third was Berkeley, a fourth Bjerkely. The blackest piece of all was the violent
storm. She had practically been in shock. Her mother had rubbed her dry with
a towel and simply put her to bed with a cup of hot milk and honey. She had
fallen asleep immediately.
“I think I’m still alive,” she said weakly.
“Of course you’re alive! And today you are fifteen years old.”
“Are you quite sure?”
“Quite sure. Shouldn’t a mother know when her only child was born?
June 15, 1975 ... and half-past one, Sophie. It was the happiest moment of
my life.”
“Are you sure it isn’t all only a dream?”
“It must be a good dream to wake up to rolls and soda and birthday
presents.”
She put the tray of presents on a chair and disappeared out of the room
for a second. When she came back she was carrying another tray with rolls
and soda. She put it on the end of the bed.
It was the signal for the traditional birthday morning ritual, with the
unpacking of presents and her mother’s sentimental flights back to her first
contractions fifteen years ago. Her mother’s present was a tennis racket. So-
phie had never played tennis, but there were some open-air courts a few
minutes from Clover Close. Her father had sent her a mini-TV and FM radio.
The screen was no bigger than an ordinary photograph. There were also
presents from old aunts and friends of the family.
Presently her mother said, “Do you think I should stay home from work
today?”
“No, why should you?”
“You were very upset yesterday. If it goes on, I think we should make an
appointment to see a psychiatrist.”
“That won’t be necessary.”
“Was it the storm—or was it Alberto?”
“What about you? You said: What’s happening to us, little one?”
“I was thinking of you running around town to meet some mysterious
person ... Maybe it’s my fault.”
“It’s not anybody’s ‘fault’ that I’m taking a course in philosophy in my
leisure time. Just go to work. School doesn’t start till ten, and we’re only
getting our grades and sitting around.”
“Do you know what you’re going to get?”
“More than I got last semester at any rate.”
Not long after her mother had gone the telephone rang.
“Sophie Amundsen.”
“This is Alberto.”
“Ah.”
“The major didn’t spare any ammunition last night.”
“What do you mean.”
“The thunderstorm, Sophie.”
“I don’t know what to think.”
“That is the finest virtue a genuine philosopher can have. I am proud of
how much you have learned in such a short time.”
“I am scared that nothing is real.”