She comforts, comforts, comforts. Says I must have stumbled in the dark. You have to learn to be careful, Isabelle. Oh, my little girl, what have you done?
Did Dad know how she treated me? I don’t know. I don’t think so. Not entirely. Perhaps he didn’t want to see. He hated conflict. But those times when she went off the rails in front of him, he protected me. So she chose her occasions. When we were alone. And I never told anyone. It was my own fault that she got angry and I didn’t want to turn Dad against me, too.
Now I understand my hate for her. I understand why I’ve wished she would die. I don’t know how many times she’s died in my imagination. How many times I’ve spit on her grave. But underneath the hate and rage there has always been fear. And that fear has kept me from remembering. I have been terrified of my own memories.
Mom has always been good at making everything better again. And when things were good, they were really good. I didn’t want to ruin the good moments. And I still do that. Wish so much that those kind periods were for real. But I know her true self. Even though I haven’t acknowledged it to myself, I know who she is. It scares me more than anything else.
She tells me she loves me. But it is a demanding kind of love, entirely on her terms. She wants me to love her back just as much. But I’ve never known how. Because it’s never enough.
She was jealous of my relationship with Dad, I know that. Though she needed him, too. He was more important than I understood.
Since he died, that look of hers is back. I’ve seen it before; I know it and I’m used to it.
But it’s stronger now.
It never disappears completely.
I wonder what she sees within herself.
I wonder what she sees when she looks at me.
And I realize that it’s not my memories I’m afraid of. It’s her.
Stella
Henrik crosses his arms and waits for me to continue. I stand up slowly and go over to the window. Turn around and walk back.
“It’s the same person who told you I thought Isabelle was Alice,” I say. “Already, she was sowing doubts about my mental state. She wanted to make me seem mentally ill. Deranged, in need of care.”
Henrik wrinkles his forehead and looks at me doubtfully.
I myself wonder how it’s possible. How did she know? Has she been watching me all these years?
It was her the whole time. She was the one who saw me when I was near her house in Barkargärdet the first time—not the neighbors, like I thought.
And now she knows I know.
She’s afraid the truth will come out, afraid enough to try to stop me. To kill me.
Henrik says, “The woman I met was kind and pleasant. A worried mother. She was definitely not the psychopath you want to make her into.”
I put the death notice back in my bag. It’s not a good idea to talk about it now. Nothing has changed since yesterday. And we have to focus on Milo.
“I’m going to buy a cup of coffee,” I say. “Want one?”
Henrik doesn’t answer, just shakes his head.
I take the elevator down to the entrance hall. The sign hangs down here, too. Become a blood donor. I buy coffee in the café and ride back up again. Step out and stand at the panorama window in the corridor near the elevators.
The sky looks like a slate. The cemetery opposite the hospital is covered with fallen leaves. The E4 highway runs next to it, a traffic jam of cars headed out of the city. All of those people on their way somewhere on this ordinary Wednesday. Living their lives as if nothing has happened.
Group therapy will begin in the lounge soon. Will Alice be there today? Wonder who’s taken over. It doesn’t matter. None of it does anymore.
The surgery went well, and Milo is in the recovery ward. The left leg has a cast up to the knee. The bandage around his head has been removed, but not the one on his temple. He’s still pale. And he’s asleep.
When he wakes up, they roll him back into the light yellow room. We talk and play cards. Milo shows me a game on his phone. The bruises on his face have darkened slightly. It will look even worse in a couple of days, the doctor doing rounds tells us.
“It’ll look cool,” Henrik says, and Milo smiles.
Later, his grandparents come for a visit. Margareta gives me a big hug. I hug her back, hold her for a long time.
“You seem to be feeling better,” she says. “I like your new haircut.”
“We should eat,” Henrik says. “You must be starving, Milo?”
“I want a Big Mac, supersized. With an extra cheeseburger.”
Henrik laughs.
“I’ll see what I can do.” He turns to me.
“I’m not hungry,” I say. “Coffee is enough for me.”
“You have to eat sometime,” Henrik says. “Soon you’ll have more coffee than blood in those veins.”
I stare at him. “What did you say?”
“What?”
“What did you say?” I say.
