“The driver should have seen me. I had your red umbrella, the one with reflective stripes on it.”
He keeps talking, but I don’t hear anything after that.
Milo had my umbrella. My red umbrella. He was brutally run over. In the rain and darkness.
Somebody thought it was me.
Stella Widstrand has suddenly and unexpectedly left us. She will not be missed. No one mourns her.
Whoever left that death threat was serious.
Who is he?
Stella
I sit with Milo while they put him under in the operating room. Then I go out to Henrik.
And we wait.
I think about my son. Milo, alone on the road, my umbrella in his hand. Someone slows, then floors it, and plows straight into him. Then drives off. Leaving him unconscious and bloody in the rain.
Milo in a hospital bed, in a light yellow room with cheap paintings and floral curtains. Pale and bruised. Afraid and brave.
My son, the victim of attempted murder. It should have been me.
Whoever did this doesn’t hesitate to kill.
Among all the male patients I’ve treated over the years I can’t think of a single suspect. My life has never been threatened before.
“It should have been me.”
Henrik looks at me.
“What do you mean?”
“He had my umbrella. My red umbrella, which can be seen from miles away.”
“What are you talking about?”
Henrik’s body language shows he doesn’t want to hear more.
I open my bag and pull out the death notice. “Do you remember this?”
Henrik looks at the paper with the text and cross and says nothing.
“That threat and my red umbrella are the reason Milo is lying on an operating table right now. Someone also called and lied to me about Milo. A man in a raincoat with the hood obscuring his face has been watching me.”
Henrik hands back the death notice and sits down next to me. He studies me carefully.
“You said yourself that you had an episode. You may be imagining things. Again.”
I meet his eyes. “I haven’t been imagining voices that aren’t real. Or events that haven’t occurred. Someone called me about Milo. Twice. A man stood outside our house. Also twice.”
Henrik looks down at the floor. “I don’t know, Stella. I still feel unsure about you.”
“Isn’t this real?” I hold up the death threat.
“Lina could have written it. Or her parents. Maybe one of them called you about Milo.”
“It wasn’t them. I talked to her. I talked to her parents, too. They didn’t do this.”
“When? When did you talk to them?”
“Yesterday. I had to know.”
“You’re under investigation. You’re not allowed to have any contact with Lina or her family.”
“They’re withdrawing the complaint.”
“Are they? Well, that’s good.” Henrik looks surprised. “Then who is this? Who hates you so much that he’s prepared to go this far?” He points toward the operating room.
“I don’t know. But I got this right after I first met Alice,” I say. “It must be someone who knows the truth about her disappearance. Who doesn’t want it to come out. They want to make me seem unbalanced.”
Henrik laughs. A short, joyless laugh. He doesn’t follow my reasoning.
“It’s clear no one will believe me if it seems like I’m imagining things,” I continue. “For example, not picking up Milo, or believing he’s disappeared from school.”
“That’s pretty far-fetched, Stella.”
“If I’m reported to the police, then I can’t meet Alice again. What exactly am I accused of? Really?”
Henrik leans back and shoves his hands into his jeans pockets.
“I haven’t done anything to Isabelle,” I say. “I’ve never behaved in a threatening or violent way. I haven’t hurt her. It’s strange.”
“It’s not that strange that Isabelle’s mother would be worried when you thought her daughter was yours.”
“Isabelle was never afraid of me. Not until that last time. And then it was as if she knew what I was going to say. As if someone had already told her what I wanted. That I was going to say she was my daughter. How could she know that? Who got to her with their version first?”
“What do you mean?”
“It wasn’t a man standing outside our house.”
“No?”
“It can only be one person,” I answer.
“Who?”
“You know who. You’ve met her.”
Isabelle
Mom hurls open the door. She enters the room and sees me on the sofa. I must have fallen asleep here. Must have been sleeping for a long time. It’s light out again, morning I think.
Mom asks me what I’m doing up. Her voice is cold and hard. Her eyes mean. She draws the curtains.
I say I wanted some sunlight.
