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possible for a person to walk out of your life without saying good-bye, without explaining why. It’s possible to walk out the door and leave other people crying, shouting, lying on the floor for days.
    It’s possible to say See you tomorrow even though you know you’ll never see each other again.
    ANNA REMEMBERED THE little girl’s neck. She could almost see it, the memory was so strong: Linda stretching out to take hold of her hand before they crossed the street. It was the first time she’d met Linda, who had just turned two at the time. Linda stretched out her hand and Anna could see her neck, a gleaming white strip between the ends of her hair and her shirt collar. That kind of trust. Only someone who’s never yet lost anything can trust so unhesitatingly. Only someone who’s never been betrayed.
    â€œWHAT ABOUT YOU?” her grandfather asks. “What have you been up to?”
    He’s trying to think of something to talk about. He was more natural yesterday, when there were other people here.
    â€œI’ve got my thesis to write. It’s not really getting anywhere. I was in the spring graduate study group, but there’s a bit of a hitch.”
    â€œWhat’s the problem?”
    â€œThe theme. It’s too complicated.”
    â€œAnd the theme is . . . ?”
    Anna realizes she’s giving vague answers, as she usually does when someone asks her about her research. “Emancipation, that sort of thing. Women’s lib.”
    She obscures the vastness of her theme, the uncertainty it creates—so much to read!—in irony, flashing a smile, exaggerating every syllable: “I’m trying to track down an ancient woman from the misty folds of days gone by while simultaneously attempting to keep up with the new woman.”
    Her grandfather whistles. The sound is preposterously old-fashioned, but nevertheless charming. For a split second she can see him at fifteen.
    â€œImpressive,” he says. “All you have to do is take up the question of the existence of God and you’ll be able to completely explain the world.”
    â€œI promise I’ll advance into the theological realm in my conclusion.”
    Her grandfather is quiet, waiting for her to continue. Anna lets the silence trickle down the walls. She misses their days together. They should go for a tram ride like they used to. They used to be close, speak the same language. Where has that connection gone?
    They could go to Cafe Ursula again, laugh at the dolled-up women, order pastries, and hang around among the passersby. It’s easy for her to see her grandfather as a young man, with his boyish troubles to bear, cherishing his plans. But there’s a chasm between them. Looking at him makes the ink stain start to spread inside her again. She remembers her own troubles and wishes she could turn away.
    When is it that family members become mirrors, painful to look at?
    Anna decides she’ll be here for a few hours. She’ll keep her grandmother company, and while she does, her grandfather can go where he pleases. Then she’ll walk out the door, meet Saara downtown and still have time to hit the books in the evening. Emancipation is almost a dirty word for her now—the whole thing seems stupid to her at the moment. Why did she choose a feminist angle? Now she can’t change it.
    But she’ll write for a few hours this evening.
    And before night comes, she and Matias will go for a walk on the shore. He’ll bring his guitar, they’ll drink the rest of the box of wine left over from the party last week. They’ll sit on the rocks, the evening will turn cool, she’ll get a little drunk even though she has to work at the bookstore tomorrow. The ink stain will be just a well-defined area inside her; she’ll draw a line around it and won’t let it spread.
    â€œWell,” she says, gathering all her energy. “Nothing to do now but wait for