I follow her. As we pass by the living room, I see Sven Nilsson sitting in an armchair. He’s sleeping with his mouth half open.
What’s going on?
“Please have a seat.” Petra Nilsson points to the same kitchen chair and I take a seat there again. Waiting. She pours more coffee for us and sits opposite me. “I suppose Dad promised you you could take a look at an old investigation?”
I nod, don’t trust my voice.
“Unfortunately, he suffers from Alzheimer’s. He has his good days, but most of the time he’s just not there. Maybe that sounds harsh, but sadly it’s true.”
I’m not sure if I groan audibly, but Petra Nilsson looks worriedly at me.
“We put him into a facility for a while, but he got so depressed. Lost his appetite, wouldn’t eat. He does much better here at home, but he needs twenty-four-hour care. We can’t be here all the time. And you know how it is with home-help service.”
I feel punctured. I just want to get up and leave. Or collapse on the floor and cry.
“There are no files left,” Petra Nilsson continues. “We threw all that out a long time ago. As you can see, he’s filled those boxes up with trash instead. We let him, because it seems to calm him. I’m sorry you came here unnecessarily.”
I put my head in my hands and press my fingers hard against my eyes. A headache drums behind my forehead. If Daniel were here, his reaction would have destroyed me. Or if Henrik had come with me. I would have been incapacitated.
“He sounded so lucid on the phone,” I say. My hands are shaking. I clench them tightly a few times.
“As I said, he has better days. I’m sorry.” Petra Nilsson makes a resigned gesture in the direction of her father.
“Please, let me talk to him. He said there was a tip they never followed up.” I can’t let it go. Can’t give up without being totally sure.
“It’s not a good idea.”
“Just a few minutes.”
“He shouldn’t be upset. It’s not good.”
“My life depends on this,” I say.
Silence hangs heavy between us.
I feel Petra Nilsson’s hesitation, her dislike. She looks like she’d rather throw me out. I prepare myself to keep arguing.
“Of course,” she says.
“Thank you,” I say. “You have no idea what this means.”
“But I warn you, he’ll say what you want to hear. It could be just about anything. You’ll see.”
We go into the living room. Sven Nilsson is awake and sitting up again.
“Dad.” She gently touches his arm. “What’s your theory about Olof Palme’s murder? They say he was assassinated, but that’s not the whole truth, is it?” Sven Nilsson lights up and bangs his fist on the armrest.
“Prime Minister Palme? It never should have been a murder investigation in the first place.” He waves his forefinger in the air and looks at me. “Prime Minister Olof Palme faked his own death. Assumed a new name. He’s probably living in Rio by now. With his mistress. But nobody knows exactly where he resides. Those idiots couldn’t even manage a little simple police work. Hi, honey, who are you?” He peers at me. Sven Nilsson has never seen me before. I’m a complete stranger.
Petra Nilsson studies my reaction. Almost triumphant, but regretful, too. There, you see, I was right.
I go forward and crouch down next to her confused father.
“My name is Stella; we met many years ago. You led an investigation into the disappearance of my daughter. Alice.” I take his hand and stroke it gently. Willing him to remember. To help me. To have just one moment of clarity.
“Alice, Alice, Alice,” he exclaims. “And you I remember.”
My hope returns. Sven Nilsson leans toward me. He gestures for me to lean closer. I ignore the smell of urine and bend forward.
Sven Nilsson whispers, “Alice Babs, Alice Timander, Alice in Wonderland, who disappeared, but came back, got small, got big. Rabbit rabbit, he’s late, he’s late.”
He continues babbling, louder and louder, and my hopes sink like stones. I stand up, apologize to his daughter for disturbing him. She follows me out into the hall and yells for the home-help assistant to check on her father.
“Yes, he loves digging into ‘old cases,’” Petra says, making air quotes. “I’m really sorry, I wish he could help you.”
We go to the door. Sven is talking in the background. I stop and listen.
“Tiny little girl who disappeared, never to be found. Stones, stones, find calm, find peace. There was something, there was. The man who knew was drunk as a skunk, he just wanted to talk, oh blah blah blah.”
The woman inside hushes him.
