Shame

tell you the truth. I had such a strange dream a few nights ago. It made a big impression, and it was about you, and when I woke up there was something inside me that told me to write this letter. I have learned (at long last and after hard lessons) to listen to strong impulses. Well, so much for that …
    I don’t know how much you know about me and how my life has turned out. But I can imagine that people talked about it a good deal back home, and I understand perfectly if you don’t want to have any contact with me. I’m not in touch with anyone in my family or anyone else from back home. As you can tell, I have plenty of time to think about things here, and I think a lot about when we were growing up and everything we took with us from those years, and how much it affected us later in life. That’s why I’m so curious to hear how you’re doing these days! I sincerely hope that everything worked out and you’re doing well. Since I don’t know where you are now or what your married name is (for the life of me I can’t remember Göran’s last name!) I’m going to send this letter to your childhood home. If it’s meant to reach you I’m sure it will. Otherwise it will just circulate around for a while and keep the post office busy which I’m sure would be a good thing since I hear they’re having hard times .
    In any case …
    I hope with all my heart that in spite of your difficult years growing up your life has turned out well. I never fully understood until I was grown up what an awful time you must have had. I wish you all the best!
    Drop me a line if you feel like it .
    Your old best friend, Vanja Tyrén

    She heaved herself up out of the chair. The sudden burst of anger gave her an extra push. What sort of nonsense was this?
    In spite of your difficult years growing up?
    She’d rarely seen the like of such impudence. Who did she think she was, really, assuming she had the right to send her such condescending statements? She picked up the letter and read the address written at the bottom of the page, and her gaze fixed on the words: Vireberg Institution.
    She could hardly remember this person, who clearly was locked up in Vireberg, but who still thought she had the right to sit in judgement over her childhood and thus by extension her parents.
    She went to the kitchen and yanked open the refrigerator door. The cocoa package was already on the kitchen worktop, and she quickly cut off a chunk of butter and dipped it in the brown powder.
    She closed her eyes as the butter melted in her mouth, soothing her.
    Her parents had done everything for her. Loved her! Who knew that better than she did?
    She crumpled up the paper. It ought to be against the law to send letters to people who don’t want to get any mail. It was impossible to tell what that person was after, but to let her insult stand unchallenged was more than she could bear. She was going to have to reply in her parents’ defence. The mere thought of having to communicate with someone outside the walls of the flat without choosing to do so herself made her cut off another chunk of butter. The letter was an attack. A blatant assault. After all these years in voluntary isolation someone had suddenly clawed their way through her arduously erected barriers.

    Vanja.
    She could remember so little.
    If she made a real effort she could call up some scattered images. She recalled that they had hung out together a bit, but no real details surfaced. She could vaguely remember a messy house and the fact that sometimes the yard outside looked like a junkyard. Nowhere near as neat as her own home had been. She also thought she could recall that her parents hadn’t approved of their friendship; and there, you see, for once it turned out that they were right! How they had struggled. She got a huge lump in her throat when she thought about them. She hadn’t been an easy child but they refused to give up on her; they did their best to help her get on in life even though she was so difficult and caused them so much worry. And then this person comes along more than thirty years later, wondering how they had been affected by their upbringing, as if she were looking for an accomplice in her own failure, someone to blame for it. But who was the one sitting in prison? What nerve to come here with her veiled insinuations and accusations when she was the one who was locked up. She could only imagine the reason why.
    She braced herself against the worktop when the