Tell Me You're Mine(28)

I push up against him. “Do you want more?”

“I want to talk,” he says.

“Are you sure?”

I nibble at his throat.

“What happened earlier? Sooner or later we have to talk about it.”

I get up from bed. Pull on a T-shirt and put my hair up in a knot.

“If I remember correctly we were horny. We had sex on the floor and—”

“Stella, please stop,” Henrik interrupts. He sits up and leans back on the headboard. “You were furious with me when you came home. You hit me. Why?”

My anger returns with full force.

“Well, what do you think? Are you so stupid that you don’t know why? Or are you pretending?”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about. How could I? I’m the last one to know. Just like last time.”

“Stop,” I say. “Don’t throw that shit in my face.”

I grab the laundry basket, throw off his exercise clothes, and start folding towels.

“I’m sorry,” Henrik says. “That was uncalled for.”

I throw the towels on the floor. Stand at the window staring out.

“Honey, what did I do?” He sounds sincere. And the question is justified. I ponder how to answer. I’d prefer not to reveal what I did yesterday, that I was with Daniel.

What was it Daniel said that made me so angry with Henrik? Made me feel sure Henrik had talked to him. Broken my trust. Now, what was it again? The uncomfortable feeling that I might have misinterpreted what Daniel said steals over me.

Our daughter is dead.

There is nothing we can learn.

Alice is gone.

We have to move on.

You have a good man; he cares about you. He’s worried about you.

Or was it? He might be worried about you? Isn’t he worried about you? He’s surely worried about you?

When Henrik is feeling guilty he can’t hide it. He’s essentially honest and usually takes responsibility for what he does. I do, too, usually. That’s the kind of relationship we have.

Had. It’s not Henrik who’s being dishonest, it’s me. And my guilty conscience is making me project onto everyone but myself.

Henrik rises and pulls on his gray sweatpants.

“Okay, I’ll guess,” he says. “You’re mad at me because I don’t think Alice is alive? Because I don’t believe that you’ve found her?”

“I hate feeling like you think I’m crazy. That I’m imagining things. That you talk about me to Mom, to Pernilla, behind my back.”

“First of all, I haven’t talked to Pernilla. Nor your mother. I don’t know where you got that idea, but it’s not true.”

I start to say something, but he holds up his hand like a traffic cop.

“Secondly, please don’t tell me what I think, what you think I’m telling people. You’re the therapist here, right? If you want to know what I’m thinking, ask.”

He’s right. And I realize he hasn’t called Daniel.

Henrik continues. “Also, have you ever heard me say you’re nuts or crazy? Have you?”

“No,” I admit. “You’ve never said it.”

“Then for fuck’s sake, stop putting words in my mouth.”

“Sorry,” I whisper.

“Just because I don’t jump for joy immediately doesn’t mean I think you’re crazy. You tell me nothing, avoid me, and then throw yourself at me. Can you see I might wonder what’s going on?”

“I just wish you trusted me,” I say.

“And I wish you talked to me. It’s much easier for me to trust you if you tell me what’s going on.” He settles down on the edge of the bed again. “You’re the smartest woman I know. You’re usually so rational, so logical. But lately I hear nothing but angry outbursts and baseless assumptions. It’s not like you.”

“How do you think you’d react? How do you think you’d feel? If you met Milo twenty-one years after losing him?”

“You’ve met a girl who looks like Alice’s aunt. That’s all. Isabelle has a biological mother. Who happens to be very worried. Still, you’re sure it’s Alice. You see conspiracies everywhere. You think everyone is against you. You think that the doctors, the school Isabelle went to, all of them are lying? Do you seriously believe that someone could take a child and then pretend it’s their own without arousing suspicion?”

“I’ve warned you, Henrik. Many times. There’s something wrong with me.”

“You’ve warned me? What are you talking about now?”

“From the beginning.”

Henrik throws up his arms in defeat. “I give up. I’m not following you anymore.”

“Goddamn it, Henrik. You make it sound like I—”

He stops me, points to the door.

“Milo?” he says.

“Dad?” Milo’s voice sounds tiny.

“Come in, buddy.”

