Is she sleeping with someone? With many people? My very own daughter, has she started with that sort of thing? The boy I saw come out of the front door, who was he? Was he visiting Isabelle? Was he in her bed? Does she offer herself to just anyone? Screw them like a hooker, twisting beneath them while they pant and moan and take what they want from her? The thought of Isabelle in that situation upsets me. Disgusts me beyond all limits. Doesn’t she understand how sad I am? But she is still weak. She still needs her mother. I have to straighten her out.
I turn and go to the kitchen. I can’t let her see on my face that I know what she’s up to. I sit down at the dining table and watch her putter about.
“That confounded train, all that sitting made me swell up, you see?” I pull off my sock and demonstrate by poking my swollen foot. My finger leaves a clear impression.
“Wouldn’t you have been sitting at home anyway?” Isabelle says without even looking in my direction.
These constant taunts. This total lack of respect. Who has she become? Why couldn’t she stay my sweet little girl forever? My daughter, who once thought I had all the answers, who thought I was irreplaceable, who I comforted and patched up. Now I’m just an embarrassment. Tiresome. Stupid. Annoying.
I swallow my vexation. “How are your studies going?”
“They’re fine. I’ve passed all my tests so far.” She sounds pleased.
“I’m proud of you,” I say. “Dad would have been so proud, too.”
I raised her, I remind myself. This change is only temporary. Everything will be fine.
Isabelle pours us some coffee and sets out a carrot cake.
“This tastes very good,” I say.
“I made it yesterday.”
“You’ve always loved baking. You got that from me. Do you remember how we used to bake together?”
“Why are you here, Mom?”
Only now do I realize that Isabelle is hoarse.
“Do you have a cold?” I put my hand on her forehead. It’s a bit hot. Is she pregnant?
“I’ll be better soon,” she says.
“Maybe you should lie down? Rest a little. I’ll make tea.”
“But, Mom, I barely have a fever.”
“Have you been home all day?” I wonder.
“Yes, I have. And I followed all your rules. To the letter. I stayed in, put on warm socks.” She raises her foot and waves her toes. “I’ve been drinking warm things, I’ve washed my hands eight extra times, and I’ve changed all the sheets.” Now she smiles at me for the first time. My sweet daughter smiles and I feel all warm inside. It’s as if the clouds part and the sun finally comes out.
“That’s my girl,” I say, smiling back. “Good you didn’t go anywhere. Not even to therapy?”
Her face clouds over again. Why does she have to be so sensitive? But we have to get through this. That’s what motherhood is all about, right? To bring things up even when it’s tiresome. To educate, guide, and protect.
“I just told you I was home all day.”
“You know, I don’t want you going there again.”
Isabelle pushes her chair backward. Making an awful sound as it scratches against the floor. She stands, goes over to the sink, and turns her back to me. I know she’s angry, but she’ll see reason in the end. She just needs to listen to me. She just needs to come to her senses and be reasonable. I only want the best for her, nothing else.
She will understand. She has to.
Isabelle
Panic is rising inside me. I’m so angry that I’m afraid of myself.
Why does she always do this? Show up, intrude, poke around inside my privacy? Why can’t she ever let me have any peace?
I focus. I don’t want to let my anger take over. It’s difficult, because I’m furious. If I don’t get a handle on myself, swallow this rage, everything will just get worse.
Or is it like Stella said? That it will get worse if I don’t set any boundaries? If I constantly avoid showing my mother that she can’t control me.
This is my life. These are my choices. I have to be honest and say it like it is. I turn around and look at her.
“That’s not your decision,” I say calmly. I don’t usually stand up to her. I almost never disagree. But I can’t live like this anymore. A good relationship has to be able to withstand some conflict. Mom looks shocked by my statement. She’s insulted. Offended. I can see it on her. Her face collapses; her mouth hangs open. She looks like I’ve slapped her. And I can already see she’s preparing one of her speeches about how sad I make her and how ungrateful I am after everything she’s done for me. How she’s raised me and guided me my whole life.
