Stella
Today is Wednesday. Time’s been moving unbelievably slowly.
I finish my morning coffee, put the cup in the dishwasher, and close the diary lying open on the kitchen table. It was stupid to throw it away. As if doing so would change anything. When we got out to the car in the parking lot, I told Milo to wait for me. I ran back to Vasalund Hall and fished the diary out of the trash. Dried it off and put it back in my purse.
Eventually, reading it brought the past back to life. Just like I had thought it would. The guilt, the anxiety. Knowing what I did, what I can never undo. But I have no choice, I have to go on. Meanwhile I keep trying to pretend like nothing happened. Henrik can’t know. Not yet.
I’ve locked the front door and am headed toward the car when our neighbor shouts my name and waves. Johan Lindberg somehow manages to always be outside when we leave or enter our home. He was recently fired from his position as a financial adviser at a big investment firm, let go immediately when it was discovered he’d been sending dick pics to his female coworkers. But of course, they gave him a golden parachute. When a man at that level crosses the line, his landing is a soft one. Johan Lindberg will never have to work again. We call him the investor. He’s always around home, boasting about his new life as a day trader. He’s annoying, but harmless, and sometimes almost pleasant to talk to. But I don’t feel like it today, so I wave back and drive off.
I pass by the reception desk and say hello to Renate. She asks me how I’m feeling, thinks I look pale. I don’t mention my sleepless nights or loss of appetite. Instead, I smile and blame my genes, I always look pale. She laughs. I laugh, too, for good measure, and continue down the hallway toward my office. I hang up my coat and change my shoes. Sit down at my desk, take out my calendar and MacBook Air. I look through the calendar, taking note of today’s sessions. Two in the morning, then group therapy after lunch, and one session after that.
It’s been nine days since I met her. The woman who calls herself Isabelle Karlsson. Nine meaningless days. Nine days of suffocating nothingness. I’ve been drinking more than I should. Self-medicating of course, what else?
I don’t like the red wine Henrik persists in bringing home. I don’t even like wine. It tastes bad, gives me headaches, and makes me feel ill every time I drink more than two glasses. But for the last few nights I’ve gulped it down just to be able to sleep. And even that has barely helped. Still, it’s better than sleeping pills. When I use those, my brain ceases to function the next day. Then again, in the long run I know alcohol is not truly an option. The risk of relapse increases the more I drink.
The uncertainty is excruciating. Not knowing, never being able to silence the swarm of thoughts and questions buzzing around inside me. And I waver constantly between certainty and doubt. So sure my instincts are correct, and then just as sure that I’m wrong. My mood is terrible; I have no patience.
Isabelle Karlsson. Today she’ll participate in group therapy for the first time. I don’t remember the last time I felt this nervous about a therapy session. Or scared. Maybe my self-esteem as a psychotherapist isn’t what it used to be. But no. I know that what happened to Lina Niemi wasn’t my fault. I’m good at what I do.
Still, I should have detected the problem sooner. I tried for a long time, but I couldn’t help her. In the end, she became dependent on me, wanted me to always be available to her.
Lina Niemi’s staged suicide attempt occurred following my decision to refer her to someone else. Last May she took a handful of antidepressants and washed them down with alcohol. Her mother found her. She spent one night in the hospital for stomach pains, that was all.
Her life was never in danger. But according to Lina herself, she’d almost died. She claimed everything was my fault: I wasn’t responsive enough in our conversations, I didn’t care about her problems, I didn’t heed her cries for help. She said I was unprofessional, fostered her destructive dependence on me.
Lina’s parents listened only to their daughter. Which I suppose is understandable. But afterward Lina’s mother started blogging about me. I’m manipulative, my methods are dubious, I get off on being needed. I’m never mentioned by name, but there aren’t many psychotherapists with the initials SW who practice on Kungsholmen.
Still, I was surprised when they reported me to the Health and Social Care Inspectorate. I took it hard. Did I make a mistake in my treatment of Lina? I’ve analyzed it so many times, and every time I come to the same conclusion.
No, I did not.