Mom answers that I’m sick. I don’t need any sunlight, she says, I need to rest. Light is bad for you. It’s better to sleep in the dark.
Then she tilts her head to the side and smiles. Now she’s her kind self. It’s best I eat some chicken soup. She’s going to take care of me. Soon I’ll be on my feet again. But first I have to rest. Lie down in bed and rest.
I let her stroke my cheek, I eat some soup. It smells bad, tastes bad. I don’t want any more. Mom forces the rest down me. How can I get better if I don’t eat?
She looks happy. Says we might go on holiday when I feel better. She tucks me into bed. I hear that I’m whimpering, complaining my stomach hurts.
Mom shushes me, strokes my hair, and bathes my forehead with a damp cloth. She says everything will be okay. Everything will be just like before. Mom will make sure of it.
I feel sick again. I’m sweating.
The glass bowl on the shelf, I see it more clearly than ever before, I see it more clearly than if I was standing right next to it. Every variation of the rounded glass, every reflection of the light, all the irregularities and small air bubbles. The overhead lamp spins around and a crack appears, dazzling light streams out. The orange ceramic bird on the desk hovers in the air, turns toward me, looks at me with the unseeing eyes of the dead. The ceiling bends down and then up, like elastic skin, and the walls slide away, slide in again, the floor is water, waves ripple through my room.
Dad talked to me. Said he was down in the garden. He was waiting for me. Asked me if I wanted to help him wash the car.
And then the wind came through the trees and sang.
From inside my torpor, they arrive.
From inside my dream, before I rise to the surface again.
The memories.
The mailbox at the gate. I thought it was magic when I was little.
No one else had a mailbox that looked like a house. It was bright yellow with gingerbread trim, towers, and a porch, porcelain flowers climbing up toward the roof. I used to stand and stare at it, pretend I lived there instead. Inside that house, you could never be anything but happy.
One day I accidentally rode into it with my bike. I hadn’t really learned how to use the brakes; I was going too fast and smashed right into it. The mailbox fell over and broke.
I cried. My side hurt; my knees were scraped. I was ashamed that I’d ruined something that belonged to Mom.
Dad hugged me and said it was just a thing. He picked up the mailbox, promised Mom he’d fix it when he got home after work. After he left, she dragged me in by my arm, sat me down on a chair facing the wall. I sat there forever. Crying and begging for forgiveness. She walked back and forth behind me, screaming how I’d hurt her, how I was worthless. She’d done everything for me, but I showed no appreciation. I said it wasn’t on purpose. She slapped me. Then she left. After warning me not to move.
After my legs and my butt had fallen asleep, she came back. I don’t know where she went or for how long. She pulled me up, said she was my mother. You have to love and respect your mother. If you do, everything will be fine. Respect is love. Love is respect. They are the same thing.
Then she fussed over my wounds. She poured rubbing alcohol into them. It burned, and I cried even more. But now she comforted me. She hushed me and said it was necessary. She wiped my tears and hugged me hard, too hard, and then we baked a cake for Dad, and when he came home everything was like usual. Everything was good again.
We used to plant things in the garden together. Mom taught me about planting zones and hardiness. Our garden was tidy and beautiful. It was my favorite thing to do, to help Mom, to see her happy. One day I wanted to give her a bouquet of flowers. I took the tulips from the flower bed. Cut them off so only the stalks were left. After that, I was never allowed to help again.
When I was hurt or ill, she was at her best. She read to me, fixed my hair, comforted and bandaged me. But then her other side would shine through. One word, one look, one question put the wrong way was enough. I have never felt safe with her. I learned to be always on my guard. I had to choose my words carefully if I wanted to keep Mom in a good mood.
The cellar staircase. The dark, steep cellar staircase. The stairs rising up at me, swirling and hitting me, hard edges beating against my head, my arms and my legs. I land on my back on the basement floor. I look up and see a dark outline in the doorway. First, I don’t know who it is. I ask: Who are you? Why did you push me?
The light in the ceiling turns on. The dark figure is gone, and now Mom is standing there looking surprised. She puts her hands in front of her mouth and screams. She rushes down the stairs, takes me in her arms.