Chapter Twelve: Emergency
I don’t believe in an afterlife. I don’t believe in fate; I believe in coincidences. I try my best not to place meaning in pure happenstance. However, I grew up in America. When you’ve had that kind of upbringing, it seeps into your subconscious. It permeates your every pore and lingers like a plague.
Not to read too much into chance events, but the train has been sitting motionless just outside of Karlstad for what seems like an eternity. Stopped by a ‘signal problem’, while my window of opportunity slowly and steadily slides shut. I say I don’t believe in an afterlife, and yet here I am entertaining the thought that this may be a sign. Perhaps my irate dead lover no longer desires a dance underwater with me. Here I sit imagining a furious phantasmagoric Micke, defiantly blocking the train, taking a wide stance on the tracks and departing only to give the signal a frenzied shake, just to fuck up my plans.
As the possibility of a meaningful end comes under threat of slipping away, my anxiety spikes again. I close my eyes and, with burning lungs, breathe in and out. When that does little to abate the angst, I search the pockets of my jean jacket, tracing my finger along the seams, hoping to hit upon a long forgotten pill from the days when doctors trusted me with that sort of thing. Failing to find anything, I free still another tiny bottle from my bag and down it, which in itself is dangerous.
My efforts are too late to quell the black swells. I see Micke on the bridge, bad blood and eyes ablaze. As I gasp for air, the light hits my eyes and I collapse forward, resting my head against the back of the reclined seat before me. At this point, I’m more afraid of living than of dying. Living is relentless rowing against a tide that forever washes me out of the world and away from reality. I’m weary; I’m worn out now.
Suddenly, the train shudders to life, and I release a sigh of relief.
Kåre reaches over and touches me gently on the thigh, attempting to reel me back in. “What’s going on?”
I raise my head abruptly and look at him, aware my eyes have gone wild with frantic intensity. “I realize you think I’m crazy when I say he did it as an act of revenge. But why else did he do it in front of us? Specifically us? What was the point of that? If he loved me, he would have spared me the horror.”
“Axel…”
“Did he think we deserved to watch him die?”
“Oh, wow.” Kåre’s eyebrows lift in a severe arch, and he exhales sharply. “Are you sure you wanna go there right now?”
“If I don’t talk about it now, I might never get to.” I hold his gaze only long enough to see his face fall, then glance away, regretting my choice of words.
“That’s how you remember it?” His voice is hushed, and I have to lean in toward him to hear him. “Did he really seem that vengeful to you?”
“I have no idea. I’ve been trying so hard to forget that I don’t know how to remember it anymore. It’s all a disjointed mess.” It’s another jigsaw puzzle with missing pieces, replaced by fragments from separate puzzle altogether, and forced into place until they’re bent and deformed at the edges.
“Listen,” Kåre says. He places his hands on his thighs. “Tell me what you recall and I’ll tell you my version. We can see whether they converge or diverge.”
“Okay.” I lick my chapped lips and take a few more deep breaths. My heart is already galloping away in free rein. I still don’t want to remember. I so desperately don’t. But I have to. I need to. “So, there was Rövardotter’s release party at KGB…”
Helena, Micke’s childhood best friend, invited us. Her punk band finally got their shit together and put out a record after years of never quite getting around to finishing it. Rövardotter were a legendary live act, but incredibly lazy. And I can say that with authority as the frustrated producer of that album.
They took their name from the Astrid Lindgren character. Which is fitting. Helena herself looks a bit of a modern primitive with her long, wild mane of half-dreaded blonde hair, her facial piercings and stretched earlobes. Her voice itself is a primal force, bursting with desire, pain and passion. Listening to her sing is like being bludgeoned over the head while enjoying every minute. Also: she could breathe fire. She herself was one hell of an attraction, let alone the rest of the lot. Micke was so proud of her.
Micke had insisted that Kåre join us that night; he wanted a full house. I wasn’t sure if he was trying to observe us together and either prove or disprove his delusion, or if he was simply attempting to demonstrate his trust. Whatever the motivation, it made me uneasy not knowing his intentions and tiptoeing around on eggshells.
The three of us sat with Helena and her girlfriend Kristina, at a table we sarcastically dubbed the VIP section. Micke was generous and bought a few rounds of shots for everyone. Everything was so much like it used to be that it seemed surreal. Like unintentional gaslighting, I questioned my grasp on reality. I longed to have a good time like those around me, but I experienced it as a spectator. Like watching a performance from afar, in the cheap seats.
