The Girl Who Died by Ragnar Jonasson (ap literature book list .txt) 📕

‘Academically, yes. But I had no vocation. I became a teacher instead.’

‘Good for you, Una. You followed your heart.’

‘Dad was forty when he died,’ she continued, after a while. ‘I was only thirteen.’

She felt as if she had travelled back nearly twenty years, to their old family home, where she had grown up as the only child of loving parents.

‘God, that’s far too young,’ Thór said, with genuine kindness. ‘I’m so sorry to hear that, Una.’

‘He died today,’ she said, ‘on Christmas Eve. On my birthday.’ She felt a tear sliding down her cheek.

Thór moved a little closer and put a cautious arm around her shoulders. ‘That must have been tough. I mean … it must have been devastating.’

Una didn’t answer; she had to finish her story before she lost her nerve.

‘He killed himself,’ she said. Turning to Thór, she saw how taken aback he was.

‘On your birthday?’

She nodded.

‘Did you … was it you who found him?’

‘Yes. He was sitting at his desk, where he used to spend every evening, his medical books spread out in front of him, his green desk lamp lighting up the gloom, and everything covered in blood.’ Her voice threatened to give way and she broke off to compose herself. ‘I never entered the room again. Afterwards, we moved into a tiny flat, because Dad didn’t leave anything when he died except the mortgage on our house.’

‘But … why …?’ Thór left the question unfinished.

‘Why did he do it?’

He nodded.

‘I don’t know. Nobody does.’ She was silent, then said: ‘Why does anyone take their own life? On a day like that, too? Why would anyone want to kill himself on his daughter’s birthday … on Christmas Eve? You can’t imagine how often I’ve asked myself that, without finding any answers. He didn’t leave a note, just … all of a sudden he wasn’t there any more. The vicar they got me to talk to wanted to blame it on depression. An invisible illness, I remember him saying. You can’t see that people have it. Perhaps he was right – no, I’m sure he was right. But I blamed myself for years and thought it must be my fault somehow, because he chose that day, of all days, to do it.’

‘Of course it wasn’t your fault,’ Thór said.

He couldn’t possibly know, but she appreciated his saying it.

‘No, of course not, I know that now. But I didn’t then. Mum and I don’t talk about it any more, but I used to pester her with endless questions that she couldn’t answer. And then I started to wonder … later, when I grew up … I started to wonder …’

Thór didn’t say anything, just looked down at her face as he sat there with his arm around her.

She tried again: ‘I wondered if the same thing might happen to me, you know? That one day I might just sink into depression and … and decide to end it all. I thought it might be hereditary.’

There was complete silence in the house. Una found herself thinking about the girl who had sung to her in the night, who might be summoning Una to join her … in eternity.

‘I think that’s why I moved here, Thór; to break up the monotony of my life. I’d begun to worry about what was happening to me in Reykjavík. I was afraid I might get some crazy idea one day, when I was alone at home. I suppose that’s why I uprooted myself and came out here. But, to be honest, I don’t know if it was such a good idea.’

X

It was getting late.

Una had shed a few tears into her wine after telling Thór her story. He had listened so attentively, so earnestly. Underneath that slightly rough appearance, that shaggy beard, he had a kind heart.

She had drunk far more than she ought to, she was well aware of that, but it didn’t matter. Her behaviour was perfectly excusable, given that it was Christmas and her birthday too, and opening up the old wounds had been such a strain.

She knew it had done her good to tell someone about her father’s suicide. It was a long time since she’d spoken about it. Her mother had sent her to a therapist for a while in the aftermath and she had been forced to open up to him about what she had felt on that traumatic day; about her grief and feelings of rejection … But it hadn’t helped, not really.

She had been so taken up with her own problems that it hadn’t occurred to her until towards the end of the evening to ask Thór about himself, but by the time she eventually got round to taking an interest in his early life, her questions sounded superficial, and he quickly ended the conversation.

‘It’s late, Una.’ He smiled: ‘And the wine’s finished. Wow, did we really drink both bottles?’ He held one of them upside down over his glass to show that there wasn’t a drop left. We, he had said, though in truth she had drunk most of it.

‘Listen, Thór, why don’t you stay over? It’s so late, as you said, and, er …’ She was mortified to hear herself slurring. ‘And, er, I’m a bit scared all alone in this big house. The girl – she keeps me awake sometimes …’

Again he smiled, but he didn’t immediately answer.

‘You know, I think it would be best if you tried to ignore the ghost,’ he said at last, avoiding her question.

‘That’s easier said than done,’ Una replied, a quiver in her voice, though whether it was from fear of the nightmares or because she was waiting for his answer, she wasn’t sure.

There was an agonizing pause.

‘About tonight, Una … I think it’s best if I go home. For a number of reasons.’

She twisted her head to look up at him, but he wouldn’t meet her eye.

‘But this evening meant a lot to me. Honestly. It meant a lot