Inga rarely comes home for dinner. She usually stays at work until ten at night, coming home only for sleep. She's free in the morning and has breakfast with me. Then, we both ride the subway to the Academic Center and part ways midway between the City Library and my school. She brings work to the library and writes reports until twelve-thirty, when she makes her way to the lab to start work officially. Levi says she's overworked (not that he's any different), and I agree, but Inga looks surprisingly young for her age. I think working like crazy doesn't affect her that much.
Levi works at the same lab, but he takes the morning shift. While Inga is there from one in the afternoon to eleven at night, he works from eight in the morning to six in the afternoon, so their schedules overlap a bit. He, too, has breakfast with me, but takes a different subway line to work and stays at home when not working. Another difference is that Levi works from Tuesday through Saturday, giving him and Inga only one day off in common: Sunday. The two of them used to work together, but Inga took Mama's position after the incident three years ago.
But today, a Friday, we're all having dinner together. For some reason, Levi didn't have to go to work and Inga was told she would be dismissed earlier, so Levi got excited and baked two kinds of bread and bought fancy cheese and wine to celebrate this odd reunion.
I feel like I should be enjoying this moment more. Levi and Inga are chatty and enthusiastic—they're only serious when needed—but I'm silent. Again.
“How was your book club meeting?” Inga asks, smiling at me as always.
“It was cancelled,” Levi and I say in unison.
Inga pouts. “Hmph, too bad. What book was it again?”
The tale has been illicitly lifted; should you spot it on Amazon, report the violation.
“The Building of Emptiness by Lyosha Igorev,” I reply, staring at the bread and cheese in front of me.
“Hm, can't say I've read that one,” says Inga, taking another sip of her wine.
“Me neither,” adds Levi.
“It's good,” I say, and they both look surprised that I'm saying something without being directly asked about it. “You guys would like it. I have a copy of it, if you want.”
“Yes, of course!” Inga celebrates. “I'll give it a read over the holidays.”
The book really was good. It's about a man who doesn't know if what he feels is real happiness or simply crumbs of it that disproportionately make up for years of suffering. It's deep and well-written (not that I'm a reasonable reviewer). They say that what matters when reading a book is how it makes you feel. But the truth is I didn't feel much reading The Building of Emptiness.
Or any book, lately.
To be honest, I've gotten used to feeling nothing at almost all moments of my life. It might be the medication for my brain, or perhaps it's the remnants of the pain from three years ago. I can't even say I feel empty—it's as if I'm full of something I don't know. Or something I don't want. When I don't encounter despair from my dreams, I'm given nothingness.
Sometimes I think I'm not entitled to feelings. I tell myself that experiencing happiness after what happened would make me a traitor; or that feeling sorrow now would be unfair, after all they went through. And I believe me.
Maybe this is punishment for something I might have committed, something I'm yet to become aware of. Because nothingness might be at the border with pain.