The door opens, and Milo peeks in. He looks at Henrik, looks at me. The fear in his eyes hurts me.

“Why aren’t you asleep?” I say softly, to make it clear I’m not angry.

“I was just looking for a phone charger.”

“You can take the one there in the wall,” Henrik says. “Next to the bureau.”

“Come here, honey,” I say. Milo drags his feet in my direction. I hug him.

“Do you feel better now, Mom?”

“Feel better?” I wonder and stroke his hair.

“Dad said you had a headache.”

I glance at Henrik, but he’s looking at Milo.

“Yes, I’m fine now,” I answer. “How was the game?”

He shrugs. “Fine.”

“Go back to bed now,” Henrik says, putting one arm around Milo. They head down the stairs, and I can hear Henrik speaking calmly to our son. I pick up the towels I threw on the floor and put them back in the laundry basket.





Stella



It’s still dark. I crawl in next to Henrik, lay my head against his shoulder. He opens his arms, pulls the blanket over the two of us.

I slept badly the whole night. I couldn’t stop thinking about what Henrik and I said to each other. And what we didn’t say. It worries me that Henrik is worried. I’m afraid he’s angry with me, afraid my past will destroy the life we’ve built together. I whisper that I want to stop fighting. I tell him about the diary. Tell him I reread all the entries I wrote when I was pregnant with Alice, when she was a baby. And the day she disappeared and afterward.

The morning light filters in across the bedroom rug. The world has stopped. We are beyond time and space, in our own strange parallel world. It resembles the one we lived in four weeks ago, but it’s not the same. My voice sounds distant, and it feels like I’m telling a story. Henrik is quiet, listens.

I want him to understand how painful it is to look back. How it’s been like reliving it. All those memories, all that self-loathing. Grief and agony. But I don’t mention the panic attacks, nor do I tell him about my visits to Kerstin’s house or to Daniel.

Henrik says I should have said something earlier. Surely I know he understands? That he cares about me?

I say I was afraid. Terrified.

He doesn’t want me to be sick again.

I know that.

He asks me to promise never to see Isabelle again.

He caresses my cheek. Wipes away the tears I can’t stop. And then we make love slowly, gently. I lie on my side, and he enters me from behind. I close my eyes in his embrace and take pleasure from this familiar ritual. His hard body behind me, his gentle movements becoming more and more intense. When I come, he whispers that he loves me. He plunges deep into me. I tell him I love how he fucks me. He groans as he comes, his hands grip onto my hips tightly.

We fall asleep in each other’s arms.









Later, we’re strolling through the aisles of Coop Forum. It’s an ordinary Sunday afternoon. I ask Henrik if he wants apple juice or orange juice. I forget the bread, head back. We fill up our shopping cart. We line up at the checkout counter, holding each other’s hand. I pay, Henrik packs up the grocery bags. It’s normal, boring, wonderfully domestic. I can finally stop thinking; it feels easier to push down the guilt that gnaws at me. We head out to the Range Rover, load it together. Henrik returns the shopping cart; I start the car. We drive home.

There’s a dog in our driveway. Johan Lindberg’s little pooch. It has on its leash and collar, but our neighbor is nowhere to be seen. I stop the car; Henrik throws me an amused smile. This is not the first time this has happened, and I doubt it will be the last. He steps out of the car and walks slowly toward the tiny dog. It backs up and barks its shrill, persistent little bark. After another attempt, Henrik turns to me. He laughs and shrugs. I get out of the car and scan the street for the dog’s master.

Johan Lindberg is headed our way, jogging and puffing in neon yellow workout clothes, which sit a little too tight on his round body. He reaches us, puts his hands on his knees. His nose running, he clears his throat loudly and lobs a spitball on the street.

“Therese wants me to lose some weight.” He groans. “She says I’m too fat to fuck.”

I nod at his hydration belt and smile. “You plan on running a marathon?”

“Marathon? Isn’t a few miles enough? I’m not ready to sacrifice my life for a little sex.”

Henrik says uh-huh sympathetically. He squeezes me around the waist. I don’t dare look at him, or we won’t be able to hold back our laughter. We tell our neighbor good luck, I drive the car into the driveway and we carry in the groceries.