Tell Me You're Mine(47)

“Did I say that?”

“Yes.”

“That I was going to kill her?”

“You hate her, you said. You were going to murder her.”

“Did I say that?”

“Yep. Bash her head in.”

I laugh. “Sure, sure.”

“Who is she?”

I light a new cigarette. Then I explain what made me so suspicious and jealous. Admit that I was snooping around online. I tell her about jennie_89.

Pernilla takes up her phone and searches for the images on Instagram. Looks closely at them.

“Damn you, Henrik,” she says. “What a pig.”

I laugh out loud. It sounds hoarse. Miserable.

“Do you really think he’s cheating?” Pernilla asks. “With her?”

“What do you think?”

“You’ve barely had sex since last summer, you say. Then here comes this hot, blond thing.” Pernilla looks at the picture again. “She is a cutie. And obviously she’s into him. It can be hard to resist. He is a man, after all.”

“Thanks, now I feel better.”

“Middle-aged wife in crisis, a hot blonde who’s fifteen years her junior.”

I look out over the water. “Not a hard choice,” I say.

“Or maybe there’s an explanation,” Pernilla says. “He’s only ever had eyes for you. Do you really think he’s sleeping with her?”

I light a third cigarette, feel Pernilla’s gaze. I hold up the cigarette, stare at it.

“Smoking clearly offers some relief from anxiety,” I say. “Do you know how common it is to start smoking at the psych ward? We had a smoking room. In ward five. Or we’d go out onto a balcony with a high fence. It was like being in a chicken coop. There to protect us from the temptation to jump down four floors. I don’t know which Helena thought was worse. Seeing me drugged and anxious, or smoking a cig to calm my nerves.”

“She cares about you, Stella.”

“I haven’t made it easy for any of you lately.”

“No, you haven’t.”

“Henrik told you everything?”

“You should have told me a long time ago.”

I take one last drag, stub it out.

“Sorry.”

“And Alice. When you came here, you said she was dead. Do you still think that?”

On a whim, I pick up my phone. Look through the pictures and find the screenshot I took. Pernilla takes the phone and looks.

“What is this? Is this her?” Her expression changes. She zooms in and gasps. “She is a copy of Maria.” Pernilla looks at me. “What are you gonna do?” she asks. “What do you want to do? Do you know?”

“Yes,” I answer. “I know what I want.”

“Tell me.”

“I want to take a long, hot bath.”









I go into the bathroom, fill the tub with hot water. Put my hand in; it’s scalding hot. I take off my clothes. I open the window, let in autumn air that makes my naked skin turn to gooseflesh. I take out all the medicines Henrik picked up for me. I throw them in the trash under the sink.

I climb into the steamy water. The heat stings my skin; I hold my breath. I put my hands on either edge of the bathtub, close my eyes, and sink down. I breathe in short, panting breaths.

I lean back, stare up at the ceiling, and inhale the cold streaming in through the open window. All my thoughts scatter into that steam. All my questions. All my guilt and shame. My foolish choices, my desperate attempts. All my failures and all my lies.

Everything fades and drains away.

The water is ice cold by the time I get out of the bathtub. I look in the mirror. The woman I see there looks at me curiously.

I know her, know her well. I know her better than anyone else. I know everything about that woman. She has no secrets, can’t hide anything from me.

And I’m tired of her.

Tired of her delusions. Tired of all the problems she creates for herself, her limitations, the consequences of what she does, I’m tired of all of it. She knows that. And I look at her, and she understands.

I hold my hands in front of me. Steady, strong. They’re not shaking anymore. I close the window, wrap a towel around my chest. I brush my hair out with long, powerful strokes. Open the medicine cabinet, find the scissors. I pull my index finger along the edge and manage to cut myself. A drop of blood drips out of the wound.

The scissors are sharp. They’re perfect.





Kerstin



I’ve taken care of her for days. And now she’s gotten sick. Good thing she wasn’t sitting on a train to Stockholm when it hit her. She’ll have to stay home until she’s well again.

