he cross over her mother’s coffin. María had pictured herself in this situation countless times before, ever since it became clear that the disease would kill her mother, and now here she was. She stared at the coffin in the grave and recited a brief mental prayer before making the sign of the cross with her outstretched hand. Then she lingered motionless at the graveside until Baldvin led her away.She remembered people coming up to her at the reception afterwards to pay their respects. Some offered their assistance, asking if there was anything they could do for her.María’s mind did not return to the lake until all was quiet again and she was left alone with her thoughts, late that night. It did not occur to her until then, when it was all over and she was thinking back over that gruelling day, that no one from her father’s family had turned up to the funeral.
1
The emergency line received a call from a mobile phone shortly after midnight. An agitated female voice cried:‘She’s… María’s killed herself… I… it’s horrible… horrible!’‘What’s your name, please?’‘Ka – Karen.’‘Where are you calling from?’ the emergency operator asked.‘I’m at… it’s… her holiday cottage…’‘Where? Where is it?’‘… At Lake Thingvallavatn. At… at her holiday cottage. Please hurry… I… I’ll be here…’Karen thought she would never find the cottage. It had been a long time, nearly four years, since her last visit. María had given her detailed directions just to be on the safe side, but they had more or less gone in one ear and out the other because Karen had assumed she would remember the way.It was past eight in the evening and pitch dark by the time she left Reykjavík. She drove over Mosfellsheidi moor where there was little traffic, just the odd pair of
1
The emergency line received a call from a mobile phone shortly after midnight. An agitated female voice cried:‘She’s… María’s killed herself… I… it’s horrible… horrible!’‘What’s your name, please?’‘Ka – Karen.’‘Where are you calling from?’ the emergency operator asked.‘I’m at… it’s… her holiday cottage…’‘Where? Where is it?’‘… At Lake Thingvallavatn. At… at her holiday cottage. Please hurry… I… I’ll be here…’Karen thought she would never find the cottage. It had been a long time, nearly four years, since her last visit. María had given her detailed directions just to be on the safe side, but they had more or less gone in one ear and out the other because Karen had assumed she would remember the way.It was past eight in the evening and pitch dark by the time she left Reykjavík. She drove over Mosfellsheidi moor where there was little traffic, just the odd pair of
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