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Eleonoora that a couple of decades ago she had pushed Maria out into the world—this woman with her farmhand’s arms and husky laugh that filled the space around her.
    Last summer Maria and her grandma, Eleonoora’s mother, had washed rugs at the seashore. Her mother had still been strong then, there was no sign of the illness. Maybe it was already wending its way through the corridors of her organs. But she hadn’t known about it yet, had lifted the wet rugs onto the drying racks, turned the crank, laughed when the water splashed.
    That fall she gave her annual series of lectures at the university. Although she’d been retired for years, she hadn’t stopped working. She still had an office in the department. Year after year her lectures drew several hundred listeners. They all wanted to hear the esteemed psychological researcher, to share in her wisdom.
    The titles of the lectures were variations on her best-known book, Recognition and Self. The book had been a tremendous success when it was published. People had tried to make her into a lap for the whole of society to sit on, a motherly emissary of love.
    Eleonoora had gone to hear some of her lectures. Her favorite moments with her mother were when they drove home after a lecture, her mother laying her head against the window and sighing good-naturedly, but with a hint of exhaustion.
    â€œThe science doesn’t interest anyone. People come to these things to hear tidings of joy.”
    She didn’t say it with disappointment, just a bit of resignation, gently, like a weary queen.
    â€œDon’t underrate yourself. They are tidings of joy. You deliver us from evil. Mothers, fathers, children—you give them permission to be happy.”
    She smiled a little.
    â€œWhy do they always need someone else to say it?”
    Eleonoora had always been proud of her mother’s success. She remembered from her childhood the busy evenings before her mother’s trips, and when her mother came home, her own tears, a kind of frantic desire to own her, to be part of her, such unconditional love and admiration that she felt the longing even when her mother was with her.
    Last summer Elsa had thrown a seventieth-birthday party. Her research colleagues from over the years were there. An interview given at the party carried an apt headline: “Pioneer of Psychology Still Has Sharp Mind and Open Arms.”
    Now her arms were disappearing. She would never wash rugs again. She would never turn seventy-one.
    Eleonoora went downstairs. There were marks on the hall door showing the girls’ heights in years past: Anna, Maria, Anna, Maria. Suddenly Eleonoora felt jealous, almost angry at her daughters for making her always be their mother.
    She scolded herself: don’t be childish.
    She picked the newspaper up from the floor. It was the most comforting thing for her in the morning. She made an espresso, heated milk in a saucepan, and poured the milk and coffee into a large mug. She made toast and buttered it carefully, didn’t skimp on the cheese slices.
    She read the paper, ate, listened to a blackbird. Night might be a well, her shouts might echo at the bottom of the well, but there was still the blackbird.
    In the morning she would go to work, take care of a few routine tasks, keep herself together. At lunchtime she would call her father and mother to make sure everything was all right. Anna was going to spend the afternoon there so Dad could get a little free time. Eleonoora would call Anna and listen for any uncertainty, check up on her.
    No, Eleonoora chided herself. She would leave Anna in peace with her grandma and drive over after work. Or maybe she would call the home health care service, ask about a few more details.
    Everything had been arranged for her mother’s return home: the bed, the pain pump, other necessaries.
    The whole family had been together at the apartment in Töölö; her mother had wanted to have a welcome