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A kiss has breathed new life into my soul,

And stilled the deepest yearning of my breast.

Come, Darkness! Fold me in your intimate embrace,

That my lips may drink in fresh delights.

Such life was steeped in dreams of old;

Thus I live on, forever gazing at those dreams,

Scorning the glitter of all other joys,

For only Night exhales such sweet balm.

The day is barren of love’s sweet bliss;

Its light’s vain splendor brings me pain,

And the sun’s fierce heat consumes me.

Hide, then, O eye, from the glare of earthly suns!

Shroud yourself in Night; she stills your longing

And heals the pain, like Lethe’s cooling waters.

​— ​Karoline von Günderrode, “Der Kuss Im Traume”

Chapter Twenty-Two

Minneapolis, Minnesota

November 2017

Linnea

Beskyddaren rested in Linnea’s hands. Knowing its true value made her afraid to touch him, but stronger was the desire to feel its love one last time.

Taylor would be arriving soon for their journey to Mora, to find Ulla. His residency had been kind in granting him a week off at such short notice. Probably because he never used his vacation days.

The horse’s carrier sat next to her packed travel bag on the bed, and, on its other side, an Adidas soccer shoebox.

She’d found the shoebox crammed inside Taylor’s old bedroom closet. The only reason she’d gone into her son’s room at all was to catalog the items still there. Yearbooks, textbooks, soccer and academic awards. She’d be moving to a hospice facility next week with the help of her sister. Abby was a nurse in Milwaukee and applied for a leave of absence. A shame, she and her sister had only decided to bond now. Still, late would always be better than never. Her energy and faculties seemed to be dwindling by the minute.

She placed the Dala horse into its holder, took a deep breath, and lifted the shoebox lid. Though she had a hunch about its contents, Linnea hadn’t fully prepared herself. “Oh, Taylor,” she whispered. A whiff of perfume hit her, and she pressed her heart, recognizing the faint aroma from years back, as if it were only yesterday she discovered the scent while stripping Taylor’s bed sheets.

Linnea handled a stray napkin, bleeding with the blue ink of feminine cursive: Analise Barnes, Isa Barnes, Mrs. Everett Taylor Barnes, Taylor & Isa Barnes.

She sifted through a stack of photographs amongst a collection of receipts, tickets, letters, more scribble-filled napkins, a perfume bottle, and even a balled-up lace bra. A sad chuckle escaped her, and Linnea replaced the lid, feeling much too intrusive. How often did her son go through this box? Devoid of dust, it led her to believe it hadn’t gone untouched.

What would become of him? Overwhelmed with the finality, her permanent ending, she agonized. The words came, whether she was singing them or her brain was humming them to her. It was the song she used to sing as a girl, whispered to Taylor as a baby: “ . . . Like a bridge over troubled water . . . ”

Her hands shook. She smelled something burning, and her hearing grew muffled. The bed flew up and hit her in the face. Linnea slumped to the ground.

“Mom, Mom!”

Taylor’s terrified face came into focus briefly. She heard him cussing frantically. But he sounded far away. What was he doing? Where am I? Her tongue hurt, and she tasted blood and vomit. She coughed and felt her body being rolled to the side.