Tell Me You're Mine(17)

“So she didn’t mention my name? Didn’t ask for me specifically?”

“Certainly not. You sound upset—what exactly is the problem?”

“Nothing.”

“Are you sure?”

“Nothing at all,” I answer. “Just wanted to check with you. Thank you for your time.”

I hang up. Cradle my head in my hands.

Isabelle didn’t seek me out. She doesn’t know who I am.





JULY 22, 1996


I’m searching for her. She’s still in the cabin. I hear her crying. Hear her voice when she calls out.

I dive into the water. Swim down, farther and farther. I search everywhere, but she’s not there. Only darkness.

If I give up, stay here in the deep, will I find you then?









Today you turn three. It’s been two years since you disappeared. Yesterday we buried you at Skogskyrkogården.

A “farewell service.” Your name on a stone, beneath a white dove. But you’re not there.

Everyone wants closure. Everyone wants to move on. Everyone but me.





Stella



The sun is shining when I get down to St. Eriksgatan. I buy some spring rolls at Mae Thai. Carry them in a take-out bag and head toward Kronobergs Park. From the playground, I hear the shrieks of toddlers wearing the yellow and pink reflective vests of their various preschools. One young woman from a doggie daycare is walking nine dogs. The smallest is a Chihuahua, the largest a Great Dane. It seems quite comical. And also difficult.

I lose my breath from climbing up the steep hill to the top of the park and remember what Pernilla said about the body’s decline in middle age.

I’m still annoyed with her. She of all people should understand. But she’s completely obsessed by her sexy boy toy.

The benches at the top are empty; I sit down on one of them. It’s a bit too chilly to be sitting outside, but the autumn wind and the clear blue sky feel so good.

Mourning a child is a lonely business. The longing and the loss are impossible to share with anyone else. And now? What happens to that grief now that I know Alice is alive? I don’t know why, but there’s a kind of sadness in her return, too. I should be overjoyed, should be screaming with happiness. But all I feel is the weight of what we lost. Those years. Those stolen years.

My child, she knows nothing about us or our history. She’s unaware of any of it.

I wonder how Alice ended up in Dalarna. She disappeared from her stroller in Strandgården, but then? How did she get to Borlänge? And when? Does she feel as I do, that there’s a bond between us? What does Kerstin know, and how did she end up with custody of my daughter? Is she a victim, too, just like me?

Who stole my child? Is Isabelle really my child?

I could be wrong. The constant questions are driving me mad, I know that. Their obsessive quality is a sign that something is not right. The panic attacks could also be the beginning of a more serious mental breakdown. Just like when Milo was little. Maybe I’ve lost the ability to see myself objectively.

A woman approaches and sits down on the bench next to mine. “Excuse me,” she says, “I hope I’m not disturbing you.”

“No, no,” I answer but still feel annoyed. I take out one of my spring rolls and bite into it. I’ve lost my appetite, and I put it back in the bag again. When I’m about to leave, the woman apologizes again.

“I don’t want to intrude,” she says, “but are you okay?”

I turn, about to give her a sharp reply. She smiles at me, and I realize I’m overreacting. The woman is obviously just lonely and wants to chat. There’s no reason for me to be dismissive.

“I’m miserable,” I respond and try to laugh. “I hope that changes soon.”

I expect her to say something encouraging, like “It’ll be fine soon enough.” Or react with embarrassment, apologize, and leave. Instead she sits quietly, looking at me. She doesn’t ask me to keep it together, doesn’t try to be cheerful. Just a meeting between two people. It feels surprisingly liberating.

“My life is chaotic right now,” I say, and my voice breaks. “Everyone is afraid and wants me to act like nothing has happened. How can I do that?” Tears stream down my face. I feel like an idiot. I don’t want to break down in front of a complete stranger.

The woman stands up from the bench, walks over, and sits next to me. She gives me a clumsy pat on the back.

“Oh, dearie, what’s happened?” she asks.