But there has to come a day when I do as I please. If she’s raised me and guided me as well as she claims, there’s no reason for her to worry.
Mom slams her cup down and looks at me harshly. “I don’t like that tone you’re using with me.”
“I’m an adult now,” I say. “I make my own decisions. And this is something I want to do. For my sake and nobody else’s.”
I’m proud of myself. My reaction proves that therapy is helping me. I dare to say what I think, despite the risk of a conflict. That’s a huge step for me.
Mom is not impressed. She looks at me as she did when I was little. When I gave her headaches. When she walked away because I disappointed her.
She puckers her lips. “There are things you don’t know,” she says, ignoring me. She rearranges the crumbs on the table. “Come and sit down.”
I hear that unyielding tone in her voice. Even though I don’t want to hear what she has to say, I sit down anyway. I know it will be tiresome. And I wish she wasn’t here. I wish Fredrik had stayed with me. We would have been lying in bed right now. Naked. We would have made love to each other. It’s not ugly or dirty like Mom says.
I think about it all the time, feel it in my whole body. Fredrik and I will make love. We’ll make love for hours. We’ll make love all night and then we’ll continue making love all day long.
And making love is what we would be doing right now.
If Mom hadn’t showed up.
I never should have read that text, should have been brave enough to make her wait, not dropped everything just to please her. Hindsight is twenty-twenty.
Mom interrupts my thoughts. “Your therapist. Stella. She has a problem.”
“How do you know that? How do you know anything about her?”
“I’m worried about you. I can tell that you’ve changed.”
“Could it be because I found out I was living a lie? My whole life?”
Mom recoils. She clenches, struggling not to lose control.
“What do you mean by that?” She whispers the words. Tears form in her eyes. I feel like I’m five years old. I want to placate her. Want to make amends. Want to be forgiven and make everything okay again.
“Hans wasn’t my father, right?” I continue. “Not my real father. It hasn’t been easy to find that out.”
Mom sinks down in her chair, puts her head in her hands. Time for drama.
“I know. Honey, please forgive me. I understand that. I do. And I really hoped I wouldn’t have to tell you this.”
And Mom continues. She tells me that my therapist is in hot water. And as usual she uses that particular tone of voice, a mixture of anger, mockery, and pleasure. Sometimes I wonder if there’s something wrong with my mother. Something seriously wrong.
“A former patient tried to kill herself. She was a little younger than you, and of course the parents were just crushed. They’d seen the warning signs, but still they trusted she was getting help. That’s what can happen when a young girl puts her life into someone else’s hands. A stranger’s hands.”
“How do you know this?”
“I’ve been worried about you for a long time now.”
“Yes, you said that.” That’s no surprise. She always is. She’s told me how worried she is every time we’ve talked recently.
“I’ve been researching her on the Internet. Found this information. I even talked to the parents. They seem like such nice, genuine people. And I refuse to stand by and watch while this happens to you. Do you understand?” Mom takes my hands in hers and cocks her head to the side.
“I’m not suicidal, I promise,” I say, trying to laugh. Mom looks stern. Her hands squeeze mine so hard it hurts. I pull away from her grip.
“I trust Stella, Mom. It could be that those events weren’t her fault. We don’t know anything for sure about what really happened.”
“Isabelle, now you listen to me. That woman is crazy. She is not normal. She is sick.” Mom looks at me seriously before continuing.
“She lost a child many years ago. A little girl. She was very young then. And it’s not clear what happened. She was a suspect, but they never found any evidence. She ended up committed. In a psychiatric ward. An insane asylum. How someone like that becomes a therapist is beyond me. She could be a murderer. She could have killed her own child.”
I interrupt, but Mom makes a gesture for me to be quiet.
“I think she’s convinced herself that you’re that girl,” she says. “It’s tragic and sad, I can agree with that. But you should know one thing, that woman is dangerous. Stella Widstrand is sick and dangerous.”