By Martin Lamm, Traduit du suédois par E. Soderlindh
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Example text
Gradually there was the sense that the house, the whole place, was making an effort at love. We were trying to love each other. That was the Higher Power everyone was talking about. ” It wasn’t one of the silk-sheet treatment centers with drugs to come down on and spectacular views. It was an old house on a little hill in San Rafael. The staff were all recovering, spiritual people, and the clients were the real thing—down and out and ready to die. We all asked for help, or all of us who could. It was very difficult and strange for me to ask for help, but the help came.
There wasn’t any home, of course, but they were opening the door. It was terrifying, but it was what I wanted. I went outside with a sad kind of shell around me and an expressionless face. I rented a room in Islip. I remember walking out the front door. It was spring and a nice day. The sun was warm, and I felt like it was my first free day, ever. I said the word free out loud. Free. My God. I didn’t know anything. I had no family except for an agonizing set of memories. I had no schooling. I was entirely artificial and defensive.
I picture Annabella at eight years old, wearing her uniform, tenderhearted and confused, having to leave grace behind when she went to the place where it was supposed to live. I’m sure there are real churches where children aren’t killed in their hearts. But when you hear the stories of the men and women newly back from despair, it’s hard to say. I look at Annabella, her head turned to the light on the water, and I wonder why she was thrown away. Is it a difficult thing to understand that a child’s heart goes out to the unknown trustingly, and doesn’t deserve to be wounded?