Tell Me You're Mine(35)

I look up and swear out loud. I rarely do that, and it sounds a little stupid when I do. Fredrik tries to pull me back into bed. I turn off the sound on my phone before landing in his arms again.

“Where were we?” he murmurs and caresses my breasts beneath my shirt.

I unbutton his pants, put my hand into his underwear and feel it. It’s hard, but also quite smooth. My fingers just fit around him, he’s warm and nice, and I wonder how he tastes. I want to lick him, but don’t dare. I touch him, rub up and down. Fredrik breathes faster, I feel him growing even more. How big is he?

He pulls off my shirt. I straddle him. My breasts show through my bra, and I drag my hands over them, can see him staring at my stiff nipples. He pulls down the waistband of my pants and puts his hand against me, strokes. I move a little so he’ll have better access, feel his fingers under my panties. I moan out loud, wiggle my hips to get out of my pants. Fredrik tries to help and when one of us knocks the phone onto the floor we hear it vibrating.

“Who the hell is calling all the time?” His voice hoarse and impatient.

“I’ll turn it off.” I lean over the bedside and see a lot of missed calls and the first lines of a text on the screen.

All the heat in my body is extinguished. I sit on Fredrik, the phone in my hand, and enter the code. He sits up halfway. I can feel him kissing my neck, his fingers are on my nipples.

“Fuck,” I whisper as I read the messages.

“What is it?” Fredrik says. He kisses me on the shoulder, pulls down the straps of my bra. I close my eyes hard and let him continue for a moment. I’m close to weeping from frustration. And disappointment.

“Fredrik, you have to go,” I say, pushing him away. “You have to go now.”





Stella



She never showed up. And these are the most meaningless ninety minutes of my life. A total waste.

What is the conversation about today? No idea.

Is she avoiding me? Why?

After group therapy, I have a session with Ulf.

“I know I shouldn’t, but I couldn’t help it. It just happened.”

Ulf keeps talking. I hear him, but I’m not listening in the way I should. I wonder how many times I’ve heard the same thing from him over the last two years.

“Couldn’t or didn’t want to?” I ask.

Ulf seems shocked. He can hear from my tone that I am annoyed. Once again he’s been out too late, drunk too much, and come home wasted. Once again, he started a terrible fight with his wife. And everything is his mother’s fault, because she wasn’t there for him when he was little. Boohoo, boohoo, poor little Ulf, such a poor misunderstood sad little boy.

He’s a pig. An immature self-absorbed male pig.

What he needs most is a kick in the ass. Or a punch to the jaw. I’ve suggested he try another form of therapy or even get a hobby. Maybe try AA. He doesn’t take the hint. And then he goes on and on, week after week. I can’t stand to listen to this anymore. And for the first time ever I regret my choice of career.

I throw away the notebook I’ve had on my knee. “Ulf, what the hell are you doing here?” I hiss. “Really? What is the point of this?”

“What do you mean?”

“Why do you keep coming here? What do you get out of it? You’re wasting my time.”

He gapes at me, as if he has no idea what I mean. I tell him that he’s been stuck in the same rut since I first met him. He’s rolling around in the same shit and making the same pathetic mistakes again and again. He uses the same transparent excuses every time. His contempt for himself is focused on his poor mother every week. I tell him if he doesn’t grow up and take responsibility for his own life, he’ll always be stuck with the same problems.

“What the hell do you know about it?” he says.

I stand up, march over to the door, and throw it open. I scream: “Do not come back. I never want to see you here again.”

Ulf hurries out, his face red. John, a colleague of mine, is standing in the corridor; Renate is behind the reception desk. Both stare, whisper between themselves. I slam the door shut.

Soon someone knocks.

“Come in,” I say.

Renate opens the door. She looks at me grimly.

“Stella. I’ve always liked you. But it might be time to take a break.”

I know she’s thinking about Lina. They’re all thinking about Lina. They believe that there are, in fact, grounds for the allegations. That the investigation is warranted. Especially now, after I’ve thrown out Ulf. Everyone sees it on me. Everyone knows.

I have a serious problem.

