The front door of the neighboring house opens. Gunilla comes out and stands on the top of the stairs. I have absolutely no desire to expose myself to her well-meaning babble. I go up the path without looking to the side. She calls my name, but I don’t care. I fumble with my keys, unlock the door, open it, and go inside. I close the door behind me and lock it. Then I sink down onto the hall floor.
Sweat runs down my back, my heart is racing, and I feel dizzy. I don’t know what’s wrong. It must be the stress. All those disappointments. All those worries and anxieties. The grief after Hans.
I’m grieving for him. I feel both sorrow and relief. Freedom. Are you allowed to feel like that?
Life is strange. Can you ever master it?
I stay there for a while. Then I pick up the phone and call Isabelle.
She misses me, too, I know it.
Stella
Milo and Hampus, Pernilla’s son, are sitting in the backseat with their heads close together, staring at their phones.
“Can you believe you boys have known each other your whole lives.” I see them exchange glances in the rearview mirror. “You’re both so cute.”
“Mom,” Milo exclaims.
Hampus laughs. “You’re just as embarrassing as my mom,” he says.
“Embarrassing, how could that be?” I say, and park outside Konradsbergs Hall, which sits opposite the Dagens Nyheter Tower. “I’ll leave your bag with Pernilla, Milo.”
“Thanks, Mom.”
They’re already out the door by the time I shout out a good-bye. Milo raises his hand in answer as he saunters away. It strikes me again how similar he is to Henrik. Tall and lanky and with the same boyish charm.
I watch them walk away with their gym bags and basketballs. As they enter the glass doors, I start the car and head toward Pernilla’s apartment near Kungsholms Strand.
Pernilla and I grew up on the same block, went to the same school from first to ninth grade. She’s like a sister, closer to me than Helena. She had Hampus the same year Milo was born, and the boys hang out a lot outside of basketball, too.
She was one of the few who stayed in my life after I had Alice. Other friends disappeared. They went to high school, partied, lived their lives. And after Alice vanished, Pernilla was the only one I kept in touch with. Or rather, she was the only one who kept in touch with me.
No one else saw how bad it got for me. Not Mom and definitely not Helena. Only Pernilla.
I was manic. Did everything I could to suppress the guilt, to forget my grief. I just kept going. I drank. I escaped into a haze of partying, drinking, doing drugs. I slept with unfamiliar boys and strange men. Afterward, I remembered none of them, not their names or what they looked like. From the outside it looked like I was reliving my lost teen years. But in reality it was something else. I was headed toward a complete mental breakdown.
I’m looking forward to an evening with Pernilla. Talking to her, telling her about everything that’s going on. I find a parking spot on Igeldammsgatan and walk down toward Kungholms Strand, where she lives.
“Do you want a glass of wine, or are you driving?” Pernilla says when I sit down on the sofa.
“Uncork it. I’ll pick up the car tomorrow,” I say. “I’m so glad that Milo can stay the night.”
“It’s fun for us.”
I stare through the big windows, looking out over the canal and Karlberg Palace. Pernilla puts on some music, pours a glass of wine for me. I flip through the magazines on the coffee table. “Health & Fitness, iForm, Feel Good, Fitness Magazine,” I read aloud. “You’re taking this new hobby of yours very seriously.”
“Don’t make fun of me,” Pernilla says. She settles down on the sofa next to me. “It’s not a hobby. It’s a lifestyle.”
“Does that lifestyle include wine on a Thursday night?”
“I believe in balance.” Pernilla raises her glass as in a toast. “It’s never too late, Stella. You’re slim, but even you could exercise a bit. Fit over forty—check out the hashtag on Instagram.”
“I don’t have Instagram,” I say.
“You’re a dinosaur,” she replies. “And you’ll end up all wrinkled and flabby if you don’t start moving. Come with me sometime and pound the shit out of your body in the gym—it’s wonderful.”
“I exercise. I play tennis sometimes.”
She snorts. “I can offer you a gaggle of ripped personal trainers to ogle. You’re not gonna find that at the tennis court.”
I laugh. Pernilla never changes. I’m glad I came here.
“It’s been way too long since we did this,” I say, tucking my feet beneath me.
“Got soused on a weekday?”
“Is that the plan?”
