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Authors: Camilla Läckberg
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something visible on the screen.
Sometimes he wondered how it would feel to do what Fredrik was able to do. Plucking other worlds out of his brain, summoning up other people’s feelings and entering into their lives. Most often Morgan dismissed such skills as unimportant. But during the deep depressions that sometimes struck him, he occasionally felt the full weight of his handicap and despaired that he was so different from everyone else.
Still, it was a consolation to know that he was not alone. He often visited the Web sites of people who were like him, and he had exchanged e-mails with others. On one occasion he had even gone to meet one of them in Göteborg, but he wouldn’t be doing that again. The fact that they were so essentially different from other people made it hard for people like him to relate even to each other, and the meeting had been a failure from beginning to end.
But it had still been great to find out that there were others. That knowledge was enough. He actually felt no longing for the sense of community that seemed to be so important for ordinary people. He did best when he was all alone in the little cabin with only his computers to keep him company. Sometimes he tolerated his parents’ company, but they were the only ones. It was safe to spend time with them. He’d had many years to learn to read them, to interpret all their complex nonverbal communications, the facial expressions and body language and thousands of other tiny signals that his brain simply didn’t seem designed to handle. They had also learned to adapt themselves to him, to speak in a way that he could understand well enough.
The screen before him was blank and waiting. This was the moment he liked best. Ordinary people might say that they ‘loved’ such a moment, but he wasn’t really sure what ‘to love’ involved. But maybe it was what he felt right now. That inner feeling of satisfaction, of belonging, of being normal.
Morgan began to type, his fingers racing over the keyboard. Once in a while he glanced down at the binder on his lap, but most often his gaze was fixed on the screen. It always amazed him that his coordination problems miraculously disappeared whenever he was working. Suddenly he was just as dexterous and sure of his hands as he always should have been. They called it ‘deficient motor skills,’ his inability to make his fingers move properly when he had to tie his shoes or button his shirt. He knew that was part of the diagnosis. He understood precisely what made him different from the others, but he couldn’t do anything to change the situation. For that matter, he thought it was wrong to call the others ‘normal’ while people like him were dubbed ‘abnormal.’ Actually it was only societal preconceptions that landed him in the wrong group. He was just—different. His thought processes simply moved in other directions. They weren’t necessarily worse, but different.
He paused to take a swig of Coca-Cola straight out of the bottle, then his fingers moved rapidly over the keys again.
Morgan was content.
5
Strömstad 1923
Anders lay on the bed with his hands clasped behind his head, staring at the ceiling. It was already late, and as always the weight of the long day’s work lay heavy in his limbs. But this evening he couldn’t relax. The thoughts buzzing in his head made him feel like he was trying to sleep amid a swarm of flies.
The meeting about the memorial stone had gone well, which was a relief. He knew the job would be a challenge, and as he lay there he ran through the different approaches, trying to decide on the best way to proceed. He already knew where he would get the stone. In the southwest corner of the quarry there was a sizeable cliff that was as yet untouched, and he estimated it would give him a large, fine piece of granite, without the defects that cause cracks.
But the other thing he couldn’t stop thinking about, as hard as he tried, was the girl with the dark
Sometimes he wondered how it would feel to do what Fredrik was able to do. Plucking other worlds out of his brain, summoning up other people’s feelings and entering into their lives. Most often Morgan dismissed such skills as unimportant. But during the deep depressions that sometimes struck him, he occasionally felt the full weight of his handicap and despaired that he was so different from everyone else.
Still, it was a consolation to know that he was not alone. He often visited the Web sites of people who were like him, and he had exchanged e-mails with others. On one occasion he had even gone to meet one of them in Göteborg, but he wouldn’t be doing that again. The fact that they were so essentially different from other people made it hard for people like him to relate even to each other, and the meeting had been a failure from beginning to end.
But it had still been great to find out that there were others. That knowledge was enough. He actually felt no longing for the sense of community that seemed to be so important for ordinary people. He did best when he was all alone in the little cabin with only his computers to keep him company. Sometimes he tolerated his parents’ company, but they were the only ones. It was safe to spend time with them. He’d had many years to learn to read them, to interpret all their complex nonverbal communications, the facial expressions and body language and thousands of other tiny signals that his brain simply didn’t seem designed to handle. They had also learned to adapt themselves to him, to speak in a way that he could understand well enough.
The screen before him was blank and waiting. This was the moment he liked best. Ordinary people might say that they ‘loved’ such a moment, but he wasn’t really sure what ‘to love’ involved. But maybe it was what he felt right now. That inner feeling of satisfaction, of belonging, of being normal.
Morgan began to type, his fingers racing over the keyboard. Once in a while he glanced down at the binder on his lap, but most often his gaze was fixed on the screen. It always amazed him that his coordination problems miraculously disappeared whenever he was working. Suddenly he was just as dexterous and sure of his hands as he always should have been. They called it ‘deficient motor skills,’ his inability to make his fingers move properly when he had to tie his shoes or button his shirt. He knew that was part of the diagnosis. He understood precisely what made him different from the others, but he couldn’t do anything to change the situation. For that matter, he thought it was wrong to call the others ‘normal’ while people like him were dubbed ‘abnormal.’ Actually it was only societal preconceptions that landed him in the wrong group. He was just—different. His thought processes simply moved in other directions. They weren’t necessarily worse, but different.
He paused to take a swig of Coca-Cola straight out of the bottle, then his fingers moved rapidly over the keys again.
Morgan was content.
5
Strömstad 1923
Anders lay on the bed with his hands clasped behind his head, staring at the ceiling. It was already late, and as always the weight of the long day’s work lay heavy in his limbs. But this evening he couldn’t relax. The thoughts buzzing in his head made him feel like he was trying to sleep amid a swarm of flies.
The meeting about the memorial stone had gone well, which was a relief. He knew the job would be a challenge, and as he lay there he ran through the different approaches, trying to decide on the best way to proceed. He already knew where he would get the stone. In the southwest corner of the quarry there was a sizeable cliff that was as yet untouched, and he estimated it would give him a large, fine piece of granite, without the defects that cause cracks.
But the other thing he couldn’t stop thinking about, as hard as he tried, was the girl with the dark
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