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that she’ll lose this child, too. I’m scared that she’ll die.’

      ‘Kate is medicated for the hypertension associated with preeclampsia, the odds of her losing the child are slim. Your child is safe inside her.’

      ‘The odds aren’t slim enough. The statistics don’t make me less petrified.’

      He leans forward and locks eyes with me. For the first time I view him as someone trying to help me instead of as an adversary. ‘Kari,’ he says, ‘I think we’ve made a breakthrough. Our first one. What do you say we start again, and now really begin your treatment.’

      I nod.

      ‘How are your headaches?’ he asks.

      ‘Bad. A migraine is killing me right now. It hasn’t stopped for weeks.’

      ‘Describe the symptoms.’

      ‘They vary. Sometimes my temples pulse and throb. Sometimes it feels like I’m being stabbed deep in the head with a hot knife and an artery is about to explode. Most often though, I feel like my head is being squeezed, like a weight is on me, pushing me to the ground.’

      ‘This feeling of being stabbed deep in the head is medically impossible, because there are no nerves in that area. If you were about to have an aneurysm, you would never know it.’

      I hadn’t thought of that.

      ‘It’s possible that your migraines are caused by the gunshot wound to your head or another physical problem, but I would like you to consider the possibility that they’re psychosomatic, and that what you’re really experiencing are sublimated panic attacks generated by guilt over your wife’s miscarriage, and consequently, current fear for your wife and unborn child. That might be why the nearer she comes to term, the worse the headaches get.’

      ‘My headaches are panic attacks that last for weeks?’

      ‘Possibly. Still, I think you should have tests run to rule out physical problems.’

      ‘I already promised Kate I would.’

      ‘Good. Our time is up, and anyway, I think we should call it a day now.’

      ‘Me too.’

      For the first time since our initial meeting, we shake hands.

      Chapter 10

      Kate will have picked up her brother and sister from the airport by now. I agreed to meet them at five thirty, at a bar in our neighborhood, for a drink before dinner. I’m running late.

      I find a parking space on Vaasankatu and walk into Hilpeä Hauki – The Happy Pike – a little bar Kate and I enjoy and consider our local. Most of its sales are from imported designer beers. Its prices are higher than most of the other bars in the neighborhood, but because of it, Hilpeä Hauki has a better clientele, a low-key and less than roaring drunk atmosphere. Kate also likes it because the bartenders are a well-educated bunch, and she can speak English with them. It’s a nice place for us to get out of the house and chat.

      Kate, John and Mary are sitting at a corner table. The family resemblance is apparent. All three are tall, thin and rangy, have pale complexions and cinnamon-red hair – Kate’s in a chignon, Mary’s long and pulled back into a ponytail, John’s shoulder-length and also pulled back. Mary is twenty-four but looks older, except for young, dancing eyes. John is twenty-three, but looks younger, except for old, unwavering eyes.

      I lean over, give Kate a peck on the lips and introduce myself to the others. John stands, shakes my hand and grins. He’s got a rebel style with a pricey slant to it. He wears a leather jacket, jeans and cowboy boots, but the leather jacket is soft, expensive and Italian, the jeans Diesels, the boots Sedona West full-quill ostrich. Fancy garb for an academic. I take it he pictures himself a ladies’ man. He’s a little unsteady, appears to have had a few drinks on the plane. Mary shoots John a disapproving glance because of his wobbling, but her smile toward me is warm. She stands, too, leans across the table and hugs me.

      Mary is more understated than her brother. She has on a long, dark dress and no makeup, but her excited smile says she’s thrilled to be here. Her plain wool coat hangs on a wall hook beside a Ralph Lauren overcoat, which I assume is John’s. ‘So you’re the man who stole my sister’s heart,’ Mary says.

      She seems pleasant. Maybe my misgivings about having them here for an extended stay were misplaced. ‘I think it was the other way around,’ I say.

      Kate has her hands folded on her pregnant belly. Her chair can’t quite fit at the table because of it. She’s resplendent in a green dinner dress. She worked hard at finding clothes she likes while she’s pregnant. She smiles. ‘No, it wasn’t.’

      They must have just arrived, they don’t have drinks in front of them yet. ‘What can I get everyone?’ I ask.

      ‘A Jaffa for me,’ Kate says.

      ‘What’s that?’ Mary asks.

      ‘Orange soda,’ I say. ‘It’s Finland’s most popular soft drink.’

      ‘I’ll try one,’ she says.

      I hang my coat up beside Mary’s. ‘And for you, John?’

      ‘What are you having?’ he asks me.

      ‘A lager and a Koskenkorva, Finnish vodka affectionately known to most of us as kossu.’

      ‘I’ll have the same,’ he says.

      Now Mary’s disapproving look is for me. ‘You order two portions of alcohol at the same time?’

      ‘It’s a Finnish habit, particularly of middle-aged rednecks like me. Why?’

      ‘I don’t agree with the use of alcohol in general.’

      What I drink isn’t her business. I shrug and smile. ‘Mary, you may have come to the wrong country.’

      Her half smile at my half joke is only a politeness.

      I make two trips to the bar and bring our drinks. I ask how their trip went. We chat about Kate’s pregnancy. We make the small talk of strangers.

      Mary sips Jaffa. ‘This is good. And Kate, you look ravishing. Motherhood agrees with you.’

      ‘The baby is kicking now,’ Kate says.

      ‘Can I feel it?’

      Kate nods. Mary lays a hand on her belly. Mary smiles, and tears come to her eyes. ‘I adore children,’ she says. ‘You and Kari are truly blessed.’

      I’m sipping my kossu, but John knocks his back in one gulp. He’s also chugging his beer. ‘This place is a tad on the drab side,’ he says.

      It’s not extravagant by any means, but simple and pleasant, furnished with dark wood. The beer taps and bar fixtures are polished brass. ‘Why do you say that?’ I ask.

      ‘There isn’t even any music.’

      ‘The customers here prefer it that way,’ I say. ‘We can hold conversations without shouting.’

      He knocks off the rest of his pint of beer. ‘Whatever. The vodka is good. Let’s have another round.’

      Kate and I exchange a fleeting look. ‘I’ll get it,’ I say.

      ‘I’ll go with you,’ Kate says. ‘I haven’t said hi to Mike yet.’

      I offer Kate my hand to help her up, and we go to the bar together. She’s graceful, having learned to move in a way that makes her limp almost invisible, but pregnancy has changed her balance, and she lurches a bit when she walks.

      The bartender, Mike Davis, has a Finnish mother and a British father. He grew up in the U.K., but has lived here since his late teens. He’s a big, outgoing guy in his mid-twenties. He’s heavily tattooed, is taller than me and runs a little better than two hundred pounds. Despite his good nature, he doesn’t look like the kind of

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