I’ve been cleaning. Dusting, vacuuming, polishing, putting everything in its place. I even watered the flowers. Isabelle helped a bit.

The house is coming back to life again. There’s no other way to describe it. I’ve come back to life. Despite all my misfortunes and my grief after Hans. Despite the fact that I’ve lain sleepless with worry lately.

It’s me and Isabelle. It always has been. And it’s good for her to slow down for a while. She’s been encouraged to search for “the truth.” If only she knew who her real father was, why he wasn’t in her life, then that would solve things. How can she believe that? She doesn’t know what she’s talking about. But I do. Isabelle has no idea how vicious the truth is. If she were ever told, she’d regret asking. She wouldn’t want to meet the man she calls her real father. And it’s just as well that it will never happen.

How could it help her to dissect my life, my choices, my decisions? The truth is never as liberating as you think. On the contrary. The truth hurts. The truth demolishes and destroys. The truth wounds.

Anyone can bring a child into this world. Raising them, giving them character and strength, loving them, that’s something else.

Hans was not Isabelle’s biological father. But he was more father to her than her real father could ever be. I made a mistake with him. A mistake I had to correct. Rummaging around in the past makes no sense. It won’t fix anything.

Isabelle and Hans were very close. I am grateful for that. He was a good father to her. She should be content with that. I just wish she appreciated me a little more. That she showed more love, like when she was little. We love each other. She loves me, I know that. But I’d like to see her show it. I’d like to feel it. We are flesh and blood after all.

Those eyes. The jibes. The questions. The suspicions.

She didn’t used to be like this. And those days together in Stockholm were different. Now her questions wash over me in torrents. Suddenly there’s an awful lot she just has to know. I answer them as best I can, but still she’s not satisfied. She’s changed. She’s been poisoned. The lies that were planted inside her, those lies have set this in motion.

I could spend my time fretting over the choices I’ve made. I choose not to. It is what it is. Should Isabelle have known earlier that Hans adopted her? I’m far from sure.

I try to be patient. It’s difficult. Life is no bed of roses. Kids these days are spoiled, they’ve got it so good. But their opinions are inflexible, obvious, and not based on experience. They pretend to be tolerant and open-minded, but as soon as somebody disagrees with them, then you’re the hater. They feel insulted, embattled. Kids these days blame everything on their parents, and they want to judge and sentence them.

Grow up, I say. Stop whining. You don’t know anything about real suffering.

My own mother was worthless. An evil person, a drunk. I’ve done pretty well anyway. I would never have gone to a therapist crying about how mean she was. I would never openly question her choices. You don’t do that. It’s wrong. Allowing some stranger to root around inside you. Letting a stranger give you all the answers. Of course that’s wrong. It’s unnatural.

But I swallow my vexation. That’s what you do when you’re a mother.

I know Isabelle thinks I’m being silly when I comment on her clothing. But it’s shocking to see how different she is from the girl who left home.

If it were just a question of fashion, I might have understood. Maybe. But she’s been angry, critical, unpleasant, totally unlike herself. Like she wants to act in another way. As if she wants to be someone else.

I’m just waiting for a tattoo or piercing to show up next. But even there I try to hold my tongue. Instead of arguing, I serve her tea and tuck her in. She’ll be well soon. She’ll be herself again.

She’ll come back to me. Everything will work out in the end. Of course she misses Stockholm, but I live in the present. I’m trying to teach her to do the same.

Rest.

Drink your tea.

Keep your feet warm.

The rest will take care of itself.

Everything will be good again. I’ll make sure of that.

It will be just like it was before.





Stella



A long curly lock of hair falls to the floor.

One by one they fall.

When I’m done, I contemplate the results in the mirror.

Then I put on the clothes Henrik brought for me. Black stretch jeans, a white tank top, and a gray hoodie.

The kitchen smells delicious. Pasta, garlic, shrimp, fresh cheese, tomatoes, spices. My stomach grumbles, I’m hungry.

Pernilla sees me. She stops in her tracks with her mouth wide open.

“Stella, what have you done?”

“Made a change,” I say, popping a shrimp into my mouth.