Tell Me You're Mine(10)

“Memory has a tendency to fail you in your later years, you’ll learn as much,” says Elle-Marja. “But some things you never forget. A little girl drowned here that summer. The family were guests. Those poor parents had to go home without their daughter. It was tragic. Lundin took it hard. He owned Strandgården and ran it pretty much on his own. It was his life’s work. He died soon after that. Very sudden. His daughter owns it now. But she doesn’t do anything with it. Haven’t seen her since then.”

We continue down the beach, past the main building, past the remnants of the mini–golf course. Elle-Marja snorts before continuing: “She moved here for a bit that year and then she disappeared again. She had a baby, and I guess this place was too much to take care of on her own.”

We arrive at the end of the sandy beach. In the distance a few seagulls circle in the air and caw. Buster lumbers away to inspect them.

“Are we already here?” I say. “I remember this beach as endless.”

“Memory plays tricks on you,” Elle-Marja says. “It’ll get worse. You live as long as me, and you’ll see.”

We continue down the path, through the tall grass that grows beside the rocky beach. I’m reminded we used to call it the Path of Problems.

“I remember this,” I say. “There were stations along this path where you could meditate.”

We stop in front of a ring made of large stones. In the middle of it lies a pile of smaller, fist-sized stones. Beside the ring, a sign sits leaning on its peg. Elle-Marja bends over, puts her hands on her back, and peers closely.

“If you have good enough eyes, you probably can read what it says. I don’t see one iota. Can’t remember, either.” She taps her forehead and chuckles.

“The Ring of Troubles,” I say.

I enter the ring. I pick up a rock and rub it. I think about what worries me, about the troubles I have. I release them by throwing the stone away from the ring. I do it with the utmost seriousness and feel my troubles ease. When I turn around, I see Daniel grinning at me.

“Maybe I should throw you out of the ring, Stella. You’ve only meant trouble since the day I met you.”

With a howl, I chased him along the path. We laughed and hugged, kissed in the grass. Unaware that our lives would be destroyed in a moment.

I stand in the ring. I pick up a rock and rub it. Throw it as far as I can. I feel no relief. Just bottomless agony. I fall down on my knees. I sob and scream until Daniel comes and carries me away from there.

I snap out of it when I feel Elle-Marja’s hand in mine. She squeezes it, takes me by the arm, and we move on.

After a bit the path continues up a steep hill. Just below us lies a gravel road. That’s where we separate. Elle-Marja and Buster are going to head home on the road because it’s quicker.

“Buster becomes difficult otherwise,” she says. “He’s prone to low blood sugar, you know.”

“I know how it is,” I say. “My husband is the same.”

Elle-Marja laughs, and we hug each other. I head up toward the hilltop. I reach a high cliff and see some trees to the left. Another building stands there, partly hidden behind the trees.

I continue in a different direction, toward a rocky cliff that faces the sea. I never came up here last time; we couldn’t take the stroller this far. From here you can see out across the Baltic Sea for miles. The cliff ends in a sharp drop. I walk closer and look over the edge. Far below the waves crash over large rocks.

A small stone deer stands in the bush beneath me. Always just about to flee, but frozen here forever. I sit down next to it and gaze out over the sea.

On my way back, I stop at the Ring of Troubles. I go inside and pick up a stone. I rub it in my hand. Then I throw it away, into the trees.





Isabelle



Isn’t it beautiful?” Johanna stretches out like a cat on the blanket next to me.

I close my eyes to the sunlight. “Wonderful.”

“That’s what I said, Dracula.”

It’s Saturday, and we’re at a class picnic in the Tantolunden park. I’m glad Johanna convinced me to come along. Stop obsessing, forget about all that for a while. I’ve decided to resume what minimal social life I had before Dad died.

I open my eyes when she tells me Axel’s arrived. She waves to her boyfriend, stands up and walks over to him. They hug and kiss.