However, I am far from sure that my colleagues share that opinion. Of course, they want to cover their backs. Several times they’ve asked me if there were really no signs of self-harm. Every time I have assured them I did everything I could for Lina Niemi. They’ve also wondered if maybe I need a break, even suggested I take a leave of absence. I made it clear to them that I don’t think I need that.
I submitted Lina’s patient journal for review and gave my version to the Health and Social Care inspectors. I’m still waiting for a decision.
Right now, I can’t afford more complaints.
I need to be professional around Isabelle. The problem is I have no clue what her intentions are. And it frightens me.
There’s a knock at the door. It’s nine o’clock. My first patient has arrived.
In a few minutes, it will be one o’clock. My fear has increased. I can’t handle another panic attack. I try to calm myself down. I try not to let my emotions get the better of me. I try to think rationally, to talk some sense into myself.
It’s just a figment of your imagination, Stella.
There has to be some rational explanation. It’s a coincidence.
It’s a misunderstanding.
It can’t be her.
Inhale. Exhale.
It doesn’t help.
Nothing helps.
Anxiety gnaws at my stomach, and my field of vision narrows to a single blurry point of light.
I rush out into the hall and down to the bathroom. I fall on my knees in front of the toilet and throw up. Then I stand up, holding on to the edge of the sink, and close my eyes. Wait for the dizziness to subside.
I rinse my mouth, wipe my forehead and the rest of my face with a paper towel. I study my expression in the mirror. Attempt a smile. I leave the bathroom and go to the lounge.
Nine red armchairs circle a round rug. Someone, probably Renate, has prepped the room, and the air is fresh. I sit down in my usual chair and force myself to relax, breathe.
Sonja comes in next and sinks down in the chair closest to mine. When the session is over, she’ll be the first to leave. She has social anxiety disorder and has been in this group the longest. Still, she never speaks. I greet her; she answers with a motion of her hand.
My armchair is placed with its back to one window. To the left of me is another wall with high windows, to the right is the door. I look at the clock above it and glance at my wristwatch. I’m always careful to come just before the session begins and finish exactly ninety minutes later.
Two minutes left.
Still no Isabelle Karlsson.
Clara is already in place, afraid as she is of arriving late.
She sits on my left. Her expectations for herself are incredibly high. Despite a good job as a project leader in a successful media company, she constantly doubts her own abilities.
Magnus is here, too. He sits in the chair opposite me with his eyes glued to his old shoes. He looks up, brushes his hair out of his eyes, then looks down again. Chronically depressed.
Isabelle opens the door.
Her black, shiny hair is pulled up in a ponytail. She is wearing light blue jeans, a black top, and a dark brown leather jacket. She gently closes the door behind her and slides down into the armchair next to Sonja.
I realize I’ve been holding my breath and release it.
Her face is impossible to interpret. I resist the impulse to stare at her. To my great relief, the strong emotions of the last meeting do not return. She isn’t as similar to Maria, Daniel’s sister, as I thought the first time. At least that’s what I tell myself.
Our eyes meet. I realize this isn’t a coincidence.
Isabelle is here for a reason.
She must have tracked me down to see who I am, not just for therapy. I have to find out what she’s really searching for. I have to find out what she wants and why she’s so secretive. Before I dare to confront her. Everything would be so much easier if she’d just be honest with me. I have no idea why she’s not.
I am about to start when Arvid pulls open the door and rushes in. He throws himself into the chair next to Magnus. I give him a long look and hope he understands how much I disapprove of his habitual lateness. He ignores me. Takes out a box of mints and puts one in his mouth.
I begin: Welcome. As I told you last week, we have a new group member starting today. Her name is Isabelle.
Short silence. Everybody looks at Isabelle. She smiles, pretending to be shy. She does it well. Where did she learn to lie so convincingly?
Magnus: I don’t think Anna should have left. She was just starting to get somewhere.
Clara: She had to stop in order to keep progressing, she said. This is more about you and how much you dislike change.
Magnus: Maybe. But still.
Silence.
Clara: How’s your week been, Arvid? You had a family reunion to go to, right?
Arvid: Ugh. I thought I was gonna go insane. Being with my family for a couple days, what a fucking nightmare. My sister was weird. As usual. Dad drank, Mom was a nervous wreck. Then we pretended to be a “happy family” for the relatives. Good God. Total fucking fakes.