“You look great tonight,” Micke had said, squeezing me to his hip as we waited in the merch line to buy the record. I had dressed up. I looked about as presentable as I ever could, I guess, but I bristled, no longer willing to believe him. Now I knew what he really thought of me and my looks.
On our first night out since the incident he was being exceedingly sweet, his arm around me the entire time. He rarely left my side but for trips to the bar and bathroom. Me, I was there in form, but distant, always planning a potential getaway instead of existing in the moment. Feeling we were ravaged beyond repair while making it look like we were fine.
I was never fully present that night. This may be why I can’t remember much of it.
I wish I could go back and enjoy Micke’s presence without pretense. But that was on him, not me. He did that. He stole it from me. And I’m pretty sure he could sense the tension. I assume he felt helpless; trying so hard, and yet incapable of doing the two things that would have fixed us: getting clean and giving it time.
As I have many times, I take out my phone, searching for some kind of clue. Was there something I missed, a post like mine? Would social media have provided a window into his psyche? But examining Micke’s final posts, it’s difficult to imagine what was to come. He was just… promoting Rövardotter with a picture of himself and Helena sticking out their tongues, celebrating in their own silly way.
And then the point where his feed runs out forever: a selfie of him and I, the last image of Micke while still alive. His arm is slung around my shoulders; he’s kissing my cheek. There’s a closed-lip smile on my face, eyes pinched tightly shut.
He did not seem like a man with one foot out the door. Yet that’s the photo where everyone would write their RIPs and condolences in the days following his death.
Looking at those photographs, you’d think everything was wonderful, even drama-free. Those pictures were taken before the turn; before shit got really weird.
Suddenly, Micke became very animated. In a hurry to leave the party, he grabbed his jacket and motioned for me and Kåre to drink up. “Let’s go. Let’s get out of here,” he said at a pressured pace. “C’mon, c’mon, c’mon, we gotta go!”
As I was saying my goodbyes and following the two of them out the front door, Helena ran up and took hold of my shoulder. “Keep your eye him,” she gave a nod in Micke’s direction, where he was pacing impatiently with his arms folded across his chest as he waited outside with Kåre.
I groaned. “What did he do now?”
She shook her head and threw her hands up in the air. “I don’t know, the usual? Just get him home in one piece.” Then she turned to her bassist, who was vying for her attention and pointing toward the merch booth.
“Wait,” Kåre interjects. “I believe I know what happened. I stood in line to use the bathroom behind Helena, and Micke was in there. When he came out, Helena grabbed him by the arm and said, ‘I told you not to come if you were gonna get fucked up and ruin this for me.’ Then he shook free and snarled, ‘Jesus Christ, I was only taking a piss!’ And she growled back at him. She was like, ‘Wipe your nose before you lie to me, Micke!’ He laughed in her face and she said ‘You know what? I don’t like who you are when you’re high’.”
“Oh no,” I gasp. “Was that the last thing she ever said to him?” I feel so sorry for her now. She must have been devastated when she found out those would be the final words she would share with her best friend.
“I have no idea, but it can’t have been nice,” Kåre says with a dry chuckle. “I remember he locked himself in there again and she was banging on the door and cursing, yelling at him to open up. Then the other bathroom opened up, and she motioned for me to go ahead of her. We left not long after that.”
Micke bolted down the street before I was even fully outside. “Oh, for fuck’s sake!” I uttered under my breath before joining in the pursuit. Kåre had a head start, reaching him first, and he convinced Micke to quit running.
By the time I reached them, Kåre was walking alongside him, saying, “Okay, okay, we’ll take a taxi once we get away from here. It will be fine. And you’re right, somebody is chasing us. It’s your husband, ya dolt!”
We took a highly contrived route to a corner a few blocks away, and hailed a cab once he decided we were far enough from our point of origin. Kåre sat in front and Micke beside me. Apart from glancing over his shoulder out the rear window now and then and occasionally tapping out a frenetic rhythm on the door frame, he was uncharacteristically quiet for most of our journey. Until the moment we reached Tegelbacken, when he leaned over the front seat and directed the driver: “Hey, hey! You can stop here. We’ll get out and walk.”
“No, don’t listen to him.” I gently shoved Micke back into his seat. “Absolutely not.” But he insisted. Because he was being so obnoxious about it, and because it was such a clear, unseasonably warm evening, I relented. I figured we’d humor him for a bit and then flag down another cab.