“I’m flexible,” Pernilla says and hands me a tray of cheese and crackers.
“I saw Mom this weekend.”
“How was that?”
“It was good.”
I take a cracker and taste it. Pernilla’s cell beeps; she picks it up, reads something, and puts it away.
I gather my courage and ask, “Do you have any contact with Maria nowadays?”
“Maria Sundkvist?”
“Or Daniel? Have you heard anything from him?”
I try to make it sound like an innocent question.
“Not so much in recent years. We’re friends on Facebook. Maria lives in Arvidsjaur, Daniel in Bro.” She glances sideways at me. “Why? Why do you ask?”
I shrug my shoulders. “Saw someone who looked like Maria.”
Pernilla seems content with that. She stares at her cellphone again, laughs at what she sees.
“I’ve been thinking a lot about Alice lately,” I say.
Pernilla wrinkles her forehead and finally looks up. “So that’s why you ask. Why have you been thinking about her?”
“Why?” I say. “What kind of question is that?”
“Sorry, Stella, I didn’t mean it like that.” She creeps closer to me on the sofa and puts an arm around me.
“When I saw Milo and Hampus today I wondered about her. How she would have looked, what she would have been like right now.”
“Don’t think like that, sweetie. Dwelling on that leads nowhere.”
“What if she’s alive?”
Pernilla grabs my hand and looks into my eyes. “You can’t do this. Do you remember last time, how bad you felt? Let it go, Stella. You have Henrik and Milo. Alice is gone.”
“How do you know that? What if I know she’s alive and that—”
“Stella, stop. I was at her funeral.” Pernilla impatiently shakes her head. Her cell beeps again, and she can’t stop herself from looking at it. “Maybe it’s the stress? Work’s been pretty rough lately, hasn’t it?”
I think about the death notice. About the menacing-looking man in the raincoat standing on the street watching me through the window. I want to talk to her about it. But Pernilla isn’t listening.
“Okay, let’s forget it,” I say, grabbing the wine.
“Is everything good between you and Henrik?”
“It’s nothing like that.”
“You need a hot weekend just the two of you,” Pernilla says and winks. “Send Milo here. Get away and have some fun together.”
There’s no point. I thought I’d be able to talk to her, thought she would understand.
“Who are you so eager to chat with?” I nod to the phone.
Pernilla smiles. “My personal trainer. I’m happy you were so kind to him when you met.”
It’s that easy to change the topic of conversation. Apparently, we’re just going to shoot the shit for the rest of the evening. I regret coming here.
“Yes, he was nice,” I say. “Henrik liked him.”
“Did he really?” Pernilla seems relieved. “Hampus likes him, too. I know he’s a little young, but he’s sweet. And funny. He makes me feel special.”
Pernilla goes off on a long monologue. Sebastian is so nice, so wonderful, more mature than anybody she’s ever dated, he’s charming, attentive, kind, and he’s good in bed, handsome, in great shape, young and strong and so hot, and she’s never felt this way about anybody before.
I let her prattle on. Drink my wine. Feel miserable.
I’ve tried talking to Mom, tried talking to Pernilla. Neither has shown the least bit of understanding. Both think I should forget the past and focus on the future.
I think about Daniel. I miss him, long for him even. I want to see him; I want to hear what he has to say. But I’m not sure he’d want to listen to me. Not after last time.
Pernilla gives me a long hug when I’m about to go and says she’d gladly meet again soon. If I want to talk. I don’t tell her that’s why I came tonight. She’s completely absorbed by this new relationship.
She wants to call a taxi but I explain I’d rather walk to the subway, get some fresh air. We hug again, and I leave.
It’s cold outside; I wrap my coat more tightly around me as I walk up Igeldammsgatan. The time is almost half past nine, but the street is deserted. There’s not much life on Fleminggatan, either. I’m rarely afraid, still I speed up. Wish I’d skipped the wine so I could have taken my car.
I turn right on St. Eriksgatan, descend down the stairs to the subway. I take out my subway card, continue through the turnstile toward the escalator. Steps echo loudly in this desolate hall. Is someone following me again? Or is it my imagination? On my way from Pernilla’s I had that odd feeling. As if someone was watching me. Surveilling me. Following me.