Emil’s new uniform felt tight. He turned this way and that before the mirror as he tugged at it in an attempt to make it lie better. Oh well, it only showed that he was a growing boy, as his last nanny had always said.
“Ready?” Uncle Torbjörn appeared in the mirror, just over Emil’s shoulder. “We should start walking if we’re to make the joining ceremony.”
Emil felt as ready as he could be, but… “Will Father be joining you there?” he asked.
“Actually,” said Uncle Torbjörn. “About that…”
“No, he won’t,” said aunt Siv, from the door. “He’s… been delayed.”
The two of them exchanged glances for a tense moment, until…
“He’s ill!’ announced Uncle Torbjörn decisively.
Oh! Emil was very familiar with the concept of a sick parent: his mother had spent plenty of time locked in her room, complaining of migraines and vapours. To hide his disappointment, he put on a bright smile. “No problem! What is it? The same thing Mother had?”
Another exchange of glances, broken by Aunt Siv, this time. “Yes, you might say that. Don’t worry about it. Not on such an important day.”
And then, they left.
***
The knowledge that his parents had shared an illness stuck in Emil’s mind throughout his Cleanser training. It was one of the thoughts he’d use to distract himself when he was hiding from the bullies, or even listening to their cruel words. At first, it felt a bit romantic, but he soon realized that it raised worrying questions.
He decided to get some answers the next time he visited his relatives.
So, once he’d put the kids to bed, with a promise of the next day’s adventures, he went back downstairs and asked his question. “This illness that both my parents had… Is there a chance I could get it?”
There was that exchange of glances, again. Oh no. That seemed serious.
“Only, if it’s both my parents,” Emil elaborated, “I was thinking it could be like immunity, so…”
“Well,” said Aunt Siv, “I suppose it is–”
“No, no,” cut in Uncle Torbjörn. “It’s not a genetic thing. I mean, I don’t have it! It’s more to do with, er, the fire.”
The fire! Well, fire could be dangerous, of course, but even the Cleansers’ safety lectures had included no mentions of mystery illnesses. Not to mention that…
“Mother was sick long before the fire,” Emil said.
“The fire… and the factory,” Uncle Torbjörn said. “The chemicals, that sort of thing.”
“Mostly the stress of it, all that work,” put in Aunt Siv. “And all that money.”
“Right! You are lucky to have escaped it all so young,” finished Uncle Torbjörn.
That wasn’t entirely satisfying, as answers went, but it felt like the most Emil could get: Aunt and Uncle tended to vagueness. So, he said he didn’t feel lucky, and the conversation moved down a familiar path.
***
When Emil found out that his unit would contain another man from his hometown, he felt pleased. Finally, someone who remembered, who would be able to confirm his stories about himself and his family! But Henriksson turned out to be a first-class jerk, with no interest in confirming anything and a strong interest in mockery.
Most of the mockery was familiar by now – Emil’s clumsiness, his lack of practical skills, his hatred of dirt – but there was one new element: an insistence that Emil’s father, ‘Soggy Old Västerström”, was the town drunk. In its freshness, it hurt. Emil even tried to fight him, once, to defend his father’s honour. But later, as he nursed his bruises, he started to wonder about his parents' "shared illness" again.
His main memory of his mother was that of a beautiful woman… with a crystal glass of juice in her hand.
During the Yuletide holiday, he waited until he found Aunt Siv alone in the kitchen–she was more likely to be honest, he had noticed–and shared his suspicions.
Aunt Siv sighed. “If you’re old enough to guess, you’re clearly old enough to know. Yes, Helga always did seem to need a drink, or several, to get through her day. Your Father didn’t approve, back then, but after her death, and then the fire… He can’t afford the same fancy stuff she favored, of course, but it’s not that hard to make one’s own.”
“I know.” Emil nodded. He had seen it done, in the Cleansers, both for official and unofficial ends. “So… is he doing it in memory of her, or something?” The idea still felt a bit romantic.
“Or something, I suppose.” Aunt Siv shrugged. “He does keep her death in mind, I know that. That’s why he rarely leaves the house. I think it’s the embarrassment he fears, more than anything: tripping on a familiar path, being found in a snowdrift by people he despises.”
Emil’s memories were rearranging themselves. His mother’s tragic fall had always felt a bit mysterious; she had walked to the factory a hundred times, in all kinds of weather. It felt good to have an explanation. And less good to know what that explanation was.
There was one source of comfort.
“Well, I don’t think I am in danger,” he said. “I do not particularly care for alcohol. I mean, I will drink it for social reasons, but really I would much rather burn it.”
“I know, little Emil,” said Aunt Siv. “The comfort your mother found in her juice, you find in cake.”
Well, that was one more thing to think about. Emil put down the cookie he’d been eating.
Notes:
-- I use 'juice' as slang for some sort of fruit schnapps. I think it makes a lot of sense in the context in which we see 'juice' in the comic (when celebrating the Nordic Council's approval of the expedition).
-- I have decided to ignore some of the backstory Minna gave Emil's mother (that she died setting the fire) in favour of what Minna drew earlier (that she was already gone at the time of the fire). I kept the slipping and falling part though!
-- And alcoholism has long been my headcanon for why Emil's dad is missing from the comic.
