Dark Angel (Anders Knutas 6)

Sundays. Even before she’d taken off her shoes in the front hall, she would ask: “Is the coffee ready?” in that shrill voice of hers. Then she’d sit down on the sofa and stay there, as if glued to the cushions, until it was time for her to leave again. The coffee would grow cold in her cup as she babbled about one thing or another. If I happened to mention that Daniel was having trouble sleeping or if Katrina said that he was suffering from colic, my mother would merely dismiss our concerns as unimportant. Then she would turn to Katrina and start telling her how wonderful her own children had been. They’d never had any stomach troubles or problems with eating or sleeping. And the implication was:
You’re a failure as a mother. My children were always perfect, but that’s because I was their mother, of course
. I mostly kept quiet or tried to smooth things over, but that just made matters worse. It gave Mamma even more fodder for her criticisms, and her barbs were vicious. Usually Katrina would end up leaving the room to potter about in the kitchen until Mamma left. I’m ashamed that I behaved so spinelessly.’
    ‘Why did you act that way?’
    ‘I don’t know. When I think back, I can’t for the life of me understand why I allowed Mamma to have so much power over me. Even as a grown man with my own family to take care of, I acted like a frightened little boy. It’s as if she always makes me feel guilty. As if I ought to be paying her back.’
    ‘It must be a way of maintaining control. And continuing to stand in the spotlight.’
    ‘And the gods only know that’s what she wants. Whenever she comes to visit, all other activity has to stop. Everyone is expected to immediately drop whatever they’re doing and devote all their attention to her. And after we’re done with coffee, she has to have help with everything.
Do you have a phone book? A nail file? Can you help me book theatre tickets on the Internet? Do you have a sewing machine? I want to sew a pair of trousers. I need to dye my hair – can I do it in your bathroom? Can I borrow the phone? How does my mobile work? Can you read the instructions out loud so we can go over them, step by step?
    ‘And she’s completely oblivious to the fact that we might have other things to do. If I tell her I’ve had a tough day at work, she waves it aside.
Be glad you have a job
, she’ll say. Or if, in a weak moment, I ask for her support because Katrina and I have quarrelled, she’ll tell me:
Be glad you have a wife – that there are two of you. Just think about me. I’ve always been a single mother
. She forgets, of course, that she was always the one to dump every single boyfriend she ever had while we were growing up.’
    The person I’m talking to is starting to look more and more puzzled. As if it’s hard to believe that what I’m saying is true. But it is. Every word of it. And now I’m really getting started. Even though it hurts, it’s great to say all this shit out loud. I’ve never done that before.
    ‘The worst thing is that no matter what I do for her, she’s never satisfied. If I help her with her shopping, then drive her home and unload all the groceries, she still asks me to stay and cook dinner. If I refuse, I know that she’ll be unhappy with me when I leave. If I go to visit her and bring along a bottle of wine as a surprise, she’ll curse me for not bringing a whole case. No matter what I do, it’s never enough. The strangest part is that the more I serve her, the more dissatisfied she is.’
    ‘Why’s that?’
    ‘The more she gets, the more she wants. Her demands increase the more effort I make. She doesn’t think like a normal person would: OK, now I’ve received so much help that I can be content for a while. She just can’t do that. As soon as one task is finished, you have to start on the next one.’
    ‘Why do you keep on doing things for her? You’re just encouraging her behaviour. Why don’t you ever say no?’
    ‘I don’t know. That’s just the way it’s always been. And I’ve learned not to protest. The minute I disagree with her or offer any sort of objection, she gets furious. She can’t stand to be contradicted. Then she raises her voice and gets more and more worked up. She talks non-stop, her voice gets louder and louder and she repeats herself like a parrot. It’s so unpleasant and she’s so unreasonable that I’d rather not have that happen. I learned that early on.’
    ‘Can’t you