Tell Me You're Mine(21)

Not again. It can’t happen again.

I left Milo in his stroller and ran after her. Pushing people aside who were in my way, screaming at them to move. Shouting her name.

She was gone. Vanished again.

Then I remembered Milo. I ran back to him.

He was crying and alone. He could have been taken from me, too.

Never again. I let my child out of my sight. Never never never. I shouldn’t even have gone to Skansen with him. There are way too many people. And it’s easier to disappear in crowds.

Never again.









Daniel helped me. He came as fast as he could. I cried and he called the police.

All those questions. Where did you see her? When? What did she look like? What was she wearing?

I tell them. In line to buy ice cream, around three o’clock. Thick, dark hair, a dimple, and an elf ear. She has on a blue dress and is about this height. Like Milo. She was with a man.

They look at me strangely. Their eyes are blank, hard. Their voices cold as they tell me it wasn’t Alice. She’s not one year old anymore. She must be bigger than Milo, they say. You saw someone else; Alice would be almost ten years old.

But they don’t know. They don’t understand anything. They can’t feel her inside like I do. They try to comfort me and be kind, but they whisper to Daniel behind my back that I’m sick, that I’m having a nervous breakdown. They’re lying.

This is no breakdown. I saw my child. I saw her. I saw Alice.









I’m cold. Ice cold. I’m so cold I’m shaking even though I have a blanket around me. My back and head are burning. My hands tremble. It must be the medicine they gave me. I want to go home. I don’t want to be here.

Henrik brought me here. Left me here.

I fell asleep in a bed in a cold white room. Alone.

I woke up. Drowsy. Empty. They said I had a visitor. They helped me out of bed. Took me to a visitor’s room.

Daniel sat there. He didn’t want to hug me. He was worried. He was angry. He said he never wanted to be part of this again. I screamed at him: Do you think I want to? Do I want to be without my little girl? Do you think I want to miss her so much, wonder about her all the time, never find any answers?

He said, That’s why we buried her.

So we can move on.

And then I saw Henrik. He was in the corner. His face pale.

He looked at me as if he didn’t know who I was.

Daniel said, You could have lost your son, too.

He was sorry for what happened. He wished me a good life.

And then he left.

Henrik went, too. I didn’t know if he’d ever come back. I didn’t even know if I’d ever get to go home again.

And after he left, I screamed at him, too.

I screamed and screamed and screamed, and I didn’t stop until they made me sleep.





Isabelle



I’m alone in my apartment. Johanna is staying at Axel’s tonight.

I’m in bed, staring out the window. The sky is blue, the sun shining. I find it exhausting. I have no desire to go out.

I should study. There are always things to study, and I usually find that fun. Not now. I don’t want to. I don’t have the energy. My room is homey, as Grandma would say. Only the bed, the sheets, and the ceiling lamp were purchased new. Everything else is secondhand. A large abstract painting in shades of blue, a gray shag carpet, the table lamps. Both the teak desk and the nightstand. The desk chair is a beat-up old kitchen chair. Plus my various knickknacks. A simple blue valance hangs at the top of the window. Johanna helped me and Dad lug it all up from his trailer.

I pull down the blinds and pick up my new MacBook Air.

I bought it with money I earned working this past summer. I check Facebook. Close it. Power down my computer. Check Instagram and Snapchat on my phone. Then I throw off my blanket and go out to the kitchen. I put on the kettle, take out a mug and a tea bag.

The apartment is bright. Large windows in every room, white walls. I got the bedroom, and Johanna made the living room hers; its glass doors are covered with batik drapes in purple and green. In the kitchen we’ve hung an old poster with illustrations of spices on it that we bought together. The chairs around the white kitchen table are mismatched, and the rug on the floor was woven by my grandma.

I sit down at the window with my tea. Thinking about the call I got from my mother, and what I said about her at group therapy. I feel guilty. I hate myself for how I behaved.

I was unfair. What I did was wrong. Talking badly about my mother like that, talking about her when she wasn’t there. The others didn’t get a fair picture. I was angry and disappointed and sad. I exaggerated.

