“Do you want to sit with me for a while?”
I don’t want to, but still I follow her to the bench. I sit at a distance from her.
“Maybe you didn’t know about that?” Stella says. She sounds understanding, but doesn’t wait for answers. “It doesn’t matter; I just want to clear up any misunderstandings.”
“I didn’t know,” I say. “I’m sorry, but I didn’t know.”
“It’s all right,” she says and strokes my back. “I’ve thought about what you told me. About your upbringing, about your thoughts. The relationship between you and your mother.”
“Okay?”
“I once had a daughter,” Stella says. “A long time ago.”
I recognize the look in her eyes. It was there when she told us about her grief. That tone was in her voice. As if she were desperate, as if she were driven by such powerful emotions that she lost control of them.
“She disappeared one day,” Stella continues. “I never found out what happened. Everyone said she drowned. Everyone thought she was dead. Not me. I knew she was alive. Knew someone had taken her.”
Stella looks into my eyes. I look down, can’t endure her wild, intense stare.
“Have you ever wondered if Kerstin is your biological mother? Your real mother?”
I stand up from the bench. “I have to go now.”
“Please, Isabelle, listen. Please let me finish before you go.”
Stella roots around in her handbag and takes out a photograph. Her hand is shaking.
“Just look. This is Maria. I haven’t told you about her. But you reminded me of her from the moment I met you. More than that, you’re like copies of each other.”
I look at the photo. It could be my sister.
“Maria is your aunt,” Stella says and takes out another picture. “And here, this is a photo of you. Of my little girl, when she was ten months old. Look at her black hair? The ear? The dimple?”
She waits. Lets me look before going on. “Do you have any photos of yourself as a baby? I don’t think so. I think you have a lot of questions about that time.”
I’ve had enough. I don’t want to see or hear more. Stella takes a toy out of her purse. A cloth spider.
“This spider was your favorite. You loved it,” she says with tears in her eyes. “I believe you’re my missing daughter.” She stretches out a hand toward me.
“You’re wrong,” I say, taking a step back. “You are wrong. You are totally fucking crazy.”
“I understand this comes as a shock.”
“Stop!” I scream. “Stop following me. She was right; she said you would say this.”
The buzzing in my head is getting louder and louder. I press my hands over my ears.
Stella stands and goes over to me. Hugs me.
“Who was right? Kerstin? You know, I want to meet her. I want to know what she has to say about all this.”
“Why?” I hear I’m sobbing. “Why are you doing this? I thought you were good; I thought you cared about me. It felt like you were the only one I could talk to. But you’ve just been pretending. This whole time. You’re sick in the head.” I push her away. She falls back and sinks down onto the bench.
“Isabelle, if only you’d give me a chance,” she pleads. “Think about it. You’ve wondered why you’re so different, why she doesn’t feel like a mother.”
“I’ve already lost my dad. She’s all I have left. And right now things are better between us than ever. What makes you think you can do this to me? Spread these lies?” I’m screaming again.
Stella reaches out her hand.
I slap it away.
“Go to hell! You’re worse than Mom when she’s crazy. She’s not perfect but at least she’s honest. You’re a fake. You lie, you manipulate. Get lost and leave us alone.”
Stella stares at me with pleading eyes and an imploring expression.
“I’m your mother,” she says. “Your name is Alice. You are my daughter. I knew you would come back to me. I’ve been waiting for you ever since you disappeared.”
I run as fast as I can. Reach the door, push in the code, tear open the door, and slam it behind me. I forgot the groceries. I look toward the bench. A shrunken woman sits there. Alone with her photos and a toy she says was mine.
Kerstin
I saw them. Couldn’t hear a word, of course, but I didn’t need to, I saw them. I’m so angry I’m shaking.
Is it strange a mother would want to defend her child at any cost? Is it wrong? Is it unnatural for a mother to react with rage when her child is threatened?
No. It’s not wrong. It’s natural. That’s the way it should be.
