Tell Me You're Mine(37)

I think of Stella’s monologue about grief and shudder.

Mom leans over the table. “You told me she’s been asking about your upbringing. And about me. Right? Maybe she even asked you if I’m your real mother?”

My unease grows. She has done that. She has been a little too curious about my background.

Mom says, “As a therapist, she has a lot of influence on people. And she uses it. Because she herself doesn’t feel good. She makes you question everything, even what you know is true. What if she’s been following you? What if she’s watching you?”

I saw Stella standing downstairs, outside the apartment. I saw her at KTH.

Mom is right.

What I’ve taken for dedication must be something else. Some kind of sick obsession.

At the same time, she made me feel safe. And I liked her from first glance. But do I dare trust my judgment? I can’t make sense of it. It doesn’t add up.

Mom comes around the table and puts her arm around me.

“I want you to be careful. I don’t want to lose my little girl, surely you understand that?”

I look up at Mom. She’s difficult, even awful sometimes. But she’s my mother. And she does care about me. She’d do anything to protect me.

“I know, Mom,” I say. “I promise to be careful.”





Stella



Wednesday evening, I’m sitting on the sofa watching Henrik. He’s leaning against the kitchen bar talking to Sebastian, Pernilla’s new guy. He laughs and gestures. After sixteen years, his ways are so familiar. And yet tonight I see him with new eyes. I’m waiting for him to slip up, to reveal something. I should ask him straight-out, but I’m too cowardly. It’s not like me. But if he denies it, I’ll feel even more crazy and paranoid than I already do. And if he confesses, I’ll be destroyed.

Sebastian and Pernilla picked up Milo after tennis. I ordered a pizza, opened a bottle of wine. When Henrik came home he greeted them and went upstairs to change. I followed him with the wineglass in my hand.

I asked him how his day was. He said it was good. He took off his dress shirt and pulled on a T-shirt. I stood there while he put on his old, washed-out jeans, buttoned them up. Placed his phone in his front pocket.

I thought he’d say something about the text message. Tell me about Jennie. Give me an explanation. Something, anything at all. He said nothing. Just wondered what we were celebrating, with a glance at my wineglass.

Love, I guess, I said.

Before we would have laughed. Now he pasted on his formal smile and asked if we were going to head down before the pizza got cold.









He seems relaxed standing there in the kitchen. Satisfied and happy and relaxed. Who the hell is Jennie? Does he laugh like that with her? What does she look like? Is she younger, hotter? How long has it been going on? How many times have they slept together?

Pernilla throws a pillow at me and I snap out of it. She’s reclining at the other end of the sofa, observing me. She pokes my leg with her foot.

“What are you thinking about?” she says.

“I just had a long day, that’s all,” I answer and take a deep gulp of my wine. Pernilla grabs hold of my hand, pulls up my shirtsleeve. I have light bruises around my wrist.

“What did you do?”

Though I don’t want to, my eyes turn toward Henrik again. He’s laughing loudly at something Sebastian is saying. He turns to me, stares straight into my eyes. His face is serious. He looks away, turns his back.

“Did he rough you up?” Pernilla asks.

I feel hot inside just thinking about Saturday night. How Henrik kissed me, held my wrists, and took me on the floor.

“Love marks?” Pernilla chuckles. “I can see it on you, you might as well tell me.”

“There’s nothing to tell,” I say and smile. “Nothing happened on the bedroom rug. Nothing at all.”

Pernilla laughs. She doesn’t see that my smile isn’t real. Has no idea that there’s another woman in Henrik’s life, and I know about it. He looks at us again.

“Having fun?” He settles down on the armrest behind me.

“Have you started doing yoga, Henrik?” Pernilla says.

He laughs. “Yoga?”

“I’ve heard it can be amazing.” Pernilla looks innocently at him. “Soft bedroom rugs are good for exercise.”

“Pernilla!” I protest and glance at Henrik over my shoulder. He looks at me, then at her. He seems unwilling to discuss the topic. Why? Does he only think about Jennie now? Does she satisfy him more than I do?

“Maybe I’ll have to try sometime,” he says and takes my wineglass away. I take it back and refill it. I’m entitled to relax after everything that’s happened. I’m entitled to feel good, even if only for a little while. And I’m happy, right? I converse. I’m pleasant and balanced. Good old, safe Stella. She’s so fucking wise and understanding. Always so harmonious.