I pull my sweater around me, and as I’m turning to go he cries out.
“Stella. Stella Johansson. He wanted to tell me everything. But he died suddenly. Suddenly he died. Before he could say more.” I look at Petra Nilsson. She rolls her eyes, opens the front door, and ushers me out.
Kerstin
I’ll be in Stockholm soon. At Isabelle’s. Thank God. I detest taking the train. Hate it. You never know who you’re going to end up next to. It never fails, it’s always someone who loves to talk, who has a lot of opinions, who chews too loud or spreads out onto your seat. And why is the train so packed on this normal Wednesday? What an awful trip. But the car is undependable, and it would be even worse to end up stranded on the side of the road. I had to leave it at the garage. Just hope I won’t end up swindled out of the last of my savings.
Does that boy on the seat opposite me have to be so freaking loud? Parents nowadays. They’re turning their children into little monsters. Letting them lash out, scream, disturb people, behave like animals. Good manners are a thing of the past. There’s no respect or even basic courtesy.
I throw another angry look at his mother. She doesn’t notice. She doesn’t care. The boy kicks at my purse, but she pretends not to notice. In the end, I take matters into my own hands. I grab his legs and tell him to cut it out. The boy starts to cry, and the mother gets upset. She looks at me like this is my fault. Adults aren’t allowed to take part in society today, it seems. Just let everyone run amok.
I take my bag and leave my seat. I find a free spot in the next car. Not too long left now.
I haven’t told Isabelle I’m coming. She’d try to stop me. I wanted to leave yesterday, but I had to work. I have no idea if she’s at home or not. Worst-case scenario, I’ll have to wait in the mall until she gets home. I asked for a spare key to her apartment, but haven’t received it yet. We’ll take care of that now.
If she’ll let me, I’d like to look over her schedule. Get some insight into her days. I’m not sure she can manage on her own. She needs all the help she can get from her old mom.
The train rolls into the Stockholm Central Station. I wait until everyone leaves the car before standing up. That horrible boy and his equally dreadful mother are walking down the platform. Our eyes meet, and she gives me an angry look. I disembark, cross the platform, enter the station. There are always so many people here. A voice over the speaker is announcing train delays, a carpet of human laughter, human language, human shrieks. The smells strike me from every direction—coffee, pizza, freshly baked cinnamon buns, perfume, sweat.
I ride the escalator down, headed for the subway. On this lower level it’s even worse. An inferno. People pour down the passageway in a single torrential stream. Everyone is in a hurry, everybody is in a rush, everyone is running. Hurry hurry hurry. It stresses me out to no end.
At first I head in the wrong direction, toward the commuter trains. It’s a project just to get turned around and make my way back. I’m soaked with sweat by the time I make it to the subway entrance. I search through my purse for my train card. I’m a little afraid of these subway turnstiles. Large glass gates that open and close the very moment you pass through them. But I manage. Take another escalator. Wait for the green line that goes to Vällingby.
I hop on the train and find a free seat. I’ll call Isabelle when I get there. Not a minute before. Then we’ll see how my daughter lives her life when she thinks I’m far away.
Stella
Wednesday morning creeps up. I meet my patients, they sit in my office and talk, telling me about all of their problems and difficulties.
I don’t listen.
I’m not present.
I don’t care.
I’m an unfit therapist.
While my patients talk, I fantasize about quitting. Moving to another country. Changing my name. Starting over from scratch.
Yesterday was disastrous. The setback at Sven Nilsson’s is impossible for me to handle. I thought I would get some answers. Find out what exactly they did to locate my daughter. I thought he’d have some sort of clue I could follow up. Something that proved I was right. All those files thrown away? Is that even legal? Probably not. What an insult. To just throw everything away. To throw away every document about Alice. About a life.
About my child’s life.
Maybe there never were any documents. Maybe Sven Nilsson just said what I wanted to hear, as his daughter claimed.
Was there a tip? There must have been. The possibility that it was all just an old man’s delusion is too much to take. Sorrow washes over me like the tide over a deserted beach. It makes me sad that I’m even capable of such a cheap metaphor. I feel ashamed of how I indulge in self-pity.