Henrik grimaces. “You should eat, you haven’t had anything for—”
“No, no, the other thing. About the coffee.”
“More coffee than—”
“Than blood in my veins.”
A silly comment. But one that makes me realize something obvious. I should have thought of it a long time ago.
GIVE BLOOD.
LIFE: 1 DEATH: 0
Isabelle
Shrill and piercing. The sound penetrates this fog. It never ends. After a while it falls silent. Then it starts again. And again. It never ends, and it doesn’t help to cover my ears. Our old landline sounds frightful. I wonder why Mom doesn’t answer.
I get up and sit on the side of my bed. Vomit rises in my throat, but I swallow it again. I manage to get up on my feet, lean against the wall, and shuffle out of my room.
That terrible ringing is coming from the phone on the table in the upper hall. I want to get there faster, but my body has a will of its own and won’t obey me.
By the time I get there, the phone has fallen silent. I sink down on the floor, lean against the wall. Don’t have it in me to go back.
It rings again. I stretch out my hand and grab the receiver, bring it to my ear. It’s so heavy, I can barely hold it up.
A woman on the other end says my name. She repeats it several times. I think I recognize the voice, I’m not sure.
All I’m able to get out is “Hello?”
She becomes eager, she asks me to listen. The woman asks what my blood type is.
“Why?” I wonder.
The woman says I’m a blood donor. Explains in detail about blood types. I don’t understand.
Everything she says flows out of the receiver and into my ear, then it flows from my ear and down into me, into my chest, into my stomach. The words swirl inside me, around and around.
I feel sick again.
“Slower,” I say. “You have to. Talk slowly.”
The woman speaks more slowly. She explains it again. And now I know who she is.
“Stella,” I say.
I crawl over the floor to the stairs. I turn around so I go feetfirst. I lie on my stomach and slide down. Just like when I was little. I wasn’t supposed to, because it drove Mom crazy. She’s not here now. But she could come at any moment.
One step at a time. Rest, lay my head down. Breathe, wipe the sweat out of my eyes. Next step. And next.
I’m down now. The wall leans over me. I close my eyes, look again. The wall has stopped leaning. I’m sweating. Feel sick again. Legs won’t comply. My arms, hands, nothing will do what I want.
I crawl, then I sit up. I lean against the walls, go to the hall. My wallet is in my jacket. And inside that is a paper. I wrote it down, like I always do. In the blood bus outside KTH. Blood pressure and blood values. And blood type. Scrawled on a piece of paper, placed into my wallet.
It’s too difficult. Too heavy. Too tough. Too complicated.
But I promised Stella. Have to try.
I go over to the hat rack, grab hold of my jacket. Find the inner pocket. Grab the wallet. My hands shake; I drop it. Down on my knees, down on the floor. Grab the wallet, look for the paper.
The numbers and letters dance in front of my eyes. I squint, hold my breath, force my eyes to focus.
BP: 110/60. Hgb: 129. BT: A neg.
Drag my body across the floor, crawling through the hall. Faster, I have to move faster. Mom cannot see me down here. The library inside the kitchen. The room I hate most of all the rooms in this house. The brown walls, the worn fishbone floor, the gray curtains in front of the small windows. A room filled with quiet secrets.
The key is in the bookshelf. I grab it, I hold it in my hand and look at it. I have never snooped in her stuff. Never. I know what she’ll do if she finds out.
My hands are sweaty; I drop the key. It lands on the floor and slides under the desk. Down on my knees. Down on my stomach. Stick my hand under the desk and feel with my fingers, groping. Breathing in dust, the rug smells bad. Find the key, feel it with my index finger. Grope for it, it’s under my palm now, I grab it. I hold on to it. Close my fingers around it hard.
I move as if deep underwater. Everything feels sluggish and plodding. I will never make it. Mom will be home soon. She’ll kill me.
I sit up. Sweat pours off me, and I need to go to the bathroom. I hold the key with both hands. Breathe, breathe. Hands still, still. The key scrapes, scratches the cabinet under the desk. I open my eyes wide, peering, open them up. Close one and aim. The key scratches, slips away.
If Mom comes home. If she enters the room. If she sees me.