When the Cranes Fly South

by Lisa Ridzén

The idea for her debut novel came from the discovery of notes her grandfather’s care team had left the family as he neared the end of his life.

For Cameron How lucky we are to have each other

It’s been more than three years since you moved, since you gave me that look of such complete confusion when our son came to get you. He said it was time to go and that you’d be better off there. I could tell you didn’t believe him. That you would rather stay here with me, where everything was familiar. I let you rest in my gaze for a moment, and I wanted nothing more than for you to stay. But I took your hand, gave it a gentle squeeze and said: “Hans is right—you’ll be much happier there.” Every single fiber of me disagreed, but I knew I couldn’t take care of you.

Keeping your dementia-addled wife’s scarf in a jar just to be able to remember her scent is fundamentally pathetic, after all.

No one has ever told me that it’s normal for a person’s eyes to well up as they age, for the tears to find a foothold in virtually every memory.

I don’t dare keep the scarf out of the jar for too long, because I want the scent to last. You smell so different now that they’ve swapped your soaps and creams. Your brain isn’t the only thing the dementia has changed.

At dinner one day, I snapped and asked what the hell the point of life was if I was too old for a dog.

The last of the snow only melted a few days ago, and it strikes me that it might be the last snow I ever see. That I might never feel the temperature dip below zero again.

Sixten has never needed to be in the pen, has never been left alone for any long periods of time at all, because I’ve been at home ever since we got him. And unlike most other people around here, I’ve always let my elkhounds live indoors. The only time I shut them in the pen was when I was at work. Having them howl like banshees is no good for anyone.

You used to plant out your young cabbages in May, after weeks of fussing over them. The little ones, you called them, with such fondness that I realized there must be something extra special about them. Not like the beets, which you planted straight in the ground. I feel an ache in my chest, and I close my eyes for a moment. “She’s not going to get better, you know,” Hans snapped when he found me out here late one evening the first summer after you moved.

I just couldn’t do it. Something about its tiny paws made my body refuse. I threw the spade onto the heap of earth and opened the trap. Freed the mouse. Its little legs moved as fast as they could, and it darted down the slope toward the woods. In my imagination, it had a family waiting for it somewhere, maybe even a couple of friends. His hand came out of nowhere, and the smack made my vision go dark. “What in God’s name d’you think you’re doing?”

I blinked to focus my eyes. “S-Sorry,” I stammered. He let go and pushed me away, making me lose my balance and fall on my backside. My cheek was stinging, and I was on the verge of tears, but I tried my best to keep it together.

He picked up the empty trap. “What’s the use in me catching the little bastards if you’re just going to let ’em go, eh?” he shouted, spraying me with saliva. Out of sheer habit, I ran, even though he wasn’t coming after me. I did the same every time he flared up like that. The darkness in his eyes gave me the energy I needed to run fast and far. I grabbed Buster and rac...

“I’ve told you not to bring in the firewood on your own. Let me do it,” he says, practically snatching the bag out of my hand. “I know, but I’d run out,” I say curtly, nodding down at the logs.

“What would happen if you fell and broke your leg or something out here? You could be lying there for two hours with no way of calling for help.” “Mmm, what would happen then,” I repeat irritably, toying with the idea for a moment.

“You’re being so childish, Dad. You do realize you make people worry, don’t you? Why do you have to be so stubborn?” He can talk. Still, I don’t have the energy to argue. There’s no point when he’s in this sort of mood.

“Just take it easy, okay?” says Hans. I shake my head, on the verge of laughter. Which of us needs to take it easy? We stand quietly for a moment, avoiding eye contact.

Hans makes his way down to the woodshed and fills the bag to the brim. He’s put on weight over the past few years. Maybe I should ask what he’s been doing for exercise.

“I’ll take this in,” he says, holding up the bag. I think I catch a glimpse of something regretful in his eye before he turns around. “Wait here and I’ll come back and help you.” I could manage the ten meters without a problem, but I stay put like an obedient child, watching his back as he walks away. Even that is getting fat.

It irritated the hell out of me when he disrespected us, acting like he didn’t recognize everything we’d done for him.

But as our son approaches me now, I realize that you might have been right, after all. Because it was never you he shouted at over the years; it was me. The problem is that I just can’t help it, the rage. It washes over me like a tidal wave.

“I’m going to see Mum soon. Do you want to come with me?” he asks, giving me the same look he once gave us after we found out he’d stolen a Snickers. I don’t speak, because I don’t want any of this. I can’t understand why he insists on visiting. It’s not even you. It’s a husk of you.

I’m still angry with him for wanting to take control of my life, but on the other hand I never want him to let go.

“Of course we can go and see your mum,” I mumble, gripping his arm tighter. He parks me in the armchair. People often do that nowadays, parking me in various places as though strapping me into some kind of passenger seat.

I can almost always escape into sleep. It’s the place where everything is still as it should be, where I still have a say.

He gives me a quick look, and I’m so worried he is about to ruin this moment, that he’ll say something about Sixten, but he turns his attention back to the lures. Trailing a finger over them, one after another. Careful, I want to tell him, but I hold my tongue. I wish I could put a hand on his head and ruffle his thinning hair.

I wonder whether Hans will repaint them once I’m gone, or whether they’ll sell the house as it is. Because Ellinor probably isn’t going to want to live here. The wide planks, with their knots and wavy lines, remind me of my early days at the sawmill. When, as a twelve-year-old, I joined my father at work in Ranviken for the very first time.

