Tell Me You're Mine(2)

I’ve taken the commuter trains to their final stations, tried out all the subway lines, and taken most of the buses in the city center. I’ve walked around on the islands of Södermalm and Kungsholmen, through the neighborhoods of Vasastan and Norrmalm, and spent a lot of time in the city center.

I look at my fellow commuters and pretend I know everything about them. That old lady with orange hair and ruby red glasses, she works out at Friskis&Svettis twice a week, wears colorful leggings from the eighties, and stares saucily at men in the gym.

The couple holding hands and kissing each other: he’s a medical student and she’s a middle school teacher. They’re on their way home to their studio apartment near Brommaplan. They’ll cook something together and watch a movie and fall asleep next to each other on the sofa. Then she’ll go to bed, and he’ll take out his computer and watch Internet porn.

The tall, skinny guy in the suit, coughing until he’s bent over double. He’s dying of lung cancer. No one knows how long he has left. How long do any of us have left? Life could end at any moment. It could be over today.

I miss Dad. Four months have gone by since that day in May. Four long, empty months. Afterward, I found out that he’d been feeling sick for several weeks. Of course, he didn’t go to the doctor. I didn’t know a thing. Dad was hardly ever sick. Why would he bother me unnecessarily?

To say I feel guilty doesn’t begin to cover it. I went home too rarely. The last time I saw him was at Easter. I didn’t even stay the whole weekend.

Was it selfish of me to move? Dad wanted me to take this chance. He encouraged me to stay in the city, hang out with my new friends on the weekends, and to break free.

Only after he was gone did I learn the truth. And I will never forgive her for what she did. With all my heart I wish she was dead. I hate her.

Hate her.

Hate her.

Hate her.





Stella



I wake up in our house on Alviksvägen in Bromma. I’ve been sleeping on the bed under a blanket. It feels like I’ve been lying here for days.

I asked Renate to cancel the rest of my patients and blamed it on a migraine. Hailed a taxi in the rain on St. Eriksgatan. I don’t remember anything after that. I must have paid the driver when we arrived, left and gone inside. Took off my shoes and my coat, and climbed the stairs up to my bedroom. I don’t remember any of it.

My eyes ache, I have a pounding headache, and for a moment I wonder if I imagined everything. If I dreamed that a woman named Isabelle Karlsson came to my office.

I wish it was so.

Avoiding pain is a basic human instinct, trying to escape rather than face what hurts.

And I do wish I could escape.

At the sound of Henrik’s Range Rover rolling down the driveway, I get up from bed and walk over to the window. It’s still raining. Our neighbor is standing at the fence in a raincoat with his little yapping dog. Milo jumps out of the car and runs toward the house. Henrik greets our neighbor and follows after. The front door opens; I hear him shout hello. I close my eyes a few seconds, take a deep breath, and go down.

Milo slips past me, asks what we’re having for dinner. When I say I don’t know, he goes to the living room and throws himself onto one of the sofas. Henrik picks my coat up off the hall floor, hangs it, and says he tried to reach me.

I tell him my phone must be in my purse. He turns his face toward the floor. It’s lying next to my shoes. He picks it up, hands it over to me.

“We wondered if we should pick up food,” he says. “You didn’t make dinner.” It’s more of a statement than a question.

“I haven’t had time.”

“Did something happen?”

“Why do you think that?”

“Your car?”

My Audi is still parked on Kungsholmen, not in the driveway.

“I took a taxi.”

Henrik examines me closely. I give him a quick kiss, avoiding his gaze, and head into the kitchen. He follows me.

“Milo needs to eat,” he says, opening the fridge. “He has to leave soon.”

I forgot about Milo’s basketball practice. I never do that. I sit down at the kitchen table, check my phone. Two missed calls and one text message. Henrik takes a plastic container out of the freezer, shouts to Milo that food is on its way.

“How was your day?” he asks after a while.

“Good.”

“Everything okay?”

“Yes,” I answer.

“Are you sure?”

“I’m sure.”

Henrik stirs the pasta and warms up the Bolognese. While telling me something about plans to visit his parents in the country next weekend and Milo’s basketball game on Saturday. Also, his day at work. He sets the table: plates, cutlery, and glasses, fills a pitcher with water. Tells me more about work.

