“Stella said something similar in group therapy once. But still. I feel like I have terrible things inside me.”
“Do you think you’re the only one? I feel so fucking furious sometimes. At my parents, at my life, everything. It’s not wrong, the question is just what you do about it.”
“Maybe. I don’t know.”
“But I do know. And now I want to hear what you’re going to do about Fredde.”
We continue to talk about boys, or men, how best to flirt via text and Snapchat, I get tips on what to say and what not to say. She makes me blush, we laugh, giggle. After a while, Johanna stands up to go buy a sandwich as well. Talking about guys and sex takes a lot of energy. I say it’s my turn to buy, but she waves me away. Going out with Johanna is the best thing I could have done, even though I didn’t feel like it at all. When she’s gone, my phone rings. I don’t recognize the number; for once, it’s not Mom.
Stella
I’m on my way back to Stockholm, driving faster than I should. I feel disappointed. Angry. It was stupid to go to Borlänge. I should have stayed home and slept instead. It was completely useless. I don’t know any more now than I did driving up. On the contrary, I’ve found even more questions that need answers. Answers that don’t exist.
I pull off at a gas station in Enköping, fill up, and buy a cup of coffee. I sit down at a picnic table at the edge of the parking lot. My shoulders are tense, the skin around my eyes tight. I take a few deep breaths, fill up my lungs, and then stretch my body.
I take out my phone, make a call.
“Hello, this is Isabelle.”
“Hi, Isabelle, this is Stella Widstrand.”
Silence.
“Hello?” I say.
“Oh, hi!”
“Hello, I’m sorry to bother you on a Friday afternoon.”
“No problem at all.”
Loud music is thumping in the background. Maybe she’s at some student party.
“Can you talk,” I ask, “or are you still at school?”
“I’m free today. I’m out with a friend.”
“Nice,” I say. “Do you like studying?”
A short pause before answering.
“Yes, I do. It’s a lot of work, but it’s fun.”
This is how easy it could be. I could just call up my daughter, ask her how she is, how her day has been. Who is she? What are her dreams? What does she want to be? I want to know everything about her.
“I’ll keep it short. I have a suggestion,” I hear myself saying. “Group therapy is only once a week. There’s not a lot of individual time for each of you. I have an opening on Monday. You can have your own hour to talk. At eleven?”
“Okay.” Isabelle sounds doubtful. “That might be good.”
“Only if you want to,” I say. “If you think you’d get something out of it. In the future we could meet with your mother as well. It could help the two of you form a closer bond.”
“Maybe later,” she says. “Can I think about it?”
“Of course. It’s just an offer. You do whatever feels right.”
“But Monday sounds good. Eleven o’clock?”
“I’ll see you then.”
I finish the call and sit down in the car. I grab my purse and pull out my calendar, write Isabelle, Monday at eleven. What I’m doing is unethical. But Alice is my child. I’m prepared to do what I have to to get her back.
I flip through this past week. See that I should have sent a number of e-mails, made some calls, updated some records by today. It’s afternoon, and I haven’t done a thing. I’m not planning on doing anything now, either.
I see a note from Wednesday, from my conversation with Per Gunnarsson. Sven Nilsson, Norrköping.
I haven’t called him yet. The misunderstanding about picking up Milo, the argument with Henrik, the scene at the restaurant yesterday. I totally forgot to contact him.
I google and find a phone number and an address. I call, wait impatiently while the phone rings.
“Yes, hello?” A young woman’s voice.
I introduce myself, say I’m calling for Sven Nilsson. I hear the woman mumble. It sounds like she’s passing the phone.
“Sven Nilsson.” His voice is hoarse; I don’t recognize it.
“Hi, my name is Stella Widstrand,” I say. “We met in the summer of 1994. My name was Stella Johansson back then.”
“Yes?”
“My daughter, Alice, disappeared at Strandgården in August of that year. She was only one year old. You were the detective who investigated her disappearance.”
Silence.
Sven Nilsson is old. Does he remember?
“Yes, I remember,” he says. “May I ask why you’re calling now?”
“I’m convinced Alice is alive. Maybe that sounds a little crazy. But I just know. I know she’s alive.”