Alone in my office. Shrunk down into my chair, behind my desk. I turn off the computer, pick up the phone. I call her. Repeatedly. No answer. Again and again. Then I give up. I lean back and close my eyes. My phone dings, and I scramble for it. It’s a text from Henrik.

What! You’re kidding me?! Jennie, you are amazing! Just pick the restaurant. I bet it’s going to cost me.

I don’t understand. I read it several times. Why is my husband writing to someone named Jennie? I don’t know who Jennie is. And why is he taking her to a restaurant? What does it mean?

Henrik has been busy with his phone quite a bit lately. More than usual. He says it’s work. Comes home late. Often. He gets texts and answers calls weekdays, weekends, daytime, and late at night. Was Jennie the one who called yesterday morning? Who he was picking up?

Yes, I’m on my way, I can hear him saying, remembering the morning. Yes, I am. I’ll see you in ten minutes.

Jealousy twists around inside me.

Are you and Dad getting a divorce?

My stomach aches. I write an answer. Erase it. Start over. Delete that, too. Have to think a long time before I can write something that’s not hysterical.

Sorry, I’m not Jennie. Would gladly take you up on the dinner offer though? ;)

My phone lies there dark, silent. The wait feels like an eternity. He should call me. I wonder what he’ll say. How his voice will sound. It takes a while before I get his text.

Wrong person. :) I’ll be home after 7.

I stand up and walk around the room. No explanation, no apology. He’s pretending as if nothing happened, as if I don’t know now that he’s got something going on with that Jennie. I grab hold of the large ceramic vase in the corner, the one I got from Henrik when the clinic first opened. I lift it over my head and throw it onto the floor.

It shatters loudly.

But I was hoping it would be even louder. Hoping the sound would drown out my anger, overcome it. But it’s not even close.

Screaming at patients and throwing vases: it’s not enough. Nothing helps the powerlessness and fear I feel.





Kerstin



I’m sitting on a bench below her house, calling. Isabelle doesn’t answer. I call four times without reaching her. In the end, I send a text message. After a while, I get a text back. She says she didn’t hear the phone, she was resting. She’ll come down and open the door. Just has to get dressed. She was home anyway. But what is she up to?

The door opens, and I stand up. A young blond guy comes out. His pants look like they might fall off any moment. His hands are pushed deep into his pockets, and he doesn’t give me more than a quick glance. Today’s youth don’t even possess common courtesy. It’s enough to drive you mad.

She comes soon after that. My big, wonderful daughter. I hug her hard and take a close look at her. She seems tired. And what is she wearing? I’ve already noticed some changes. Since I’ve surprised her, I see how she’s really dressing these days. The top and the jeans hug her every curve shamelessly. The young, firm breasts, the narrow waist, the buttocks and crotch. And her top is too short. It slides up when she moves, shows her stomach. It’s indecent. She looks like a whore. She might as well walk around naked.

It’s that Johanna’s fault. She’s a bad influence. All of this is that little minx’s fault. With her dyed hair and her nose ring, a person like that shouldn’t be allowed anywhere near my Isabelle.

I inspect her closely. Her eyes are glazed. Has she been drinking? Did she start doing drugs?

“You’d best be careful dressing like that,” I warn her. “Boys only have one thing on their minds. You should know that by now.”

I see her tense up. Apparently that was the wrong thing to say.

“Are you getting enough to eat?” I ask instead. “Have you lost weight?”

“Yes, Mom, I am. And no, Mom, I haven’t.” She holds the door open for me.

We ride the elevator up in silence. Isabelle seems to be in a really bad mood. She unlocks the door and walks into the apartment. I look around. It’s quite nice, lots of light. I’ve only been here a few times, but wish I could visit more often. I wish I had been here to help her move in. Hang up her curtains and pictures, help her make it a little homey. The sort of thing a mother is supposed to do. But lately Isabelle needs to prove this newfound independence of hers. To me it looks more like a revolt. I’m trying not to show how much it upsets me. But it’s hard. I’m quite upset. It hurts me terribly when she distances herself from me.

Isabelle puts on some coffee, and I go to the bathroom. After I relieve myself, I rummage through her medicine cabinet. I don’t find any drugs or contraceptives. Then I look into her room. The blanket has been thrown carelessly across the bed as if it were made in a hurry. It makes me very apprehensive.