I’m close to being committed.
I’ve been forced onto sick leave.
I’ve been reported to the Health and Social Care Inspectorate.
And to the police.
Henrik is gone.
Milo is gone.
Alice is gone.
Everything is over.
I’ve lost my life.
Psychologically unstable. Ready to be locked away. Poisoned by suspicion. Who have I become? My thoughts race. Can’t sleep. Isabelle. Alice. Where are you? What are you thinking? Milo. How are you doing? Do you hate me now? Henrik. I know what you think of me. What I don’t know is if you’re meeting Jennie this evening. I have to know. Have to, but I don’t want to.
I get up from the floor. Fetch the iPad and open the app.
Henrik is logged in to Facebook. It’s been a long time since he updated his status. He’s shared a few links from his company’s website, a friend wrote a greeting in August. A bunch of congratulations on his birthday in May. Otherwise nothing. No new friends added. No tagged photos. I close the app.
Notice he’s installed Instagram. Since when? Milo doesn’t use it. Does Henrik? I push on the icon. The username is the name of his company. I remember how he snorted at it. “How many new clients are we gonna get on Instagram?”
I scroll through the pictures. They are well composed, trendy, and professional. No weird angles or trashcans in the background. Images from construction sites. Close-ups of drawings. The open-plan office, the lounge. A happy team, everyone loves their job. Young and hip. Stylish, smiling, and successful.
Pictures of Henrik.
Smiling, he holds up the coffee mug Milo gave him on Father’s Day, the one with Superman on it. Engaged in conversation with a colleague, checking something on his iPad. Giving presentations on various occasions, a big screen in the background. He looks good. Well dressed. Relaxed. Professional. His shirtsleeves rolled up as they often are in the afternoon. A successful man who loves his job and knows he’s damned good at it.
I scroll up again. Click on a picture. What’s he doing here? Dancing in the lounge? He’s captured mid–dance move, with his arms above his head. He’s laughing. Self-confident and charming. White T-shirt and jeans. Those light, worn-out jeans that make his butt look good.
#thebossrocks #funattheoffice #tgif
One hundred and eight likes. I click on them. See a long list of likers. “Likers,” so obnoxiously corny. I look through the list. What silly usernames people choose. I’m about to shut it off when I see that jennie_89 liked the picture.
Jennie, you’re amazing!
I feel sick.
Click on the username. Pull up a grid of her photos. I recognize her from one of the group pictures of Henrik’s employees. She must be new.
All those long days, late evenings at the office.
Henrik is there on the top row of her Instagram.
I look through the other pictures. A lot of selfies, of course. She’s good-looking. She’s skinny. She’s blond. She has pouty lips and saucy, pert breasts that she displays prominently in her tight T-shirts and blouses.
Henrik is featured in another picture farther down as well. Smiling at the photographer. His eyebrows raised in order to say, Stop messing around. Easygoing. Playful.
Happy.
The blood buzzes in my ears. My hands shake, and I open and close them several times to make it stop.
I click on the latest picture of him. Posted just two hours ago.
There they are. Henrik and Jennie.
There are other people around them, but I only see Henrik and Jennie. His hair is messy, his eyes shiny. He has a beer bottle in one hand; he smiles straight at me. He’s smiling his sexiest smile. He is leaning toward Jennie. Her hand rests lightly against his chest. Her head back is thrown back in laughter.
Office party with the best boss, she’s written. Fourteen different emojis.
#bestnightever
Fifty-six likes.
One of the comments: “Sexy boss!” Four emojis.
Another comment: “You look good together!” Five hearts.
I have never been unsure of him. Not once. I know he’s not a cheater. But this is different. All the phone calls, his accidental text. And now these pictures on Instagram.
I’ve driven him away from me. To jennie_89.
I lie awake in bed waiting. It’s three-thirty in the morning when I hear him open the front door. He stumbles up the stairs. He hits his toe on the bureau and swears loudly. He’s wasted. Stinks of beer and cigarettes. Smells of her.
Henrik and Jennie.
I can see him in front of me taking a swig of his beer. Sharing a cigarette with Jennie. Whispering in her ear. She presses her hot, fit body against him. Crawling all over him. Henrik laughs. She laughs. They laugh together.
They’re laughing at me.