If I hadn’t done that, he might still be alive.
“It’s a beautiful night. I want to walk through Gamla Stan on the way to Kåre’s!” Micke exclaimed as he stumbled out of the vehicle and I paid for the ride.
“Are we going to my place?” Kåre laughed, unaware that Micke planned to commandeer his apartment for the afterparty. Which struck me as odd if he had no intention of making it that far.
As Kåre and I got out, Micke ran over, grabbed hold of the rail along the edge of the sidewalk, and leaned precariously over the railing. “We live in such a goddamn fucking ugly world! But this — this is a fucking city!” he proclaimed, gazing out over the water, forever the eloquent drunk. He loved Stockholm at least as much as I did.
So, the three of us took the scenic route via Klara Mälarstrand, following the waterfront. Micke walked just ahead, continuing to talk to nobody in particular about the state of the world as we crossed over the Vasa Bridge. I was discussing an idea I had for a song with Kåre when Micke came up and grabbed me by the hand, ripping me away from the conversation. Right after the intersecting bridge to Strömsborg, as we were nearing the other side, Micke stopped, dropped my hand and fell behind by a few steps.
When I looked behind me, he was clutching the iron barrier with one hand, staring us down. His eyes were filled with a strange mixture of amusement and malice; a viscous grin spanned his face. Like the one he wore when he tore out the drawer full of kitchen knives, a smile that said he wanted to hurt me like it was sport and I was fair game.
He hopped the barrier and dove straight into the water.
Kåre frowns, and his mouth tumbles open in astonishment. “Axel. You poor dear. I’m sorry, but that is not what happened. You know that.” He shifts uncomfortably in his seat. “You weren’t looking when he did it. I don’t think he wanted you to be looking when he did it. Your version of events defies logic.”
I sigh and stare at Carola, peeking out of the pocket of the seat in front of me, smiling on the cover of Kupé. Frankly, I find it offensive that she could smile at a time like this.
“He said something to you before he did it. What did he say to you? He kissed you. There was no malice in that.”
The trouble is this. I’ve struggled to reconcile the two versions of Micke: the funny and kind, devoted husband and friend I adored; and the erratic, abusive addict he’d become. And because I can’t merge these two Mickes into a cohesive whole, I have two tales of his passing: the tragedy of the lover who drowned and the psychological thriller about a violent victimizer, hellbent on revenge for a lover’s betrayal.
I cannot continue to dishonor Micke’s memory with such a distorted description of his death, just for the sake of destroying myself. Micke deserves better. And so do I.
He kissed me. First on the lips. It caught me off guard. I was annoyed, because the kiss was sloppy and he was such a mess. He brushed my hair away with his hand and he kissed my cheek — both of them — for what would be the last time.
“I’ll love you forever,” he said, looking at me long and hard before saying, “I’m so sorry.”
I thought he was still attempting to atone for the previous month’s meltdown. Now I think he meant he was sorry for what he was about to do.
As he released me and fell a few steps behind, I continued on walking. I peered up at the clear night sky, at the halos made against it by the streetlights, lost in the moment, moved, but having mixed feelings about the sheer intensity of the affection I saw in his eyes.
I didn’t get to respond. I didn’t seize the opportunity to tell him I loved him and I always would. I never said I forgave him for the things he did. It happened so fast.
Instead, I heard Kåre shout, “No, Micke, don’t!” Next he let out a ghastly shriek: “No!” It was a scream unlike any I’d ever heard; its echo was a blade slashing through the stillness of the night. When I turned around, Micke had vanished.
It’s a low bridge. It’s not a suicide bridge. There are diving towers much higher than Vasabron. At first, I was unable to fathom what was occurring. Meanwhile, Kåre was already racing along the bridge and to the quay where the stone steps lead down to the water, all while shouting, “Axel, Micke jumped off the bridge! Call for help!” Once there, he hurriedly removed his shoes and leather jacket. Then, before I could stop him, Kåre descended and dove in after Micke.
And what did I do? I stood there screaming. The sea was black. It swallowed Micke up. There was splashing below, but I could only barely see Kåre desperately grasping for him in the darkness in vain. When I attempted to take out my phone to call the emergency services, my hands were shaking so badly that I struggled to unlock it. It tumbled to the ground, and the screen cracked. I failed to do the one thing I should have done. I didn’t do the bare minimum to save my husband. Or my best friend.