I was done with school forever, ready to start working for real, like my old man and all the others. I was itching to get going, butterflies in my stomach. All I wanted was to jump onto my bike and cycle down there.

“So?” Mother asked after a while. He stared blankly at her. “The lad,” she said, turning to me. “How did he get on today?”

He took a swig of beer and fixed his eyes on me, but he didn’t speak. He kept quiet for what felt like an eternity, and then he raised his glass. “Here’s to Bosse—he did a good day’s work today.” The corners of my mouth twitched so much that I couldn’t help but smile, and it almost felt like he was smiling back.

But that evening she just laughed and looked at my old man with an unfamiliar warmth in her eye. Something changed in that moment, and I found myself enjoying being at the table with them. My body was weary, but not in a bad way. It was as though I suddenly knew what life was all about and how I was going to approach it. The kitchen window was open, and the cranes’ trumpetlike cries found their way in to where we were sitting. “Sounds like the young’un’s testing out his wings,” said Mother, taking a sip of water.

Sometimes I like to pretend that I’m him, that I can feel the ground beneath his paws and his muscles working—especially when he heads out into the meadow. Every part of his body working in harmony to carry him forward at incredible speed. I stumble as I reach the clear-felled area, but I manage to regain my balance just in time. The weakness hits me without warning, and I sit down on a stump by the edge of the trees and lean back against the trunk behind me.

I know that it often floods down here in spring. You used to love these deep pools of water, stomping through them in your boots as if to make sure they really were watertight. I squint toward the overgrown trail among the trees. If I didn’t know it was there, I wouldn’t be able to see it. The long grass and the lingonberry bushes have hidden what was part of my everyday life as a boy.

I couldn’t bring myself to walk it again, not after what my old man did. For weeks, I found it hard even to set foot in the woods. The trees, the ants and the swirling brook: all of it reminded me of his cruelty. I feel an ache in my chest and look away. Don’t want to remember that sort of thing.

I see bright spots when I try to get up, and have to sit down again. Squint over to the trees on the far side of the clearing, where the two elk disappeared with Sixten hot on their heels.

I tip my head back against the trunk again and let my eyes drift up to the hunting tower by the edge of the trees. It must be a long time since anyone went up there, and I find myself wondering whether it’s still in use. I know you thought I was a wimp for not being able to shoot an animal, but it was like I could feel their fear pulsing through me, and every time I wrapped my finger around the trigger, something seemed to shift inside. Almost as though I were aiming at myself.

The strength seems to have returned to my legs, and I’m disappointed. It might sound ridiculous, but sometimes when the weakness and dizziness hit me like that, I find myself hoping that my time is up. On the other hand, I’m relieved, because I’m meant to call Ture today.

Ture often drinks coffee when we chat on the phone, always has, even when we were younger. It makes him feel like we’re in a café, he says.

“What does he even want from you?” “What are you talking about?” I asked, though I worked it out the minute the question left my mouth. I knew there had been plenty of rumors about Ture while you were growing up in Hissmofors, but he had never tried anything with me. He was a good friend, and that was that. “A load of rubbish, that’s what that is,” I snapped.

“You don’t fancy having kids of your own?” you asked without warning, turning to Ture.

“I work so much, you know?” Ture said after a moment. He picked up his beer, but didn’t drink. “That’s never stopped other men.” I was so stunned I couldn’t manage a single word. You knew perfectly well that Ture wasn’t involved with any women. What had got into you? “Well, as you know, Fredrika, I’m not married,” he said, lowering the bottle again.

After that day, Ture and I generally met one-on-one.

I can’t remember when I last talked to our granddaughter, whether it was before or after my most recent call with Ture. Time and memory merge together in a sludge, and there are days when my first few years with you feel closer than last week.

“Any gossip?” I laugh so hard that my phone bounces up and down on my belly, and I try to think of something Ellinor might have said that Ture would enjoy. He has always loved gossip—especially village gossip, as he calls it. I find that side of him a bit ridiculous, but it’s also funny how worked up he gets.

Young folks today just aren’t right; they race about like they’ve only got a week left to live.

“He’s run all the way over to upper Vråkäng, the little bugger.” “Sixten? Have you found him?” A wave of relief washes over me, and I can’t help but grin. Marita grins back, nodding as her thumbs dance across the screen. “They say they tried calling the number on his collar.” “Well, no one’s called me,” I say with a frown. “There’s always something wrong with these damn phones.” “Is this it?” she asks, holding up my mobile. I nod. “You’ve got five missed calls,” she tells me, shaking her head with a smile. “The sound is down. Let me turn it up for you.”

She gets up and drops her phone into her pocket. “I’m heading into town now, so I can pick him up on my way back,” she says, tucking her chair back beneath the table. “Thanks for the coffee. Be seeing you.”

I lean forward over the kitchen table and grab the logbook. Cross out all mention of Sixten being missing and then slump back against the pillow with a sense of satisfaction.

A few hours later, Marita is back. Sixten comes running in ahead of her and jumps up onto the daybed. I was already awake, so I heard her car pull up on the driveway. Just lay here, waiting for his arrival. It feels like I might explode when he leaps up beside me. He digs his nose into my armpit and quickly settles down. I stroke his flank, feel his cool coat.

“He’s a lovely dog,” she says after a moment, her eyes on Sixten. I feel a rush of pride.