Tell Me You're Mine(12)

For thirteen years she’s lived in Oxford with him, and they now have three well-groomed sons.

“When was the last time you talked?” Mom says as she stirs the pot.

“Just before summer, I think.”

“How did this happen? Why don’t you two keep in touch with each other anymore?”

“We’re just different; we always have been.”

I hand Mom a wineglass. She sits down at the table and takes a sip.

“You gave me more trouble than Helena,” she says. “You always wanted to know why. She was content to accept things as they are.”

“She’s always been afraid of conflict.”

“We all have different ways of handling things. You of all people should know that.”

“She didn’t even talk about Alice once, after what happened. Never asked how I was doing. She pretended like nothing had changed. Would only discuss practical things—what do we eat, who should do what. She still does that. I hate it.”

“What’s the matter with you? You sound so angry and grumpy.”

“You two always want things to stay the same. You ignore anything difficult. What happened to me affected all of us, but nobody will acknowledge it.”

Mom puts down the wineglass. “Have you ever thought about what part you might have played?” she asks. “You pulled away from us. You wouldn’t let us talk about it. You didn’t want to. There were long periods of time when we barely saw you.” She stretches out her hand toward mine. I pull away.

“I brought you home from a party,” she says. “Pernilla called. You’d drunk too much, probably taken something else. You had an anxiety attack. Scared the wits out of everyone who was there.”

I don’t say anything. Stare down at the floor. I don’t want to hear this.

“I should have done something about it earlier. You’re right that I kept my eyes closed for too long, and I’m sorry for that. Then you started therapy. You felt better. Life goes on, you said. And it did. For all of us. So don’t be so hard on Helena.”

My mother’s words make me feel ashamed.

She continues. “You talked about this with Henrik when you met him. He wasn’t afraid, he was able to bear your grief. I know things have sometimes been tense between us. But I’m always here. I hope you know that.”

Now I take her hand. “I’m sorry, Mom. I know I’ve been unfair to you. And Helena, too.”

“Why are you thinking about Alice? Isn’t it better to let it be? You have Henrik and Milo now, a good life. Let it go, Stella.”

I get up and give Mom a hug. She’s right, I should let it be.

“Have you been to her grave recently?” she wonders. “Sorry, I know you’d rather call it her memorial stone.”

I shake my head. After we’ve eaten and Mom leaves for home, I sit in the kitchen thinking over our conversation.

I have only vague memories of the time between Alice’s disappearance and ward five. Mom had me committed in the spring of 1995. I was put into a secure psychiatric ward. I didn’t eat, lost weight. I was deeply depressed.

Eventually I came in contact with Birgitta, a psychotherapist. I got help, allowed myself to look toward the future, decided to live. Later, I studied psychology with the goal of becoming a psychotherapist. I’m good at what I do.

I used to be.

Not anymore. Right now I can’t help anyone. I can’t even help myself.

I stand up, wipe down the kitchen counter, and pick up the local newspaper Mom put on top of the microwave. An envelope falls down onto the floor. I pick it up. It’s handwritten and addressed to me, Stella Widstrand, formerly Johansson. No postage, no address. Someone put it directly into the mailbox.

I open it. There’s a piece of paper folded inside the envelope. It has a cross drawn at the top. The text beneath is written neatly in black ink.

Stella Widstrand,

born November 12, 1975,

has suddenly and unexpectedly left us.

She will not be missed.

No one mourns her.





Isabelle



The cold seeps straight through my clothes. Even with a thick scarf wrapped around half my face, I feel naked. I hunch my shoulders against the rain and dash down Valhallavägen. The storm rumbles above Stockholm for the third day in a row. We only had one lecture and many stayed home today. Like Johanna. If it weren’t for group therapy I would have, too. Or at least considered it. But I don’t want to miss my appointment with Stella. Too much is at stake.

Forty-eight minutes until group therapy begins. I’ve been looking forward to it all week.

What if she’s not there?

I walk across the street toward the bus stop. The bus arrives, I hop on, and the air on board feels heavy, damp from soaked clothes and dripping umbrellas. The windows are foggy; the lights outside glow as if in mist.

