Tell Me You're Mine(40)

I know she is studying at the Royal Institute of Technology. Only once.

I’ve called Isabelle a few times. Yes, I left messages.

Don’t remember what I said.

I did not act unprofessionally in our therapy sessions. No, I didn’t.

Meet me outside of group therapy? It was just a suggestion. Completely within the bounds of therapy.

Henrik turns to Detective Lundkvist. He still hasn’t looked at me once.

“Does this concern a current patient who is accusing my wife of harassment and God knows what else?” he says.

“Yes, it does,” Olivia Lundkvist replies. “Along with Lina’s parents. There’s a fairly high risk that Stella will lose her license. She’s already been reported to Health and Social Care. And now there’s a police complaint on top of that. It really does not look good for her.”

Olivia Lundkvist looks urgently at me, with a kind of seriousness that says the guilty need to be reminded just how bad their situation is.

I’ve been judged in advance.

“What happens now?” Henrik wonders.

Olivia Lundkvist talks about a formal interrogation, a preliminary investigation; the decision of whether or not to prosecute will be made by the prosecutors.









It’s quiet at home. Henrik left a while ago, not long after the police.

He asked me questions, too.

Why in the hell did I continue to keep things from him? How can I lie straight to his face time and time again? What makes me do it? What is driving me?

I told him that it was all a big misunderstanding. I said I would never intentionally subject someone to this. Least of all him.

Henrik wondered how it could be a misunderstanding. I admitted I’ve been following Isabelle, calling her and continuing to meet her. Contrary to what I told him. And apparently I still think she’s Alice? I wasn’t at work today, contrary to what I said. What did I do all day?

I was at Alice’s headstone.

And Borlänge? What made me go there? Is there more he doesn’t know? I tell him that I wasn’t home that weekend he and Milo were in Nyköping. I was at Strandgården.

More lies.

Henrik pulled on his coat and slammed the door. I heard him start the Range Rover and drive off.









I’m lying on the sofa. I sit up and look out. Someone is in the garden. Somebody in a shapeless coat with their hood obscuring their face. I can’t move. Can hardly breathe.

We stare at each other.

I close my eyes.

When I look again nobody’s there.

A broken tarp has blown in and been caught by the tree. I stand up slowly and go to the window. I look out into the garden, inspecting every corner of it.

Have I started seeing things? Things that aren’t there, which only exist in my own disturbed consciousness? What more did I imagine?

Alice?

The thought is unbearable.

I go out to the kitchen.

I open a bottle of wine. I drink straight out of it.





Stella



I wake up on the sofa with a headache. The wine bottle is gone. Henrik must have cleaned up after me. Probably so Milo wouldn’t see how bad it was. My phone shows it’s a quarter past nine. I see that Henrik texted me shortly after eight.

Text me when you wake up.

A moment later:

Stay home, promise me. I have to take care of something at work. I’ll come home as soon as I can, we’ll talk then.

No I love you or xo or hugs. No it’ll work out.

Most of all, I want him to tell me everything will be fine. If he thinks that, maybe I can, too.

In my mind, I go over yesterday and the last few weeks. There’s a lot I could have done differently. All of it, really.

That I continued to be Isabelle’s therapist was a terrible lapse in judgment. It was wrong. My colleagues, my patients, they’ve all lost faith in me. I lack the ability to maintain professional distance.

I am no longer a psychotherapist.

I should be under the care of one.

I should be a patient.

Isabelle has canceled our last few meetings, and I understand why.

I followed her; I stalked my patient.

Daniel doesn’t want anything to do with me ever again.

And my husband. The way he looked at me yesterday, as if I were a stranger. But I don’t blame him. I’ve become a stranger, even to myself.

Henrik keeps his distance, he’s cold and unreachable. And it is entirely my own fault. He thinks I’ve gone mad. That I’m mentally ill.

Why didn’t I talk to him? Why couldn’t I be honest?

Because I’m terrified.

This fear has been with me for more than twenty years, and it has ruined my life.

I’m afraid of myself, afraid I’m sick.

