erupted in rules and instructions. When she was a child it had been a generalized feeling, in her early teens it made her look under her bed and check the stove in the kitchen again and again.
Anna, it seemed to Eleonoora, had learned to worry from her. It had been her predominant characteristic, especially in the last few years, along with her earnestness.
The previous May, Eleonoora had found Anna lying on the floor of her studio apartment. She still didnât know what exactly had happened. Had something been going on for years that no one had told her about?
Annaâs friend Saara had called her, sounding worried, and Eleonoora had realized that she hadnât heard from Anna in more than a week. Anna lived in a small studio on Pengerkatu, led a busy studentâs life, and sometimes they wouldnât call each other for a week at a time. Eleonoora had thought that Anna was busy with tests, evening walks, glasses of wine.
She had sometimes said, out loud, that she didnât know what was happening in Annaâs life.
I live a different kind of life than you do, Anna had said nonchalantly. I live in a different world. Eleonoora let the matter go and didnât ask her any more about it.
Saaraâs call in May and Annaâs days of silence nevertheless alarmed her. She tried to call Anna again and again, but there was no answer. Finally she drove over to her building. She rang the doorbell for ten minutes. A series of sad, grisly possibilities flashed through her mind. She dug the spare key that Anna had given her out of her bag and pushed it into the lock.
The apartment door struck something soft on the floor; Anna sat up and looked at her in an indifferent daze. She looked like sheâd been asleep. Her hair was unwashed and disheveled, her skin pale.
âWhat are you doing here?â Anna said.
âWhatâs happened to you?â Eleonoora asked, transfixed.
Anna shrugged her shoulders, stood up, looked past her, out into the hallway.
Eleonoora looked over Annaâs shoulder into the room. It looked empty. There were spaces on the bookshelf, photographs missing from the wall. Had someone been living there, someone who had taken their things away with them? Or had Anna simply rearranged? The same strange photo of Anna that looked from a distance like an oil painting, like Gallen-Kallelaâs Aino walking into the water, still hung between the shelf and the sofa. The photo had been taken by a man Anna was dating for a while. Eleonoora had never liked the picture; she didnât recognize the woman in the photo as her daughter. Pale, solemn, stepping into the water, a completely different person than the one she had raised, the one who had giggled over her morning porridge on dreamy Sunday mornings, the one she had soothed in the night after a bad dream.
A child is born, a mother learns to know the child, learns little by little, year by year. And then another person comes along and the child changes under their influence and turns into a stranger.
Eleonoora had never got to know the man who took the photograph. She had met him a few times, but she couldnât really say that she knew much about him. He had a child: Linda. Linda had sometimes spent time with Anna. Eleonoora remembered a summer day several years before. Anna and the little girl had been at her house. Ice cream, rhubarb pie, whooping it up in the wading pool. The child had bangs and earnest, trusting eyes. She had fallen asleep in Annaâs arms, sunk into a deep sleep while a nightingale sang. Eleonoora could see her own feelings from decades before, when a child was sleeping in her arms, reflected in Annaâs faceâlove so overwhelming that there was a touch of pain in it.
ON THAT DAY in May, Anna stood before her with a different look on her faceâdefeated, humbled.
Eleonoora asked a few baffled, clarifying questions.
âHow long has it been since you went out?â
âI donât know. A
Anna, it seemed to Eleonoora, had learned to worry from her. It had been her predominant characteristic, especially in the last few years, along with her earnestness.
The previous May, Eleonoora had found Anna lying on the floor of her studio apartment. She still didnât know what exactly had happened. Had something been going on for years that no one had told her about?
Annaâs friend Saara had called her, sounding worried, and Eleonoora had realized that she hadnât heard from Anna in more than a week. Anna lived in a small studio on Pengerkatu, led a busy studentâs life, and sometimes they wouldnât call each other for a week at a time. Eleonoora had thought that Anna was busy with tests, evening walks, glasses of wine.
She had sometimes said, out loud, that she didnât know what was happening in Annaâs life.
I live a different kind of life than you do, Anna had said nonchalantly. I live in a different world. Eleonoora let the matter go and didnât ask her any more about it.
Saaraâs call in May and Annaâs days of silence nevertheless alarmed her. She tried to call Anna again and again, but there was no answer. Finally she drove over to her building. She rang the doorbell for ten minutes. A series of sad, grisly possibilities flashed through her mind. She dug the spare key that Anna had given her out of her bag and pushed it into the lock.
The apartment door struck something soft on the floor; Anna sat up and looked at her in an indifferent daze. She looked like sheâd been asleep. Her hair was unwashed and disheveled, her skin pale.
âWhat are you doing here?â Anna said.
âWhatâs happened to you?â Eleonoora asked, transfixed.
Anna shrugged her shoulders, stood up, looked past her, out into the hallway.
Eleonoora looked over Annaâs shoulder into the room. It looked empty. There were spaces on the bookshelf, photographs missing from the wall. Had someone been living there, someone who had taken their things away with them? Or had Anna simply rearranged? The same strange photo of Anna that looked from a distance like an oil painting, like Gallen-Kallelaâs Aino walking into the water, still hung between the shelf and the sofa. The photo had been taken by a man Anna was dating for a while. Eleonoora had never liked the picture; she didnât recognize the woman in the photo as her daughter. Pale, solemn, stepping into the water, a completely different person than the one she had raised, the one who had giggled over her morning porridge on dreamy Sunday mornings, the one she had soothed in the night after a bad dream.
A child is born, a mother learns to know the child, learns little by little, year by year. And then another person comes along and the child changes under their influence and turns into a stranger.
Eleonoora had never got to know the man who took the photograph. She had met him a few times, but she couldnât really say that she knew much about him. He had a child: Linda. Linda had sometimes spent time with Anna. Eleonoora remembered a summer day several years before. Anna and the little girl had been at her house. Ice cream, rhubarb pie, whooping it up in the wading pool. The child had bangs and earnest, trusting eyes. She had fallen asleep in Annaâs arms, sunk into a deep sleep while a nightingale sang. Eleonoora could see her own feelings from decades before, when a child was sleeping in her arms, reflected in Annaâs faceâlove so overwhelming that there was a touch of pain in it.
ON THAT DAY in May, Anna stood before her with a different look on her faceâdefeated, humbled.
Eleonoora asked a few baffled, clarifying questions.
âHow long has it been since you went out?â
âI donât know. A
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