Pernilla’s voice was impatient; Mom’s was concerned. Henrik would be afraid and angry. This woman shows compassion.

“My daughter disappeared when she was a year old,” I tell her. “They said she drowned, but I knew she was still alive. And now I’ve met her again. It’s so much harder than I thought it would be. Worse than anything I’ve ever been through, except when she disappeared.”

“I understand,” the woman says. “I can really understand why.”

“Why did it take so many years, why did it take so long for her to come back?”

I must seem incoherent and confused. But the woman just keeps patting my back.

I stop crying. “My mom and my best friend are worried about me. They think I’m making it up.”

“Why?” she says, and takes out a pack of napkins and hands one to me. “They must realize you’re serious.”

I pull out a napkin and wipe my eyes and nose.

“I’ve been wrong before,” I answer. “I thought I saw her once. I was wrong. I became severely depressed. I was hospitalized, put on sick leave. They’re afraid it may happen again.”

“But what about your husband?” She nods to my wedding ring. “What does he say?”

“I haven’t told him,” I say. “I don’t know if I can handle that right now. Having him wonder if I’m sick, if I need to be committed again.”

The woman watches me attentively and answers only hmmm.

“I don’t know what to do,” I say. “I’ve never felt so lost.”

“What do you want to do?”

“I want to get to know her. But what would that mean? For me? For my family? And for her?”

The woman looks out over the park. “Yes, who knows,” she says.

“I’m sorry,” I say. “I probably don’t seem so with it. Stella is my name.” I hold out my hand.

“Eva,” she says, taking it between her own. “Life is short. We only live once, remember that. What’s your daughter’s name?”

“Alice.”

“A good name.”

“I never thought it would be so difficult. That it would hurt so much.”

“Think about what would hurt more. Leaving things as they are and learning to live with it. Or doing what you need to do to find the truth, and letting everyone else think what they want about you.”

I don’t know how long we sit next to each other in shared silence. After a while Eva stands and wishes me good luck. I watch her walk down the hill and out of the park. It’s ridiculous, but I hope we meet again. People who truly listen and show compassion are rare.

When I get back to my office, life feels a bit easier again. I’m not superstitious. But the meeting in the park feels like a good sign.





Isabelle



I left home a while ago. Stopped by the Åhléns department store and walked through H&M in Vällingby shopping center. Now I’m on the platform waiting for the subway. I’m early, but I don’t want to get there late like the first time.

I just started therapy, but it’s already raised so many questions and memories. They’ve always been there, I think, but only now do I dare to think about what they mean. It’s totally new for me. I’m also not used to saying what I feel and owning it. Like last time when they wondered how I reacted to my mother’s way of telling me about Dad. I have never been so angry with her. The hate I felt was so intense it scared me. I will never forgive her for the way she told me. Can you hate your own mother? It is terrible to feel like that. I wanted to talk about that last time, but I didn’t dare. I wanted to talk about it the very first time I met Stella, but couldn’t. It’s like carrying a wild animal inside of you. What would happen if I let it go? Would it consume me? Or is it already consuming me from within?

I’m starting to risk sharing a few things. It’s so unfamiliar that no one questions whether I have the right to feel or say as I do. No one gets hurt or sad or angry. Nobody takes what I think or feel personally. On the contrary, they seem to be on my side.

My phone rings. I pick it up and see it’s Mom. She wants to know everything about therapy. Interrogates me about every detail. I never should have called last week and told her how good I think it is. That was a mistake. I put the phone in my pocket again without answering.

As soon as I told her I was going into therapy, I regretted it. I knew there would be questions. I knew she’d try to interfere. Knew she’d start snooping. She means well, of course. She always wants to be useful. She always wants to understand, but she never does. She suffocates me. I’m not ready to talk about it yet. Not with her. Sometimes I wonder if I’ll ever be. She’s like a leech, a parasite sucking the life out of me.

It’s ringing again, and I take out my phone. Watch it until it stops. I get off at Fridhemsplan and climb onto the escalator.