Somebody must have called, and a stranger helped Kåre, throwing him the life preserver and tugging him to dry land. While that was happening, I threw up and collapsed to my knees so hard I had bruises the next day. I covered my eyes. I didn’t dare to look.
Sirens wailed in the distance, growing steadily louder. Someone tried to console me; she wrapped her arm around my shoulders as she crouched beside me on the pavement. She convinced me to lie down, took off her coat and bunched it up to make a pillow for my head.
Next, I was lying on a gurney, in a daze, in the back of an ambulance with an oxygen mask on my face. I panicked, asking where Micke was, where Kåre was, trying to raise myself up while first responders were fighting to hold me down.
“You seemed to be in a lot of distress and we were concerned about your heart rate,” they explained. “We’re just going to the hospital to get you checked out. But we need you to stay calm, okay?” Once I relented, they told me they took my friend away in another ambulance and he would probably be fine.
“Who? Which one?” I asked. The guy with the dark hair, they said. “What about my husband?” They looked at each other. “Tell me! Tell me, please tell me! The one with the blonde hair. Tell me he survived. Please, tell me he survived!”
All they told me was: “I’m sorry, we don’t know.”
That’s when I realized we were leaving without him. And I would never return home with him again. So I ripped off the mask and tore off the sticky electrodes they’d attached to my chest. When they pulled Micke out of the water, I wanted to be there. I needed to touch him one last time and, most of all, I didn’t want to abandon him. I’d rather die than leave him behind.
They must have already had an IV in my arm because they gave me something that burned like fire as it flooded my veins. I relaxed. Although I knew it was for my own good, I was a prisoner; I was powerless. So utterly powerless to do anything. I closed my eyes momentarily and heard the doors of the ambulance slam shut. The paramedic held my hand, and the tears streamed down my cheeks as I stared at the ceiling the entire way to the hospital.
Leaving without him was the worst feeling I’ll ever know.
Now, in the present, there are tears spilling down my cheeks. I’m gasping for air, but I may have emerged with something resembling the truth. Which feels like a significant enough accomplishment.
Beside me, Kåre sits shaking, his face half-buried in his palms. The woman across the aisle hands me a packet of tissues. I thank her, dry my own tears and tap Kåre on the shoulder to offer one to him. He refuses to raise his head, so I attempt to wrap my arm around him. He resists and mutters something that I can’t understand.
“What did you say?” I ask, rubbing his arm, since that’s all he’ll allow me to do.
After taking a moment to pull himself together, he finally lifts his head, snatching a tissue from the package to wipe the tears and snot from his red, splotchy face. “I failed him. I failed you.”
“Please don’t say that.” I release a deep sigh and reach out to liberate the damp tendrils of hair that are stuck to his cheeks, blocking his vision. “Don’t you ever say that. You failed no one.”
“If I told you what I knew then, Micke might still be here. You definitely wouldn’t have let him out of the car.” Kåre shudders and drops his head again.
“What are you talking about?”
“I don’t believe he intended to die that night, Axel,” Kåre says, shaking his head. He blows his nose, folds up the tissue and plucks up another to wipe his eyes with.
“What? He just decided to go swimming?”
Kåre crunches his brow into an irritated knot and sighs. “I didn’t realize until you told me about... ‘the incident’, or whatever you call it. Now I can’t stop thinking about what you said to the police. If he knew they were coming for him, he would jump off the balcony,” he sniffs. “I wish I had known that.”
“What are you saying?”
“When he was in such a hurry to leave, when he ran off, he said – he thought Helene had called the cops because he was getting high in the bathroom. He saw her on her phone, so that had to be what she was doing. And I said, ‘Okay, we’ll get a taxi and get out of here. We’ll be fine’.”
The wild goose chase to flag down a car, the way he kept looking over his shoulder in the cab. “Yeah, that sounds about right,” I whisper.
“I was like ‘Damn, this fucker is drunk tonight!’, you know?” Kåre’s lungs give a hard heave and I run the flat of my hand over his slumped back to comfort him. “When we were walking, discussing your inspiration for a new song, Micke took your hand. He didn’t tear you away. He wasn’t angry at you or me. And I didn’t draw the connection but...” His voice trails off, he presses his eyes closed, and bites his lip like he’s trying to stop himself from saying the words.
“Please. Please tell me, Kåre. Tell me what happened.”
