The icy Norwegian air burns as I take short, anxious breaths in the back of the ambulance. My body is numb, my mind a whirlwind of confusion, hands shaking.
What have I done?
The female paramedic climbs into the driver's seat, while the male one stays with me. I want to get out, but one of the police officers, who arrived along with the ambulance, steps forward and stops me from leaving. When he speaks, his voice sounds distant, muffled, like I'm underwater. He's asking me questions I can't answer.
'Just a few more details,' the officer says, his words barely registering. 'Do you remember who was with the baby when you locked yourself in the bathroom?' His voice is careful, like he's afraid I might break.
My mouth opens, but no words come out. A void where sound should be. Then, a memory: Simon in my arms, his soft, warm weight against my chest. I remember holding him. Before and after that? It's all a haze. The only thing I know for sure is that I'm freezing cold, and my eyes are raw from crying. Terrifying, but not unfamiliar.
When life is too much, I vanish inside myself. It's like a fuse blows in my mind and I check out, sometimes accompanied by panic attacks. Some kind of anxiety; 'dissociative episodes,' they've been called. Back in Hungary, when I was still a young woman who hadn't yet left home, my mother dragged me to doctors and specialists. But the cause has never been determined.
One day, after yet another fruitless appointment, Mum pronounced, 'They're just your thing, like you have green eyes and red hair. It's just you.'
The episodes have always escaped a simplistic medical description. They feel like more, a scarring inside me, a tangle of threads I cannot pull apart.
My reverie is abruptly broken by the police officer repeating his question. I shake my head, trying to remember. Was I in the bathroom with Simon?
'Me,' I manage to say eventually, though I'm not completely sure.
'Okay, good,' the officer says. He looks ten years younger than me, maybe in his mid-twenties. There's the shadow of stubble on his chin.
'What happened afterwards?' His voice is edgier now. He's losing patience. I don't blame him. It's bitterly cold, with more snow threatened. 'Ma'am, I was told you went outside without shoes and proper clothing for the weather, acting strangely. You really don't remember? I want to help, but I need to understand what happened.'
Outside. The word slips past me. I open my mouth to say no, but a wave of nausea rises. Acting strangely. A chill that has nothing to do with the weather creeps up my spine, the ghost of cold air still clinging to my skin. I was outside.
'I…' My voice catches. '…I don't remember why. I'm sorry, I wish I did.' Uneven and breathless, the words come out as if forcing them into existence might drag more memories from earlier today with them.
The officer looks into my eyes, his gaze lingering there for a moment before shifting away. I think I see judgement. Or maybe concern. It's hard to tell the difference. He turns away from me. I'm trying to remember, but it's difficult. Simon has been teething for a long time. I've survived on scraps of rest: an hour here, ten minutes there. For how long now? Weeks? More? The days blur together, dissolving into an endless cycle of feeding, rocking, and soothing. Last night, we went out for the first time in ages. The evening is now Champagne and regret rolled into one formless, heavy sense of discomfort behind my eyes.
Then, a snapshot from this morning slams into me. My husband, Petter, shouting at me: You humiliated me in front of my boss! What's wrong with you?
I squeeze my eyes shut. Flashes of memory flood my sore head: angry voices clashing, the baby crying, the feeling of chaos swelling inside me, the blank void where my mind should be, shutting down again. The recollections slip through my fingers like ice dissolving in my palm. Why are the police questioning me?
'Wait! Did I do something? Are my children okay?' My voice breaks as I shout, desperate, forcing the officer to turn back.
Panic claws at my chest, making it hard to breathe, to see, to think. My head throbs. I curl my fingers against my temples, the pressure grounding me for a second. Slowly, the interior of the ambulance sharpens back into focus. I'm surrounded by masks, medicine pouches, equipment; my body vibrates with panic. I lower my hands. My gaze drops to my palms. No blood. No obvious signs of a fight or a scuffle. I'm not even sure why I feel the need to check.
I would never hurt anyone. Would I?
I've never been questioned by a police officer before. The man's voice cuts through my thoughts, more serious now. He's been talking and I realise I've missed every word.
'Can you please answer me? Have you had any thoughts of harming yourself? Is that why you were in the bathroom?'
'No,' I lie. 'Can I go back inside now?'
I lock eyes with him, silently pleading with him to let me go home, back to my baby. But it doesn't work. In fairness, I don't think I would believe me either. Of course I've had thoughts about self-harm—and worse. Who hasn't at some point in their life? But I would never act on them. And I would certainly never tell this young officer that. How could he understand? He's probably fresh out of police training. First job, and now he must deal with a half-crazy woman like me.
For a long, suspended moment, we just stare at each other. The thought lingers—the idea of disappearing, of slipping away completely, not just my mind but my body too, feels dangerously tempting. Or it has. In the past. But then, as always, I pull myself back. I stop the thoughts. I am a mother. My son, Simon, and my daughter, Eva, need me. Because of them, there is never any question of leaving. I stay. That's something I know for sure.