He takes a drag and gives Jennie his sexy smile. She caresses his neck, whispers that she wants him. They kiss each other. You are the best I’ve ever had, he tells her as they fuck.
I, his police-reported, soon-to-be forty-year-old wife, am waiting at home. A stinky, psycho wreck of a human being. I want to ask how long it’s been going on. Pull every little detail out of him. But the words don’t come. He looks at me, takes his blanket, and staggers out the door.
He doesn’t even want to sleep next to me.
I lie there. Inhale. Exhale.
I can’t stay here.
I go down the stairs and see him on the sofa. I have the urge to push away the hair hanging over his eyes. I sit down next to him, hear him snoring lightly.
I remember when I saw Henrik Widstrand the first time. When his light blue eyes looked into mine. I remember how he admired me, his sexy smiles. All those nights we sat up laughing and talking about everything. He went with me to Alice’s grave, held my hand. He never judged me.
He became my best friend, my lover, my husband. I remember our first kiss, our first night together. How we moved into a place on Industrigatan and worked hard, he built his company, I studied. His happiness when I told him about Milo, the best thing we’ve ever done, and now here we are.
I stand up, hurry into the hall. I take my car keys and struggle out the front door, rushing into the cold. I can’t stay in this house anymore. Can’t be where he is. He carries her with him. Her scent, her deceitful smile.
He has betrayed me.
My husband has left me for a younger woman.
Out in the cold, out in the rain. It’s freezing. I’m barefoot, wearing sweatpants and a tank top. I jump into my Audi and drive away.
I’ve lied, I’ve kept secrets from Henrik. I’ve tried to hide what I’m up to. I have been dishonest.
But most of all I’ve lied to myself.
I should have seen this. The signs were there. I’ve been blind. All I could see was Alice.
Henrik, drunk and happy. Newly in love, newly fucked. He has someone else now. He has Jennie. Young and beautiful and sexy and blond. With a perfect body that’s never given birth to children, no rolls or stretch marks.
He’s made his choice. I hate him. But I understand him, too, which makes me hate myself even more. Who wants a psycho, middle-aged woman drowning in self-pity? His patience is gone. He’s had enough.
I’m an unstable, aggressive woman who’s lost her grip on reality. Who pushes away everyone who comes near her. Who refuses to listen to the people closest to her when all they want is the best for her. Who refuses to see the truth.
I’m sick.
And Alice is a part of my disease.
I need help.
I stop the car, get out. I walk, then run. Ice-cold rain, ice-cold wind. Walk and run. I stumble. Tumble and collapse.
I end up on the street, crying.
Isabelle
It’s Sunday and I would have liked to be in Stockholm now.
But Mom got a migraine just as I was about to buy my ticket. It’s been a long time since she was this ill. She got really sick, and I just couldn’t leave her alone. Luckily, I don’t have to miss any school. Other than studying for our exams with my group.
Being home this weekend reminded me of how isolated my childhood was. Now that Dad has passed away, it’s even clearer how lonely Mom is. She doesn’t hang out with anyone. Ever. It’s strange that you could live in such a small place and yet still avoid any contact with other people.
I miss Fredrik. And Johanna. I miss my independent life in Stockholm. We’ve been texting a lot, Fredrik and I. He writes things to me that make me feel like I’m floating in the clouds. That make me long for him and fantasize about him all the time.
But it’s been good to be home, too. I’ve helped Mom with the worst of the mess. I took care of the dishes and vacuumed in the kitchen and the living room.
Right now we’re cooking a late lunch together. The radio is on, and Mom is setting the table with her finest dishes. She feels better, humming and even taking small dancing steps, making me laugh. We eat and look at the collage sitting on the kitchen table. Remember every picture, where they were taken and what we were doing. It’s cozy.
“Mom.”
“Yes, my darling.”
“Who is my real dad?”
She tenses up immediately. She doesn’t want to talk about this.
“We were better off without him, believe me,” Mom says harshly. “He was a horrible person. A bad man.”
Maybe she’s right. I mean, he hasn’t exactly tried very hard to contact me. Still, her reply makes me sad. Mom is turning off, putting up a wall. Like she always does when I ask about my childhood. She hasn’t thought it was important for twenty-two years. Still, I thought over the last few days we had started building something different. My questions might be uncomfortable ones, but it is my life we’re talking about.