When he opens his eyes they’ve gone wide, and he stares down into his lap, only glancing up periodically as if gauging my response as he continues. “There was a siren — way off in the distance, but it was approaching. Micke turned at the sound of it. He paused, looking about as if to determine where it was coming from. He said what he said to you; he kissed you. You kept walking, and as he turned back toward me, he gave me a quick hug and told me, ‘Take care of Axel.’ Then he took off. But now... now I understand what I saw in his eyes. It was terror. Not anger. He was afraid. I’m starting to believe that’s why he jumped.”
“Shit!” I wince. “Ugh, that makes zero sense.” Except it makes all the sense in the world. The idea that he may have died, not out of anger or mental anguish, but in fear? That makes my heart ache all the more. Because he was vulnerable and I didn’t protect him.
“You don’t think that makes sense?” Kåre intones in a low voice.
“No, it makes perfect sense,” I whisper. “Go on.”
“I wasn’t even thinking. I had to go in after him. But once he sank, he never emerged again.” Kåre’s voice breaks and shifts to a higher register. “My dad — he used to take me ice fishing when I was a kid and he taught me that when the water’s that cold, all that needs to happen is your face gets submerged. And you gasp. You breathe in the water whether you want to or not; it’s a reflex. I knew that. I don’t think he did, he wasn’t prepared...”
“Well, Micke didn’t have a father to teach him that kind of stuff.” I bow my head, rubbing my brow with the tips of my fingers. Micke’s was behind bars for most of his childhood.
Kåre screws up his face so his eyes are pinched tightly closed and balls the tissue in his fist. “I tried to reach for him, but I couldn’t dive under or I’d drown, too. Suddenly, I was so cold; I felt so heavy. At some point I must have blacked out. I can’t even remember how I got out of the water. I don’t recall much of anything until you came to the hospital and informed me that Micke didn’t make it.”
Twice in my lifetime I've come so close to death I could smell its musty odour. I could sense its black shadow lurking in the corner, waiting to pounce.
For some reason I've survived.
This is all probably the most goth thing I'll ever say and you're quite welcome to laugh at me, but... I don't fear my own demise, but that of my friends. I'm not afraid to lose my life, because I know there is nothing beyond other than ceasing to be. Rather, I fear the profound loss my friends and family would suffer.
That's why I cast myself into the water that night, risking my own life without a single thought about what could feasibly happen.
After that, I was hospitalised for hypothermia and released. I lived again, but my friend did not. My most valiant attempt was in vain.
I find it difficult to describe how it is to witness someone's last moments, how it feels to fail at saving a life.
And what did I get for trying? The suspicion of strangers who questioned my motives.
I hope this sets the record straight about my motives.
I did it in an attempt to save both Micke and Axel.
This was difficult to reprocess, even after so many years. I couldn't imagine experiencing it all over again. I was desperate to never relive it.
The train has stopped and I observe the passengers disembark and board until the commotion at dies down. Then I tell Kåre, “I often think about how brave, how selfless that was of you. I mean, you’re small. He could have dragged you down with him. I’m lucky I didn’t lose you both.” I wipe at my face with an already-wet tissue. “Besides... he’d run his body into the ground. According to the autopsy report, he likely went into cardiac arrest as soon as he hit water that cold. You didn’t fail to save him. He was beyond saving.”
Kåre sweeps the tears from under his eyes with the tip of his fingers and clear his throat. “God, I used to be certain it was suicide. To think that he was just attempting to escape, and at that moment, for whatever reason, he couldn’t see any other way out.” He sighs.
“Yeah, well. The same applies to a lot of suicides.” I shrug and look away, watching the latest little empty bottle fall from my lap to the floor. “That’s not to say I don’t think your theory holds water. But I’m afraid we have to live with the prospect of never knowing what his intentions were.”
“I guess you’re right,” Kåre says. “But I do know one thing. He did not intend to hurt either of us. Whatever version you believe, suicide or psychosis, he made a terrible mistake. And Micke would not have wanted you to make the same fatal error. Not in a million years.”
I close my eyes, tugging in a deep breath. “Kåre, come here.” As I exhale, I draw him to me. I want to hold on to him. I’m exhausted and for once I want to cling to something other than wreckage. Something solid, something stable and grounded, something safe. Maybe I won’t be carried off by the current all the time; perhaps I’ll stop drifting along aimlessly, stay afloat, stop drowning.
Of course, there’s always a risk that I’ll only drag him down with me.
As I’m floating away, half asleep with Kåre in my arms, I realize that the train hasn’t moved at all since we stopped at the last station.
It’s starting to look like I’m not going anywhere for a while.