Isabelle opens the door and enters the hall. I continue folding the laundry. She enters the room. I look up at her. She’s crying. Standing there on the threshold not daring to go in or out. And she looks just like she did when she was little. She’s my little girl again.
I drop the sheets I’m holding. I go to Isabelle and take her in my arms. She’s sobbing. Her tears stream down her face, she sniffs and sniffs, she sobs and tries to catch her breath.
There, there, my little darling. Mommy is here now, and nothing can hurt you. That’s what I should say.
That’s what I usually say.
I usually stroke her hair and whisper comforting words. Show her I understand, that I’m here to help and support her, to talk.
Not this time.
I hold my little girl, I do. But I’m silent, don’t say a single word.
I want Isabelle to know how dangerous that woman is, how sick and crazy she is. I offer no words of comfort, let fear work on her for a while. Now finally she has the chance to really understand. To toughen up and find the strength within. She’s still weak. She needs me. Her mother. And I’m here. I will always be here for my baby.
Still, Isabelle doesn’t understand much about life. But she will.
Stella
I lie on the floor in the hall. Lie on my back with my coat on, staring up at the ceiling. Defeated. Crushed. I cried through the whole of my drive home. At one point I even had to turn off the road so I could calm down enough to make it the rest of the way.
I can’t stop going over my meeting with Alice. What I said.
What she said.
How I said it.
How she reacted.
I scared her; I made her despise me. I made her feel angry and disgusted. All I wanted was to talk to my child, to my own daughter.
My humiliation is total.
My instinct, was it wrong? My intuition, my emotions?
I’m aware I’m not doing well, that I’m far from stable. I understand that I’m entering a manic state. But so long as I have the ability to reflect on what I feel and think, I’m not completely out of my mind. If I were, I wouldn’t be able to lie here thinking through my situation. And right now I’m prepared to see the truth as it is, I’m ready to bow to reality.
So what’s real? What is true? The answer is Alice.
Alice is real.
And the fact that she is my daughter is true.
Everything begins and ends with her. My problems began when I started my investigation. When I started asking Isabelle questions about her background. That’s when the threatening letter arrived, that’s when the man in the raincoat first stood outside on the street. It’s not my imagination, these aren’t fantasies. This is real.
Or am I wrong? Is it just another way for me to hold on to a delusion?
No, everyone else is wrong. I am right.
I just can’t prove it.
The phone rings; I wasn’t even sure it worked anymore. It must be Henrik. I can’t bring myself to check. Stay at work. If you came home and found me like this, you’d commit me. And I don’t want to go there again.
It rings again and again. In the end, I grab the fucking phone. Look at the cracked screen. Unknown number.
I answer.
“Is this Stella Widstrand?” The voice sounds distant.
“Yes.”
“I’m calling about your son. Milo Widstrand.”
I sit up.
“Yes?”
“He was on a class trip today. They couldn’t find him when they were supposed to head back. Now he’s absent from school. He’s gone.”
“Gone? What do you mean, gone? Who are you?”
“Unfortunately, I don’t know any more than that. I was just supposed to call you.”
The voice sounds even more distant now; it’s scratchy. My phone must have been damaged by the blows; I can barely hear anything.
“Who is this? Were you on this excursion? What happened? What have you done to my son?” The call cuts off.
I’m running down the hallway toward the school office. I beat on the door. A woman I don’t recognize opens it. I scream at her.
“My son has been abducted. Who’s responsible? Have you called the police?”
“Abducted? I don’t know anything about that. What’s your son’s name?”
“Milo Widstrand, 7B. They were on a class trip. Don’t you have any fucking idea of what’s going on?”
The woman fetches a binder. She fumbles with some schedules. It takes way too long.
“Where are they? Where is his class?”
“In their classroom,” she answers and looks at me with fear in her eyes.
I storm down another hallway. Pass a kid who is absorbed in his phone. I push him away. He flies into the wall, falls onto the floor, and drops his phone. He screams after me, “Fucking bitch.” I keep running.