Tell Me You're Mine(38)

I don’t respond. I try to press out an apologetic smile. Henrik doesn’t react. He folds up the newspaper and goes out into the hall.

We are on either side of an abyss.

He shouts to Milo to come down. I watch them through the window, how they talk to each other. Henrik laughs and pats Milo on his shoulder. They jump into Henrik’s Range Rover and drive away.

I find some water-soluble painkillers in the cabinet above the sink; I put two into a glass of water. I sit down at the kitchen table, watch the tablets dissolve with a hiss, and swallow it all.









Fog on the windows, traffic crawling over the Traneberg Bridge, fog hanging over the gray waters of Lake Mälaren. It looks just like the day that all of this started.

I stop at St. Eriksgatan outside the front door to the clinic. I sit in the car and watch the traffic. People passing by on the sidewalk. I stare out the window.

A hard knock on the windshield startles me.

A traffic cop.

He says there’s no parking here and gestures toward a sign down the street. I start the car and speed away.

I sit with a latte in the window of a Wayne’s Coffee looking out over the square at Hötorget. Watching all those fruit and flower stalls and their customers.

Then I drive around the city for a while, wander into stores, look at shoes and clothes but tire of it.

Drive around on the southern side of the city.

Drive to Skogskyrkogården, the Woodland Cemetery. Park. Stay in the car for a long time before climbing out.

I walk to Alice’s grave. I squat down and look at the stone with the white dove and text below.

Alice Maud Johansson, Forever in Our Hearts

I don’t even remember the last time I was here. Maybe I should have brought flowers, but then it strikes me how stupid that thought is.

Alice isn’t here.

My daughter has never been here.









Henrik and I are eating dinner at the kitchen table. I picked up some baked potatoes with Swedish shrimp salad from Erssons Deli on my way home so I wouldn’t have to cook.

“Can you hand me the butter?” Henrik says.

“Of course.”

“Did you have time to wash my jeans?”

“Yes,” I answer, “they’re hanging in the laundry room.”

“The shirts, too?”

“In the closet.”

“Thank you.”

“You’re welcome.”

It feels silly that I even bothered to light the candles. The mood between us is far from romantic. He gets a text message. He apologizes and picks up his phone. He writes back, puts it down again. We eat in silence. I don’t have the energy to care if it’s Jennie or someone else. At the moment, I’m thinking mostly about my son. Milo is at a friend’s house doing homework. I wish he were home. I want to talk to him about what happened. I want to ask his forgiveness.

“How are you?” Henrik asks.

“I’m tired,” I admit and put down my silverware. The food is tasteless.

“Did you go to work?”

“Yes.”

“Was that wise?”

The question annoys me. Doesn’t he think I’m capable of working? Does he think I’m unfit?

He can see what I’m thinking. “Just wondering,” he says. “Did you have any contact with Isabelle?”

“No,” I say. “No, I haven’t.”

He nods. Gives me something that resembles a smile.

“Will you be able to let go of this, Stella?”

I wish he wouldn’t ask so many questions. I’m not in the mood for a cross-examination.

“I think so,” I say.

“Maybe you want to talk to somebody. Maybe the woman you used to meet, Birgitta? Is she still working?”

“I don’t know.”

I stretch my hand over the table. I have to try, even if it’s already too late.

Henrik takes my hand. He looks at me and seems to be thinking through what he should say. He’s going to tell me about Jennie.

The doorbell rings. He lets go of my hand, gets up, and goes out to the hall. I hear him open the door, talk to someone. He comes back.

“Stella.” His tone of voice makes it clear this is something serious. I stand and go around the table. I see a black woman and a short white man standing behind her in the hall.

“Stella Widstrand?” the woman says. She seems to be around my age. Tall and slender, not a single wrinkle on her face. We shake hands. Her fingers are a little cold. Her handshake is firm.

“Yes, that’s me,” I say.

“My name is Olivia Lundkvist. I’m a detective. This is my colleague, Mats Hedin.”

He doesn’t seem friendly. He’s shorter than Olivia Lundkvist, with a thick neck and square body. Strong upper arms and a scarred face. His eyes are suspicious. He looks at me the way Per Gunnarsson did.