Ever since I found Stella I think about her. Maybe too much. Last time she looked at me very thoroughly. As if she already knows who I am. As if she understands why I was there. But she doesn’t. She can’t know anything about me or my life. She has no clue.

The bus stops outside the Västermalms Mall. I push my way through the doors and hurry toward the clinic. I open the front door and walk in. I ride up to the fourth floor. Greet the receptionist, pay, and head toward the lounge.

I sit down in one of the armchairs, put my phone on silent. Stella comes in at exactly one o’clock and closes the door behind her. I examine her. Beautifully dressed in a knee-length dress today, her hair pinned up in an elegant, thick knot.

Everyone seems like they’re in a bad mood today. Clara is nervous about a presentation she has to give to corporate management tomorrow. Pierre snaps that she’s always worrying and whining, but then everything always goes well for her. She snaps something back.

I glance at Stella again. It’s difficult to read her. So far, she hasn’t spoken. She just sits there.

She’s listening. Studying us one by one. After a while, I feel Stella’s gaze on me.

I meet it and smile. She does not smile back.





Stella



I regret recommending group therapy to Isabelle Karlsson. Given the social difficulties she reported having, this kind of therapy seemed appropriate. But that was before I knew.

Others have talked today, but not Isabelle. So far, she hasn’t said anything. Not a word.

The group has been silent for a while. I have to make her say something. Have to find out why she’s here.









I take the floor: How has your week been, Isabelle?

Isabelle: It’s been okay. We started a new group project, and I like my group. Which is nice. And I became a blood donor.

She smiles again. The dimple on her left cheek appears.

Isabelle: Yesterday was the first time I donated blood. I’m a little afraid of needles. Like my mom, she’s ridiculous about them. But it went better than I thought.

She’s silent for a moment. Who is this woman she calls “Mom”?

Isabelle: By the way, she wants me to come home this weekend, but I really don’t want to.

Magnus: Why?

Isabelle: We’re not really getting along right now. She was the one who told me Hans wasn’t my real dad.

Arvid: How did it come about?

Isabelle: I was crying. I told Mom I missed him. Told her it doesn’t get any easier, like everyone claims. I said I would never get over it. She couldn’t take that. She got angry and told me that I should be thankful I still have her.

She takes a deep breath and looks around. Is her story true? Is what she says real?

Isabelle: Dad and I were close. I know she wishes I was close to her, too, that things were as natural between us. But they’re just not.

Her voice quivers; she’s close to tears. It’s genuine. No one can be that convincing without real feelings. What does it mean? Am I wrong? Did I imagine everything? Is this not Alice, but just Isabelle?

Isabelle: So she said, he’s not your real father anyway.

Clara: What a terrible way to say that. Awful.

Pierre: So freaking mean.

Arvid: Just sick. How do you feel about it?

Isabelle: I don’t know. She’s sad, too. I don’t want to be unfair to her. It’s been hard for her as well. She hasn’t had an easy life. She’s done her best to be a good mother.

Is it a coincidence that Isabelle is sitting here? Imagine if she actually doesn’t know anything. It can’t be that simple. She must be hiding something. But what?

Clara: Of course, she’s grieving, but still.

Arvid: It’s still not okay. You don’t tell someone something like that so callously.

Isabelle: It would make more sense if Mom had been the one who adopted me.

Me: What do you mean by that?

Several of the participants stare at me and exchange looks with one another. I don’t care. I need to know.

Me: What’s her name, your mother’s?

Isabelle: Kerstin.

Me: Do you and Kerstin have a close relationship?

Isabelle: There’s close and then there’s close. How should I say this? I could talk to Dad about everything. Me and Mom, we might as well be from different planets.

Arvid: What mother doesn’t come from another planet?

Relieved laughter from the group. I try to smile.

Arvid: My own mother insists on visiting me in the morning. I never learn to say no.

Clara: You have to set boundaries.









The conversation changes focus and the participants continue the discussion among themselves. I want to hear more about Isabelle, but can’t interrupt without arousing suspicion. I think Isabelle wants to talk about Kerstin, the woman she calls Mom.