My life could be like a movie. A feel-good movie about college life, giggling and girls’ nights out. If only I could relax; if only I could just go for it. If only there were more romance. Johanna, Susie, and Maryam share all the details of what they’ve done, what they’ve seen and heard. And it makes me realize how hopelessly inexperienced I am. I’ve made out with a few people. But never gone farther than that. It’s time to do something about it. I came close at the freshman party. I drank more wine that night than I’d drunk in my whole life leading up to then. I wore a tight black dress. I was talked into it. Although I was tugging at it all night, until the wine made me forget. But I didn’t miss a single glance I got because of it. And I do confess, the more wine I had, the more interesting those glances got.

Every time I think about that night, my whole body tingles. Now is no exception. Fredrik dragged me onto the dance floor. His hands on my waist. His hands on my hips. His hands on my buttocks. I pressed closer to him, could feel him getting hard. He took my hand, drew me away to an empty corridor. Nibbled on my throat, my ear, on the pointy one, which I have a bit of a complex about sometimes. He tickled my body as we kissed. If Mom only knew.

His fingers were on their way inside my dress when one of his friends shouted for him. He asked me to wait and left. My mistake was that I started thinking. Just the thought of Mom destroyed everything, so I went home.

I sit up on the blanket and see that more from our class are here now. Some are playing softball; some are just hanging out. One guy’s strumming a guitar.

Fredrik is here, too. He’s sitting a few feet away with a beer in his hand. When he leaves the group he’s talking to, I screw up my courage and wave.

“Hey.”

He looks at me and smiles.

“Ciao, Bella.”

“How’re you?” I say.

“Good, and yourself?”

He flings himself down beside me and opens a new beer.

“I didn’t think you’d be here,” he says. “Want some?”

I take a drink and try not to grimace. I hand back the bottle. Fredrik takes it and lies down. After a while, I lie down as well.

“Did you have a good summer?” I can hear that I sound like Mom, dry and polite.

“I worked a lot for my dad,” he says. “Short trip to Berlin, then Saint-Tropez. You?”

“I worked the whole summer,” I answer. Such an interesting girl. Really.

“Back in Dalarna?”

“No, at a grocery store in Vällingby.”

“I didn’t see you at any of the barbecues.”

I shrug my shoulders. “Couldn’t come.”

“Too bad.”

He offers me the bottle again. I don’t really want any, but it feels so right to lie here together like this. Sharing a bottle of beer and pretending I mean something to him.

“Do you miss Borlänge?”

I think about his question.

“No,” I say. “Or, sometimes. Both yes and no. Mostly in the summer, I guess. Stockholm is lovely, too, but it’s cozier at home.”

“Are you crazy? What could beat the midnight sun in the archipelago? All those outdoor bars and restaurants? Sitting in Kungsträdgården eating ice cream, having a beer in the park, taking a stroll on Djurgården . . .”

“A stroll?” I tease. “Are you retired?”

He pokes me in the side. I laugh.

“Don’t forget having to squeeze into the subway with a bunch of sweaty passengers,” I remind him. “Usually with your nose pushed into someone’s armpit. Yuck. Blech.”

“Ha ha, funny. What’s so great about Borlänge then? Hillbilly cars? Folk costumes and screechy fiddles?”

“You don’t get it.”

“Explain it to me then.”

“The calm. The silence. The blue mountains. Magical summer nights on the meadow next to Grandma’s house.”

“Blue mountains and magical summer nights. Sounds poetic.”

“Imagine biking to the lake and feeling the wind in your hair. Wandering out into the woods and not running across another soul for hours. Hearing nothing but birdsong.”

“Imagine getting lost, getting eaten alive by mosquitoes, and ending up hundreds of miles from civilization.”

“Don’t be silly. When you’re tired of the woods you can go to Leksand, or Noret along with all the corny tourists. Get a burger at Mitti. There’s swimming at the sandy beach next to Leksand’s Summerland—do you know how cold it is in Lake Siljan? Ice cold.”

“Sounds like a blast.”

Now I poke him in the side.

“Have you ever been to Tällberg? It’s gorgeous. Dad always drove through really slow so we could look at all the houses. And the road is narrow and curvy. Sometimes we drove down to Hjortnäs Bridge. Every time we went up to Vidablick, we ate ice cream and looked out over Lake Siljan. The view is incredible. We’d end our trip by walking out on the long pier in Rättvik. When I was little, it seemed like it never ended. We’d race back to the shore.”