I’m afraid Henrik is better off without me, Milo, too. I’m terrified. And it is alienating. My fear is a self-fulfilling prophecy. I will never find out what happened to Alice. We will never see each other again, never have the chance to get to know each other.

Henrik calls around ten. I don’t answer. Just stare apathetically at the phone. He hangs up.

Calls again. I don’t answer. I realize I can’t avoid him forever. I sit up. Feel queasy and rush to the bathroom. I heave and sob over the toilet, but nothing comes out. I go back to the sofa.

He calls a third time. I don’t respond. Stare at the phone while it lights up and vibrates. His name, a picture of him smiling on the display. The phone slides across the table in my direction, as if it wants me to pick up. It stops glowing, stops vibrating.

I lean over it, see myself mirrored in the dark glass. That person is someone I don’t want anything to do with.

That woman is insane. Disturbed. Sick. Psychotic.

Her blank and shiny eyes flash at me. Her mouth moves as if trying to say something. I strike her with my fist. Again and again until she shatters and falls to the floor.





Stella



The apartment building on the other side of the street. Near the mall. I’m here again.

I’m not sick, I’m not insane. I’m healthier than I’ve ever been in my life. What I’m doing is right. Beyond any choice, beyond any option. Beyond a doubt. The only thing left is the truth.

Alice. I’m here now.

I know you understand. My beloved daughter. We will be intertwined forever. Our bloodstream binds us together. You live. You live in me.

I feel your breath in every beat of my heart.

No one can stop me. No one can impede me. What brings me here is larger and stronger than anything else. Larger and stronger than me.

And now I see you. If only you’ll listen to me. Listen for a few minutes. I know we have something special. I know I can reach you.

You’re coming toward me. I see that you see me. You freeze. You stop. You don’t look scared, but you are wary.

Why?

Trust me. Believe in me. Tell me you’re mine.

I stretch a hand toward you, to show you I’m not dangerous. I know you understand. I know you feel it, too. You live in me, you always have.

You are here inside me.

In my blood.





Isabelle



I’m on my way home from the store. The sky is overcast, the clouds heavy with rain. I feel much better, no fever anymore. It felt good to get outside a bit.

Johanna is in school, but not me. I feel stressed because I’ve been absent a lot lately, but it’s been cozy to be home with Mom, too. Still, I don’t plan to follow her when she goes home today. I need some time by myself. Need to absorb everything that’s happened. Maybe I’ll go down next weekend instead. Or after my exams.

Stella. I think of her more than I’d like. I wonder what the police want with her. Will it be weird to go to group therapy next Wednesday? It feels like I haven’t been honest with her. At the same time, it makes me uncomfortable that she followed me. Given what Mom told me. I don’t want to think about it. I push away thoughts of Stella Widstrand and think of Fredrik instead.

I was looking forward to calling him from the store. Now I’m remembering how he sounded, the words he said, and I’m so tired of waiting. I’m counting the seconds until I’m in his arms again. It may not have to be so long. I smile to myself and wonder what I should wear. I cross the square and then the street.

I see her standing outside the building staring up at our window.

In the same way as last time.

She usually has on something nice, her makeup perfect, her thick, curly hair arranged just so. She usually looks so healthy. But not today.

Her hair is in a messy bun; she has dark rings under her eyes. Her dress is wrinkled; it looks like she slept in it.

I wonder what she wants. Why she came here. But then I realize the police probably talked to her. She is angry with me, of course.

“What are you doing here?” I say.

She almost stammers, as if she were unprepared to see me.

“I-I had to meet you.”

“Why?”

She looks sad. Distressed.

She looks like she might break down.

“I just wanted to know what happened,” she says. “I thought you liked our conversations? I felt we had something in common.”

I look down at the ground. Don’t scrape your feet like that, Isabelle! I stop. Straighten up. I force myself to meet Stella’s gaze.

“I did,” I say.

“But why didn’t you come? Not on Monday or Wednesday? Why did you report me to the police?”

I don’t understand. I don’t know what she’s talking about. Then I get a hunch. I glance up at the apartment, but don’t see Mom behind the curtain, spying, keeping watch. What has she done?

I look at Stella again. She points to a nearby bench.