Mom often says I’m sensitive. Impressionable. Maybe I am. At the moment, I feel totally confused. I’m still furious, still feel anger and hatred. My rage at my mother has taken on a life of its own, I can’t control it. At the same time, I feel suffocated by guilt for feeling that way.

I’m still in shock because Dad is dead. Because he wasn’t my real father. Right now, I question everything about Mom. Are my feelings valid? Am I allowed to feel like this? I do wonder how many of my memories reflect what really happened.

I’ll ask Stella what she thinks about all this. I know I can discuss that sort of thing with her. When she asked how it was for me when I was little, she truly seemed to care. She was genuinely worried about me, I noticed that. It felt like she wanted to fix it somehow.

But how can I give her a true picture without being misunderstood? When I do say what I think, it usually doesn’t go well. When will I learn? How do I make other people understand?

Clara wondered why it feels so dangerous to quarrel with Mom. I don’t know. I just know I hate having any conflicts with her and do everything I can to avoid them. I don’t want to make Mom sad. Dad was the same. My dad, who wasn’t my dad.

Mom says I think too much. Ask too many questions. Maybe she’s right. All this brooding isn’t making me any wiser. But I can’t stop thinking. Or feeling.

I don’t know why I am who I am or why I’ve always felt like an outsider. Different. Weird. Odd. Something must be wrong with me. With my emotions.

I don’t want to cry. But I do anyway. And I despise myself even more for it.





Stella



I’m curled up in an armchair in my office. I’ve kicked my shoes onto the rug and tucked my feet under me. I had to force myself to come here today, and I’m just sitting around waiting for time to pass. I haven’t done one minute of work. I’ve stopped doing my job. The whole morning was spent thinking through all that’s happened.

I received a call that no one made. I saw threatening men wearing hoods drawn low.

Was there someone in the street behind the house?

Yes, there was. I don’t hallucinate. It’s happened twice. Someone is watching my home. Someone is watching me. Someone is following me. The death notice makes it even scarier. I struggle to understand. Struggle to think it through. Try to figure who could be behind this. But if I go on like this, I’ll lose myself. End up sick again.

This has to stop.

I’m going to tell Henrik. I’m going to tell him everything. Today. I would rather have some concrete evidence before saying anything. But it can’t wait any longer. And I have to move Isabelle to another group so she can continue her therapy. I should have sent her to another therapist immediately, after the first meeting. What I’m doing now is unprofessional. Unethical.

And dangerous.

My phone vibrates. It’s Henrik. I pick up, and he asks when I’m done today. He wants us to have dinner at Trattorian near Norr Mälarstrand. Just the two of us. Milo has basketball practice. I tell him that sounds lovely.

Is that how I feel? Yes. No. Not really. Maybe yes and no.

I used to like going out to eat with my husband. And I want that to be the case now, too. But it’s not. The thought of talking about Alice over a dinner out feels wrong. Just as wrong as waiting any longer to tell him.









A few hours later I park the Audi on a cross street from Norr Mälarstrand. I head down toward the water and the Mälar Pavilion and see Henrik waiting there. Stubble on his face, hair ruffled, sunglasses on. He takes them off and looks at me.

“What?” he says.

“You’re handsome.” I hesitate before I rise up on my tiptoes and give him a kiss. He returns it.

“Just you and me,” he says. “It’s been a long time.”

We walk hand in hand down the promenade. Watching other people and making jokes at their expense. Amateur photographers with two-foot lenses and old ladies struggling with their little yapping dogs. Parents with strollers who absolutely have to walk abreast of each other, joggers in tights ruthlessly darting between pedestrians, middle-aged ladies with walking poles in their hands.

We need this. We should take that weekend Pernilla talked about. It’s been forever since my husband and I made time for each other.

We get to the dock and enter Trattorian. Henrik booked us a table at the window. While we’re ordering and waiting for our food, he tells me his parents are going to France over the weekend. He says Marcus and Jelena have been to this restaurant recently. He comments on the decor and the menu, making small talk.

“It’s going to be sunny this weekend,” he says.

“Nice,” I say.

“I thought I’d take Milo out to the golf course for one final round for the season. Does he have a basketball game on Saturday?”