 Later I lean toward Henrik, stroke my hand over his thighs, and whisper in his ear that I want him. I promise I can make it better for him than anyone else.

He wrinkles his forehead, asks if I really need any more to drink. He looks at Pernilla. She makes a grimace toward him. That’s enough. I pretend not to notice the glances between them, but what’s the matter with them? What is wrong with everyone?

Henrik pushes my hand away and takes the wine bottle out to the kitchen. Pernilla says it’s getting late. I empty my glass in one gulp.

I hear Milo and Hampus discussing a basketball tournament in Estonia.

“Mom,” Milo says, “can I go on my own?”

“Your own?” I say.

“You always come with me,” he continues. “You know how many chaperones there are. Please.”

“I don’t think that’s a good idea,” I say.

It takes a second. Less than a second. Fear paralyzes me like a nerve agent, makes me difficult, stubborn, and angry.

“Oh, Mom, don’t get mad. It’ll be all right, you know it will.”

Pernilla says, “Hampus is going, so maybe—”

“You’re not going abroad on your own,” I interrupt. “You’re only thirteen years old.” I take a drink from Pernilla’s wineglass. She looks at me, looks toward the kitchen. Then she stretches for her glass, but I keep it out of reach.

“It’s just Estonia,” Milo says.

“We’ll talk about it later.”

“Mom.”

“Milo. We’ll talk about this later, I said. Stop the whining, goddamnit.”

Henrik enters the living room. He looks inquiringly at me, then at Milo.

“Dad, I want to go to a basketball tournament on my own, but Mom just gets angry.”

Henrik puts a hand on Milo’s shoulder. “It’ll work out,” he says.

“Over my dead body,” I say, splashing wine on the sofa. “Never.” I try to wipe the wine away with my hand, but I just spread it out even more.

Henrik wants to take the glass. I jerk it away and spill more wine.

“What are you doing?” I say and hear myself slurring.

Pernilla strokes my arm but I push her hand away. Again she and Henrik look at each other.

“Stella, calm down,” Henrik says. “You don’t have to scream. We’ll talk about this some other time. Okay?”

“I’m not screaming. I’m not screaming. And there is nothing to talk about.”

“You don’t understand anything, Mom,” Milo howls. “Nobody else’s fucking mother goes along. You’re always there. I hate it.”

He rushes out of the living room.

I scream after him: “Those other fucking moms don’t know you should never leave your child alone!”









I’m sitting on the sofa. Alone.

Milo has locked himself in his room.

Sebastian, Pernilla, and Hampus went home. I heard Pernilla’s whispered question to Henrik, asking if there was anything she could do. He said thank you, whispered something back, I couldn’t hear what. Then he knocked on Milo’s door, was let in, and closed the door.

I’m sitting alone. I can feel myself sinking.

I can’t control the fear.

I can’t control myself.

I can’t control anything.

I am sick.





Stella



My eyelids are glued together. I have to force them open with my fingers. I slept in my shirt, and it smells like sweat and alcohol. My mouth feels dry, and it reeks.

I’m lying on the bed in the guest room. Sometime during the night, Henrik must have come in and put a blanket over me. In any case, I have no memory of doing it myself. I don’t even remember going upstairs and lying down. My head starts pounding when I sit up. I review how much I have to be ashamed of, and I feel sorry for myself for a while. Then I go to our bedroom.

The bed is empty. I look at the watch still on my wrist. It’s not much past seven. I pull off my shirt and underwear. Take a long, hot shower. Then I brush my teeth, floss, and gargle.

Afterward I hardly feel like a new person, just not quite as bad off. I put on makeup, but I still look sallow. I put my hair up in a high bun. Put on the earrings Henrik gave me as a wedding gift. Feel an onslaught of nostalgia and magical thinking.

I open the closet. Choose a straight, knee-length dress with slits up both sides. Navy blue. Three-quarter sleeves. I look at myself in the mirror. Look away.

Henrik is sitting at the kitchen table reading the newspaper. He’s dressed and ready. Black dress pants, a blue-gray wool sweater. He stands up, says good morning and asks how I slept.