“I always believed your daughter was still alive,” Sven Nilsson says. “Unfortunately, I could never prove it. I’m sorry for that. It was the worst case I had in all my years on the force.”
My eyes fill with tears. I wipe them away with my shirtsleeve and clear my throat.
“Do you have anything left from the investigation that I could look at?” I ask.
“Absolutely, absolutely,” he says. “I have every scrap of paper here. All of it. In fact, I know there was a tip we overlooked. Can you come here and we’ll go through it together? Let me see, maybe on Tuesday? Tuesday morning? Does that work?”
I laugh out loud. Tuesday feels like an eternity from now, but finally I’ll get the evidence I need to prove I’m right.
I turn the music up loud and drive home.
Stella
Henrik baked bread this morning, and the kitchen smells delicious. It’s Saturday, and we eat breakfast together. Henrik and I haven’t talked yet, but for Milo’s sake we pretend nothing is wrong. I eat a slice of bread, even though I’m not hungry, and praise how good it tastes. Then I ask Milo about today’s basketball game. That’s all it takes to get him started, and Henrik and I are able to continue avoiding each other.
I’m not going to the game. Henrik seems relieved I’m staying home. I say I need to rest. I’m just going to lie on the sofa and take it easy. I stand at the door waving as they leave and remember I said exactly the same thing two weeks ago. Of course, I haven’t told my husband about my trip to Strandgården. Nor about the trip to Kerstin’s house in Dalarna. Or about the phone calls with Isabelle and Sven Nilsson. Being the unreliable and secretive person I am.
He surely senses as much. I can’t blame him for finding it hard to believe me. But I don’t feel guilty.
Someone who’s never lost a child can’t understand. If I told him everything, what I feel, what I’m up to, Henrik would try to stop me. He’d work against me. I don’t have time for his doubts or his distrust. All of his good intentions are just an expression of his fears. Henrik is afraid I’ll make trouble. The only thing he wants to protect is himself. That’s human. We’re all like that. And that’s why I haven’t said anything about who I’m going to meet today.
I exit the E18 freeway. According to the GPS, it’s not much farther. I couldn’t help checking his profile on Facebook yesterday. Though I could only see his profile picture, places he’s been, and what music he likes. The rest was private, for friends only.
At first, I didn’t plan on going here. But in the end I felt I had to. I just want to see him. See how things are going for him.
There is nobody else I can talk to. No one else understands.
He’s her father.
And he has the right to know that Alice is alive. That I’ve met her and know where she is.
Daniel lives in a charming white house in Bro, twenty miles outside Stockholm. There’s a large yard with thick, well-trimmed hedges. A garage sits next to the property; inside it a man is bent over an open car hood. A sign that reads Sundkvist’s Garage hangs on the wall. I check how I look in the rearview mirror. Readjust my white blouse. I have painted my nails wine red. I fixed my hair this morning, and it curls on my shoulders. I smile at my own image in the mirror. It smiles back, but she seems nervous and insecure.
I park outside the garage door. Daniel shades his eyes with his hand and peers at me. I take a deep breath and get out of the car.
“Stella?” Daniel smiles and comes closer. “I thought that was you,” he says.
He wipes his hands on a cloth. Then he sweeps me up in his arms, squeezes me tight, and spins me around. Just like he used to. I hide my face in his neck, breathe in his scent. I’ve forgotten the effect he has on me. I wasn’t at all prepared for the desire his touch awakens in me. Or am I? Haven’t I longed to feel this again?
“What are you up to?” he says and puts me down. “All the way out here in Bro?”
“Just passing by?”
“Sure.” He smiles, but I get the feeling he’s on his guard. We examine each other. Daniel looks the same, but not quite. He’s no longer wiry and thin. He probably works out, his shoulders are strong, his chest and arms muscular. His hair is longer than I’ve seen it before, and he’s got it up in a man bun. It’s still coal black, but starting to gray at the temples. There are more tattoos on his arms than twelve years ago. His jeans are worn and sit low on his hips. He’s wearing a red flannel shirt and a black tank top underneath. He looks dangerous. Sexy.