It’s just like any other Monday, meeting at home after a long day, chatting in the kitchen. My husband is the same, my son, too. Our beautiful home is unchanged. And yet it all feels so foreign. As if I’ve been transformed into someone else. As if I’m a stranger in my own life.

Henrik calls out to Milo to tell him the food is ready. No reaction from the living room. He tells him to come now, but Milo dawdles. I walk to the living room, go over to the sofa. I take off his headphones and pull the iPad out of his hands. I snap at him that he’s in a hurry. Milo is surprised at first, then annoyed. He strides past me and sits down at the kitchen table.

Henrik puts his hand on my arm when Milo’s not looking. I know exactly what he wants to say. Take it easy. What’s the matter with you?

I should tell him what happened. Should talk to him. It’s not like me to keep secrets. I am, after all, a psychologist and a certified psychotherapist. I verbalize my emotions, I discuss things, figure out where the problem might lie. Especially when it comes to something that could transform our lives. Plus Henrik is my best friend. We’re always open with each other, we talk about everything. He knows me better than anyone else, which is what makes it so hard to hide something from him. I’ve never wanted to, either. Until now.

I can’t choke down any dinner. Henrik and Milo talk to each other; I don’t know about what. I hear them, but also don’t. My thoughts constantly return to her.

Isabelle Karlsson.

I wonder why she’s using that name. I wonder how much she knows.

Milo is telling us about some super-sweet bike he wants. He takes out his phone to show us. I apologize, get up from the table, and leave the kitchen. I go to the laundry room and try to compose myself.

A panic attack. Only one, in twelve years. I’m losing control and can’t do anything about it. Panicked terror and paralyzing anxiety are taking over my body, invading my thoughts and feelings. Like boarding a runaway train, then being forced to ride it all the way to its final destination. And I never wanted to go there again. I’d do anything to avoid going there again. The thought of exposing my family to this terrifies me.

If I’d known what this meeting would entail, would I have gone through with it? If I’d known who she was, would I have been brave enough to meet her?

If it’s really her.

I can see myself asking her. Looking into her eyes, formulating the question, watching my words reach her consciousness, starting some chain reaction.

No, that’s not me.

Truth? Lie?

Yes, that’s me.

Truth? Lie?

I don’t trust Isabelle Karlsson. How could I? How could I trust her, when I have no idea what she wants? I have to find out more. I have to know.

Henrik is standing behind me; he puts his hands on my arms.

“What is it?” he says. “Talk to me, Stella.”

“I’m tired.”

“It’s not just that,” he says. “I can tell something happened.”

He won’t give up. I turn around.

“I had a shitty day,” I say. “I got a migraine, canceled everything, and went home.” I imply that it has to do with Lina, a patient I’ve had problems with recently. I can tell he understands. Knew he’d interpret it that way.

Henrik touches my cheek and holds me. He asks if I have been contacted by the Health and Social Care Inspectorate. I haven’t. Not yet.

He tells me the last few months have been stressful, but it will all work out in the end. He’ll take Milo to practice tonight, I can stay home.









I stand at the kitchen window watching them leave.

Go up to the attic. Look in the bag.

The handbag in the attic. I haven’t touched it since we moved here, but after twelve years I still know exactly where it is. I don’t intend to look inside it. If I do, I’ll lose my mind again.

Twenty-one years ago my life was destroyed, but I rebuilt it. I can’t forget that. I chose to live. I couldn’t do anything else. The only alternative was death, and that was something I couldn’t do.

I focused on my education, on my goals. Five years later I met Henrik and fell in love.

I buried her. That doesn’t mean I forgot.

Look in the handbag, in the attic.

My panic attack today was a singular event. It won’t happen again. And I don’t need to go to the attic. What I need is sleep.

By the time I reach the bedroom I feel too tired to shower, too tired to wash off my makeup. Don’t even have the energy to brush my teeth. I take off the wristwatch Henrik gave me and put it in my bureau. My pants and shirt I throw on the chair next to the door. I take off my bra and crawl under the blanket.