The icy Norwegian air burns as I take short, anxious breaths in the back of the ambulance, each exhale blooming into a ghostly white cloud that hangs between me and the world. My hands won’t stop 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. He asks questions I cannot answer.
‘Just a few more details. Do you remember who was with the baby when you locked yourself in the bathroom?’
My mouth opens, but no words come out. I remember holding Simon, his warm weight against my chest. Before and after? It’s all a haze. Terrifying, but not unfamiliar. When life gets too heavy, I vanish. A fuse blows in my mind, and I can’t remember what I’ve done with the lights out. Doctors and specialists Mum had taken me to see back in Hungary called them ‘dissociative episodes,’ but no matter how many doctors diagnosed me, not one of them could determine the cause.
After the final fruitless appointment, Mum pronounced, ‘It’s a thing you’ve got, like your red hair. Just part of you, it’s all it is.’ But to me, always felt like more—a scarring inside me, a tangle of threads I cannot pull apart.
The police officer repeats his question. Who? Who was with the baby?
‘Me,’ I manage.
‘Okay, good,’ the officer says. He looks ten years younger than me. Mid-twenties, maybe. There’s a shadow of stubble on his chin.
‘What happened afterwards?’
He’s losing patience. I don’t blame him.
‘Ma’am, I was told you went outside without shoes and proper clothing for the weather, behaving strangely. You really don’t remember? I want to help, but I need to understand what happened.’
Outside. The word slips past me. Acting strangely. A chill that has nothing to do with the weather creeps up my spine.
‘I… I’m not entirely sure. I don’t remember why I was outside. I’m sorry.’ Uneven and breathless, the words come out as if forcing them into existence might make the day’s earlier memories follow.
The officer looks into my eyes. I see judgement. Concern? It’s hard to tell the difference. He turns away from me.
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. Now: Champagne and regret, rolled into one formless, heavy discomfort behind my eyes.
Then, a snapshot from this morning slams into me. My husband, Petter, shouts at me: How could you humiliate me like that? What’s wrong with you?
I squeeze my eyes shut. Angry voices clash, the baby cries, the chaos swells inside me, and then the blank void where my mind should be. The recollections slip through my fingers like ice dissolving in my palm. Why are the police questioning me?
‘Did I do something? Are my children okay?’ My voice breaks, forcing the officer to turn back.
My head throbs. I curl my fingers against my temples, and the pressure grounds me. Slowly, the interior of the ambulance sharpens into focus: masks, medicine pouches, equipment. My body vibrates with panic. I lower my hands to look at them and, without thinking, clasp them together, fingers resting along the edge of the other palm—almost like when a person is begging—then yank them apart. For some reason, the resulting pop soothes me.
No blood. No signs of a fight.
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. ‘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, but it doesn’t work. I wouldn’t 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. He knows nothing about me.
For a long, suspended moment, we stare at each other. The thought lingers: the idea of disappearing, of slipping away completely—in my mind and body—feels dangerously tempting.
No. I am a mother. Simon and Eva need me. Because of them, the question of leaving doesn’t exist.
The officer’s tone softens. ‘You don’t have to do anything, but I think it’s best if you go with the paramedics. When we first spoke inside, you said you would. You’re in good hands.’ He adjusts his jacket. Presses something on his radio and tells them the ambulance is 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 the remains of yesterday’s makeup. 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. Grimly, I study him. At some point, he must’ve changed out of the shorts he 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 detached pity I have seen before—then flick away.
I watch him speaking with the other police officer, around the same age as him. There’s a soft-spoken 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. Effortlessly composed.
I admire that about him. I wonder if the question, ‘Why did he marry her?’ has ever been asked. ‘What does he see in her?’ might be another. I shake my head to clear the thoughts, but it doesn’t work. I look away.
The ambulance door is still open. From here, sitting on the plastic seating, 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 a happy family here.
But I seem to ruin it. Again and again.
I feel the neighbours watching from inside their homes, thinking, Why are there police and ambulance here? Then, a thought occurs to me. Could one of them have called the authorities? I assumed it was Petter, but perhaps not.
There must’ve been a moment when I crossed a line, when I lost control. The thought makes me queasy. The last thing I recall clearly is grabbing my phone. I called someone. That’s right… I called Nora, my mother-in-law. She had just left after staying overnight to watch the kids so Petter and I could attend the gala. I don’t remember us talking.
The policeman walks away, joining his colleague and Petter a short distance away. I’m shivering under the blanket kindly placed around my shoulders earlier by one of the paramedics, even though I have a jacket in my hands, one I’d forgotten I owned. 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. It’s better to comply. Maybe they’ll be able to figure out what’s wrong with me, tell me that I’m not a danger to my children. Suddenly, a movement catches my eye. Reflected in the polished metal of the supply cabinet opposite me, Petter’s mouth move, the corners of his lips ticking up. I lean out to look at him, but it’s gone, his eyes round with sympathy.
He just wants me to get better; I know. I’m in an ambulance, not a police car for God’s sake. 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. I know this in my bones. What I don’t know is whether I am still the same person when the lights in my head cut out.
Nora took my daughter to Barnehage early in the morning. For that, I’m grateful. Eva loves daycare. She shouldn’t see her mum losing it and being taken away this way in an ambulance. The male paramedic jumps inside now and pulls one side of the doors shut. I feel a sudden urge to call out to Petter. Take good care of Simon! Don’t forget to defrost milk for him! Make sure he has an extra layer, even inside!
I realise: this is the first time Simon will know I’m gone. He slept through my outing last night. But today, he’ll be looking for me, and I won’t come. I didn’t even get to explain and say goodbye.
He’s teething; rub some chamomile on his gums.
The other side of the door clunks shut. We’re sealed inside. The paramedic sits diagonally across from me, and my heart shreds as the engine hums to life. We pull away from my house, my family, my life.