  I caught Merry’s eye, and she shook her head. No, she said. It’s good to just focus on motherhood for now. That’s really the most important thing.

  Before they left, I took Karl inside to show him my collection of African masks. Six carved wooden faces: three from the Ivory Coast, one from Benin, two Igbo fertility masks from my semester in Nigeria.

  How exotic, he said.

  They are terrifying. Elsa shuddered.

  I laughed. Merry feels the same way. She’s been begging me to put them away in a box for years.

  Elsa smiled. And still they are on the wall, she said.

  After we said our goodbyes, I closed the door and pulled Merry to me.

  That was fun, I said.

  Yes, she said.

  Aren’t they like wax models, those two?

  Yes, she said. Elsa is flawless.

  I made a mental note to take Karl up on his offer to go hunting, while Merry went to finish the last of the cleaning up, packing dishes into the dishwasher, wiping down the countertops, gathering the crumbs into her hand.

  I lifted Conor off the rug and into my arms. He smelled of Elsa’s perfume. And shit.

  I handed him over to Merry. Looks like it’s time for a diaper change, I said.

  Merry

  I watch the baby through the bars of his crib. A little prison, to keep him safely inside. He watches me. He does not smile. I do not bring him joy.

  Well. The feeling is mutual.

  I look at his face. I watch closely for signs of change. They tell you that they transform all the time. They are supposed to resemble their father first, then their mother, then back again. But he is only me. All me. Too much of me.

  His eyes stare, a constant reproach. Accusatory. Remember, they say, remember what you have done. I’m sorry, I whisper, and look away.

  My bars are not bars. They are glass and trees. The glass cage that is our house, the huge glass windows all around that Ida’s father installed to maximize light and space. The ancient tall pines that block off the light. My island exile, all escapes closed off, all outside life shut out. Just us.

  Sam and me and the baby.

  All we need, Sam says.

  Is it? I say. Doesn’t it feel like we’re the last three survivors of a plane crash?

  Oh…He laughs at my silliness.

  He was off in Stockholm or Uppsala today—I forget which—playing his show reel for ad executives and producers. He is trying hard to make this work. He really is doing his best. He always does. Family, he says: nothing matters more. This is why we moved here, a new start, the very best place to raise a family. How he loves the baby. How he adores every part of him and every little thing he does. Once, he looked at me like this, as though I were a wonder of nature, a rare being to worship and adore.

  Ba-ba. Ma-ma. Pa-pa.

  Everything we say is broken into two syllables.

  Bird-ee.

  Hors-ee.

  Hous-ie.

  The baby eats some of the time but not always. Often I make him food and eat it myself, letting him watch as I spoon it into my mouth.

  See? No mess.

  I offer him the spoon and he shakes his head.

  The baby cries a lot but forms no words. He rocks on his belly but does not yet know how to crawl. There are milestones that I am surely supposed to be checking and am not. The copy Sam bought me of The Ultimate Guide to Baby’s First Year lies unopened next to the bed, under a tube of organic rose hand cream that sends five percent of its profits to the preservation of
the rain forest.

  You read it, right?

  Of course, I lie. It was terrifically informative.

  The baby. My baby. He has a name, but somehow I can’t bring myself to say it out loud. Conor Jacob Hurley. Naturally, Sam named him. Conor Jacob, he said, Jacob after his best friend from high school who was lost at sea on a round-the-world sailing trip. Conor in deference to Sam’s vaguely Irish roots. Conor Jacob. Conor Jacob Hurley. It was decided, written down on the tag on his tiny wrist. I read it. I mouthed the words of my son’s name. Conor Jacob Hurley.

  The balloons next to the hospital bed were baby blue. One had already burst, its deflated remains drifting forlornly among the rest.

  Would you like to hold your son? the nurse offered.

  If Sam was out of the room, I would shake my head.

  He believes I am a good mother, the very best kind. Devoted and all-nurturing and selfless. Without a self. Perhaps he is right about the last part. Sometimes I wonder myself: Where am I? Or: Was there anyone there to begin with?

  The days Sam isn’t home always feel like a vacation. The baby and I have no audience to impress. Usually, I don’t shower. I don’t change out of my nightgown. I sit on the couch watching reality TV, my dirty little habit (one of many, I should add). I cannot get enough. Plastic women devouring each other, housewives and teen mothers. How they play at being real, when really it’s all for the cameras. Still, everyone pretends not to know. The conspiracy is a success.