Sejer went to see Tulla Åsalid and they talked for hours.
'Obesity is a big problem,' she said. 'Literally. The doctors frightened the life out of me. One of them once told me that fat people move so little that they don't develop muscles, and if they don't have any muscles, the blood can't reach the brain as it's supposed to. After that I lay awake all night. I think that might be what's happened. Perhaps his heart stopped and he's lying in a ditch somewhere.
'I never thought Edwin would become so big. He weighed five kilos when he was born and I was proud as a peacock because I thought it meant he was fit and healthy. But later he started gaining weight at a pace which terrified me. When he wants something, he looks at me with a power no mother can resist. It's a vicious circle, more food, more excess weight and more despair, which leads to him eating more, so he has some comfort at least. I think Edwin feels permanently ashamed of himself because he's so fat, and there is nothing I can do. He constantly helps himself to everything, he's unstoppable. It's all my fault. This would never have happened if Edwin had been slim and strong. I've cared for him for ten years and I'm responsible. I'm not strong. I can't bear to say no. When he looks at me with his brown eyes, I just melt.
'At night, in my dreams, I can hear him calling, but I can't answer him, I've lost my voice. He's trying to find his way home, he's stumbling in the silent darkness and I can't move, I can't see. When I wake up I'm overwhelmed by my powerlessness. Sometimes I want to run out into the forest and howl, pull up trees and bushes by the root and turn over rocks. He's got to be out there somewhere; after all, they found Jonas August in the forest. Ingemar once said that Edwin looks like a jam doughnut, large, pale and spongy. He wasn't being unkind, he was just joking and that's why I love him, and I can't expect him to behave like a father to Edwin, because he's not his father. They get on all right, I think, though I often wish that Ingemar would show a bit more interest. But I'm glad he's here now to support me, I wouldn't be able to cope with this on my own. Sometimes I console myself with the memories. All our trips to my cottage, Pris, which Edwin and I used to take. We would go for walks in the forest together and we would fantasise about outrageous meals, dinners, puddings and cakes and we would laugh so hard we would end up crying. I don't want to go there any more, I'm thinking about selling the place. Ingemar has promised to help me. He says I ought to invest the money, that he can take care of it for me and I'm grateful for that. I don't know anything about money and investments, or what will give a good return, so it's great that he'll deal with that.
'Something happened recently, which really upset me. I had a telephone call. And I didn't react with kindness, but with rage. It was Elfrid Løwe. She wanted to meet me. I couldn't help it, I lost my temper. She assumes that Edwin is dead, too, and that we have something to talk about, that we have things in common. I screamed at her, told her to stay away, and I slammed down the receiver. Afterwards I stood shaking like a leaf. I felt so upset. How could I have treated her like that? One day I'll have to contact her and apologise. But I do think she had some nerve, no one really knows what has happened to Edwin. Kids have gone missing before and they turn up and they are fine. I mustn't give up hope.
'Some children came to see me, it's a while back, now. Sindre was there, and Sverre and Isak and some of the girls from Edwin's class, I don't remember their names. They had made a kind of scrapbook with pictures and messages, the sheets were holepunched and held together with red ribbon. 'We miss you Edwin, please come back,' things like that. Pictures of flowers and birds and animals, as children do. Alex Meyer had obviously told them to make this to show sympathy. I wasn't all that moved because I'm not sure how nice they actually were to him, normally.
'I'm still waiting for him, I wait every hour of the day, I wait as I lie in my bed, I wait as I cook, inside my head I hear my own voice crying out for Edwin. I'm convinced he'll be coming down the road soon with his rolling walk. I keep looking out of the window. I listen out for steps, or the door slamming. Whenever I hear a car pull up, my heart skips a beat. It might be the police or the vicar. I don't want the vicar to come round. I don't know what I'll do if he turns up. I used to go out a lot, now I mainly stay in. I can't bear to meet people. They look at me with compassion, but they avoid me because they don't know what to say. Imagine if they had dared to approach me! Hug me and comfort me. How are you? Is it bad? Is there anything I can do? But people are scared of feelings, that I might burst into tears, that they'll stand there not knowing what to do. I would rather have a grave than this uncertainty. The way things are now, there is nothing I can do for him. The feeling of powerlessness is overwhelming. It's all grief and despair and guilt, it's all emptiness and pain. What kind of life is this? I have Ingemar, of course, but he can't bring Edwin back to me. Still, he's the only one who can make me forget for a few brief seconds, the only one who can make me laugh. Afterwards I'm shocked that I could. It's as if I'm letting Edwin down in the worst way possible by being happy.'