My son is missing.
My boy, my roots, my sky.
I’m standing on my terrace, looking at the clouds – draped in pink in the east, orange in the west, as if they are having a hard time agreeing on which outfit to wear. The sun is slow to set this evening, but the air is already carrying the freshness of night.
A shiver runs through me. I fold my cardigan across my chest. It’s not the cold that makes me tremble, but fear – a fear that knots my throat and twists my stomach.
This morning, when I opened my eyes, I wondered whether today’s summery forecast would turn into one of those treacherous Norwegian June days, when the rays of sunshine only warm the heart. I thought about all the children who would be arriving later for the pool party in honour of my son’s birthday. I thought about all the fruit that needed to be cut for dipping in the chocolate fountain; the candy-floss machine that had to be tested; the tiered cake that sat, finished but wobbly, in the wine cellar. I had closed my eyes for a moment, revisiting the faded memory of my late husband’s smile, imagining how we would have spent this morning celebrating our son’s ninth birthday.
The bay-window door onto the terrace rattles.
I turn around. My father is standing in the doorway, anxiety stiffening his body, freezing his features. It’s clear there’s still no news.
‘Ramona’s here,’ he says.
I get up and go inside, closing the bay window behind me, the stale kitchen air suffocating me in an instant. Dirty glasses and piles of plates, stained with streaks of chocolate and pink sugar, jostle on the kitchen counter like remnants of a past life.
Vetle’s pool party had been a great success. My father and I had been running around like headless chickens, probably just as happy as the children who seemed to be communicating solely through shouts of joy and bursts of laughter, playing one game after the other, gigantic doughnut-shaped buoys and water pistols always at the centre of their adventures. As usual, Vetle had teamed up with Eva, Hedda and Jesper, our ‘Fantastic Four’ – as we parents had nicknamed them – our children having been inseparable since their first year of preschool.
Towards the end of the afternoon, the children gathered in the living room, Vetle asking my father – ‘Grandpa Police Chief’ – to show them his service badge and recount his most thrilling stories. Wide-eyed, the young ones had hung on every word, my dad telling them about nerve-wrecking car chases and dramatic arrests.
‘But you mean … you were the one putting cuffs on them?’ Hedda asked, one arm around Vetle’s neck, the other around Eva’s, Jesper sitting on the sofa next to me – as he often was.
‘Yes, sometimes I did.’
‘Wow,’ Eva said, smiling, Jesper laughing with excitement, padding Vetle’s back as if he’d been the one making the arrests. I wondered who was