I don’t say anything, just wait for them to explain why they’re here.

“Can we sit down somewhere?” Mats Hedin says.

Henrik shows them to the living room. They settle down in a corner of the sofa. Detective Olivia Lundkvist looks around.

“Nice place you have,” she says. “Very nice.”

“Thank you,” I say and remain standing.

“Do you know why we’re here?”

Am I supposed to say something? And if so, what? I glance at Henrik; his brow is furrowed.

“Not a clue,” I answer. “Does this have something to do with Alice? I mean, Isabelle? Did something happen?”

I can feel Henrik staring at me.

“Maybe you should sit down,” Olivia Lundkvist says.

I try to swallow, but my throat is dry. Henrik pulls me down on the other end of the sofa and puts a hand on my leg. Settle down.

The rest of the conversation is like an out-of-body experience. I hear the questions. I answer them. But it’s like I’m somewhere else. When Henrik puts his head in his hands, I realize that everything is in ruins.





Isabelle



There’s a knock on the door to my room. Mom is up, but I’m still in bed. The door opens and a shock of purple hair comes into view. Johanna looks in and grimaces. At herself, for yesterday, I suppose.

“Your mother made breakfast, Bella,” she says.

“Okay, I’m coming.”

“I’m gonna do this first.”

Johanna jumps down beside me in bed. She hugs me and kisses me on the cheek.

“Thank you,” she says.

“For what?” I say and wipe my cheek off with my sleeve. Johanna laughs and says, “Isabelle Karlsson.”

“Yes?”

“Do you know that you’re completely out of it sometimes?”

At first I feel a bit hurt. But her huge smile tells me what she means.

“You’re right,” I say, laughing, too. Mom comes in and sits down on the side of the bed. She looks at Johanna; she looks at me. She puts her hand on Johanna’s cheek and then on mine.

“Crazy kids,” she says. “You are lovely. But off your rockers.”

I know she doesn’t think Johanna is a good influence on me. The nose ring, the purple hair, the tight clothes, and the boys and the parties, and everything, everything, everything. But then I think of what happened yesterday. I take my mother’s hand and squeeze it. Our eyes meet.

Everything is good again.

That rarely happens. If I’m being honest, basically never. But right now I feel proud of my mom. She’s usually so worried and strict, full of contempt for anyone who isn’t. And when Johanna came home after the policemen left, I thought Mom might explode. Johanna’s boyfriend, Axel, had dumped her, and afterward she got drunk. She drank a ton of shots, a bunch of beers, and a bottle of wine. As soon as she came through the door she threw up on the rug in the hall.

And Mom saw it all.

I felt so sorry for Johanna. But it was embarrassing as well. I closed my eyes, waiting for Mom to start chewing both of us out. I knew exactly what she was going to say. This is what happens when you aren’t careful, this is what comes from running around with boys who only have one thing on their minds, this is what happens when you break away from your parents, when you think you’re more grown up than you are.

Mom didn’t say anything.

Not a word.

Instead, she picked up a bucket and helped me hold Johanna while she continued to vomit. Mom wiped off Johanna’s face with paper towels (she was very careful with the nose ring) and whispered comforting words to her. Like she used to when I was little and hurt myself or felt ill.

Then Mom and I helped Johanna into the bathroom. She draped herself over the toilet and vomited again. And as she did, she started to cry. She lay on the floor and sobbed. Tears flowed, and she screamed that nobody loved her, she didn’t want to live in this shitty fucking world anymore. Where everyone treats each other like pigs, especially all the fucking men who are worse than pigs.

Mom stroked her hair and said that everything would be fine now, that she didn’t need to be sad. Mom had me grab a towel and clean clothes. I did as she said while Mom undressed Johanna, put her in the bathtub, and showered her. Then she dried her off, helped her get on some sweatpants and a long-sleeved T-shirt. We took her under each arm and dragged Johanna into her room. Mom tucked her in and sat by her until she was asleep. I stared at them from my seat on the floor. And that’s when I felt it.

Mom was sitting there so calm and safe, stroking Johanna’s hair and cheeks, humming quietly. I don’t remember ever loving Mom more than I did in that moment. I don’t think I’ve ever been so proud of her.