The officer studies me, his expression blank as the weight of my last question settles between us. Then, his tone softens, trying to reassure me.
'You don't have to do anything, but I really think it's best if you go with the paramedics. You said you'd go when we were talking inside, remember? You're in good hands. Everything will be okay.'
He adjusts his jacket. Presses something on the radio strapped to his uniform. He talks into it, telling whoever is at the other end that the ambulance will soon be on its way.
I glance down at myself. I'm wearing my pyjama top, faded from too many washes and stained with breast milk and baby puke. My sleeves are damp from wiping my face, streaked with whatever's left of yesterday's makeup. I don't need a mirror to know I look bad. My long, thick hair clings to my forehead in sticky strands, tangled where it was sleek and glossy only hours ago. My face feels hot, flushed from crying. I must look as mad as I feel.
I lift my head and catch sight of Petter. He looks the complete opposite: neat and effortlessly composed. Like in every situation we encounter, he is always somehow in charge. Great in a crisis. I admire that about him. So calm and collected. So soft-spoken. I wonder how many times the question, Why did he marry her? has been asked. What does he see in her? might be another. I shake my head to clear these thoughts, but it doesn't work.
Grimly, I study him. At some point, he must've changed out of the shorts he usually wears inside our centrally heated house. He's fully dressed in elegant Jean Paul. The grey winter light makes his deep olive skin glow. His dark eyes settle on me with the detached pity I know so well, then flick away. I watch him speaking with the other police officer, a guy about the same age as him. There's a stillness about my husband, the kind that draws attention without asking for it. He stands like someone who knows exactly who he is and exactly how others see him. Immaculate.
The ambulance door is still open. From my vantage point, the neighbourhood stretches out before me: polished, pristine. Tucked into a pocket of the countryside where the Drammen fjord stretches wide and endless. The water shimmers under the pale midday sun. The mountains beyond it are thick with snow, like everything here. Petter said this place would be a fresh start for us. We would be happy here: a family together. The perfect place to build a perfect life. So, why does it feel like I'm suffocating when every part of me yearns for exactly that? Why am I struggling in this place, surrounded by all this beauty, all this 'normality'? What's wrong with me?
No one stares outright, but I feel the neighbours watching from inside their homes. The middle-aged woman with the dog, who always walks the same route, living alone on our street, barely ever saying 'hey' or 'hello'. The lovely older couple in the house next door, who invited us over for afternoon tea last Christmas, always asking about the children and dropping off presents. I imagine them all, looking through the gaps in their curtains, thinking, Why are there police and ambulance here? What has Clara done? Then, a thought occurs to me. Could one of them have called the authorities? I assumed it was Petter, but perhaps not.
A dull ache spreads through my skull as I struggle to piece together the chain of events that led me here. There must've been a moment when I crossed a line, when I lost control. The thought makes me queasy. I try my hardest to focus now. The last thing I remember clearly is grabbing my phone. I called someone. That's right; Nora, my mother-in-law. She had just left after staying overnight to watch the kids so we could attend the company party. But I don't remember us actually talking.
The policeman walks away, joining his colleague and Petter a short distance away. I'm shivering under the blanket kindly placed round my shoulders by one of the paramedics, even though I have a jacket in my hands, one I haven't worn in ages. Its presence surprises me. I don't remember grabbing it. The paramedic drifts away as well, crossing over to join Petter and the policemen.
I readjust my position in the back of the ambulance and fasten my seatbelt, resigning myself to going with them. As I shift nervously, a movement catches my eye. Reflected in the polished metal of the supply cabinet opposite me, I see Petter's mouth move, just slightly. Was that a smile? I lean forward, trying to be certain. But it's gone now. Maybe I imagined it.
A strange feeling comes over me. I can't see Simon anywhere. My chest tightens again. Is he okay? But then, I remind myself of what I do know: I'm in an ambulance, not a police car. I agreed to go with them, even though I don't have to. That must mean I didn't hurt anyone. I would rather cut off a limb than do anything to harm my children, but if that's the case, why am I here?
Nora took my daughter to Barnehage early in the morning. For that, I'm grateful. Eva loves daycare. It's better she doesn't see any of this; her mum losing it and being taken away. The male paramedic jumps into the ambulance. He starts to pull the doors shut. I feel a sudden urge to call out to Petter. Take good care of Simon! Don't forget to defrost breast milk for him! He feels the cold, so make sure he has an extra layer, even inside!
It's then I realise I'm going to be apart from my baby—really apart—for the first time since he was born. The only other time I've left him was for a few hours last night, and now? Now, I wish I hadn't.
He's teething; rub some chamomile on his gums.
I start to speak, but it's too late. The doors clunk shut. We're sealed inside. The paramedic sits diagonally across from me, making some final checks as the engine hums to life. We pull away from my house, my children, my life. Heart shredding with each jolt of the vehicle moving through the snow. I twist my hands in my lap, gripping the fabric of my jacket as if I could stop the world from slipping further away. Our destination, the nearest hospital. My reality, uncertain.