Tell Me You're Mine(56)

The landline is ringing.

I look up and wonder if it’s Stella. Mom answers, her voice sounds artificial. She lies and says I’m not here, that I never went home with her. She talks about Stella, says she’s dangerous.

I have seen Mom angry before. I’ve seen her be manipulative. But for the first time, I realize she’s sick and she will never be well. That she is the one who is dangerous.

And she’s no longer trying to hide it.

Mom forces me to drink more tea. I suspect there’s something in it, that it’s poisoned. I spit it out when she’s not looking. Put my fingers down my throat and vomit when I’m in the bathroom.

She leads me out of the house and into the car.

The sun shines in my eyes, the light is blinding. My left thigh aches where the desk hit it. Gunilla and Nils are almost always outside. But now they’re nowhere to be found. Not a human in sight.

Where are you? Why aren’t you doing anything? Why are you letting her do this to me?

All those times I went to the school nurse. Scratches and bruises, stomachaches and headaches. Real and imagined pains. Why didn’t she react? Not once did she ask how things were at home.

The car rolls out onto the road. I turn around and look at the house. I know this will be the last time I ever see it.

Mom stops at a gas station. I pretend I’m still sleeping and watch her. She leaves the car, walks in, and talks to the guy at the checkout. He follows her outside. She’s a different person now, happy and easygoing. How does she do it?

She’s always been fake. She lies and pretends in front of other people. She has the ability to make people trust her, confide in her even. No one has understood her true nature, not even me, and I grew up with her.

The guy looks so friendly. I want to make him understand, wish with all my heart he could see who she really is. That he’d understand how insane she is. But he just smiles and laughs.





Kerstin



The guy at the counter smiles at me. I smile back. I feel so stupid, I say, but I think one of my blinkers is broken. Is there any chance he could help me change the bulb? I don’t want to annoy the traffic police, don’t want to get pulled over.

Of course he can help me, that’s a quickie. Right now he doesn’t have much else to do. We chat for a bit in the meantime. I tell him I just picked up the car from the garage, but they apparently weren’t very thorough. He’s friendly and accommodating. We laugh and he thinks I’m pleasant. I can be if I want to. I know how to do it.

He wonders how my daughter’s doing. She seems to be sleeping pretty deeply, he says.

That’s good, I answer. She needs it. I tell him she’s sick.

He hopes she’ll get better soon.

Thank you, I’m sure she will.

I don’t like the look he gives her, but choose to be indulgent. He’s been helpful. And my blinker is working again. I walk around to the trunk and take out my water can, then I follow him back into the gas station again. I put some canned food into a shopping basket, pay, and thank him for the help.

Hans always took care of these kinds of things. Now that he’s gone, I have to manage on my own. And I do. The problem with Hans was that he made me weak. But I can’t afford to be weak, I have to be strong. For my child’s sake. For my own sake. And I am. Stronger than anyone can imagine.

Hans wanted to come between my daughter and me. He wanted love that was meant for me. He should never have tricked Isabelle into moving to Stockholm. He never should have encouraged her to stay there over the summer.

I was forced to get rid of him.

And with his last breath, my weakness disappeared. I could see it in his eyes. He finally understood. It was his last gift to me.

A large SUV with raised ride height has parked in front of the exit. The music is thumping. So-called music. It sounds more like one unending primal scream. Several young people are leaning against the car, a few sturdy guys and some scantily clad girls. They stare at me as I come out, make faces at me and laugh.

A young guy with his cap on backward walks toward me. He bumps into my shoulder as he passes.

“Be careful,” I say.

He glares at me like it was my fault. Then he gives me the finger and calls me an ugly word.

As I always seem to be doing, I swallow my vexation and walk on. Rude little snot.

I go around the corner and fill the can with water. It’s heavy and thumps against my leg as I carry it back. I stop and change my grip.

Finally, I arrive at the car. It’s empty.





Isabelle



I see Mom and the attendant go back into the gas station. I manage to open the car door and get out. My heart is pounding, blood rushing in my ears like a waterfall. My body feels heavy, and I’m unsteady on my feet.

There are other cars in the parking lot, but nobody is sitting in them. There is a bus not far away and a truck next to it. I stumble toward the road and wave my arms at a car that swings in my direction. The driver sees me. An older man in a brown cap wearing glasses with thick frames. He waves back, passes by, and disappears.

More cars go by on the main road. No one sees me, no one notices my frail attempts to wave my arms. I scream for help, but my voice is too weak. I wipe away the sweat running down my face with my sleeve. I look down and see that I have no shoes on. The grass where I stand is wet, my purple socks are soaked.

I look to the right, then to the left. We could be anywhere in Sweden. Red and white flags with the name of the gas station chain. A playground to the right, the highway to the left, and on the other side of that are fields and meadows. A few houses and a barn just past them, and then forest. I turn around and see a sign with bright green letters across a red extension. I peer, trying to see. Ringarum Restaurant, it says.

I have to find someone who can help me. Before Mom comes out and sees me. I go back to the bus. A fat man in a driver’s uniform is lighting a cigarette. I ask if he can help me. He looks at me and wrinkles his forehead. He calls me a junkie and tells me to get lost.

“I need help,” I say and go closer. “Please, can I hide on the bus?”

The man shoves me and leaves. I sink down onto the asphalt. My thigh spasms with pain. My head is pounding from when Mom threw me against the wall. I try to get up but my body is completely exhausted.

“Hi there,” says a voice. A young man with long hair and a beard squats down next to me. “Are you okay? Did he hurt you?” He puts his hand on my shoulder.

“Help me.”

“Are you alone?” He stands, looks around, and glances at the gas station.

I grab his hand and pull him down toward me. I whisper: “Have to get out of here.”

He helps me up. “My car is over there,” he says, pointing toward a silver Volvo.

I link my arm with his as fast as I can; he puts his other arm around my shoulders as support. It’s way too far to the car. Mom can’t see me.

He opens the door and I climb into the backseat. A girl with a buzz cut and Asian features is sitting in the front seat; she turns around and looks at me.

“What happened to you? You look like you got beat up.”

“She needs to go to a hospital,” the man says. “She’s been beaten.”

“Do you want us to take you to the hospital?” the woman says.

I shake my head. They start to discuss it with each other. I beg them to start driving.

“We’re going to Västervik,” he says. “Do you want to come with us?”

I nod.

Finally, he starts the car and drives toward the exit.

I close my eyes and lean my head against the window.





Stella



Hällsjö Home is a large brick building with a green roof and three rounded annexes in the same color. I go through two sets of doors to enter. Once inside there’s a glass case with some crafts displayed, probably made during art therapy. Pot holders, wooden butter knives, a wall hanging with text embroidered on it.

One long corridor extends down the entire length of the first floor. Gaby’s Hair Salon is located to the right, next to a place where you can get pedicures. A café and a pharmacy are located on the left. Straight ahead I see the elevators and beyond that a meeting room with tables and chairs in light wood. Outside the large windows there’s a valley and a subdivision of small houses.

According to the bulletin board next to the elevator, the nursing home wards are on floors two, three, and four. I step in and ride up to the fourth floor. As I leave the elevator, a woman in white pants and blue scrubs comes running toward me. She hurries past and doesn’t seem to notice me.

I take the corridor to the right and wonder why I’m even here. Kerstin surely wouldn’t have brought Alice here.

“Can I help you?” A sturdy woman with a Finnish accent steps out of a storage room.

“I’m looking for an acquaintance of mine who works here,” I say.

“Who’s that?”

“Kerstin Karlsson.”

The woman’s expression darkens.

“Kerstin?” she says. “She doesn’t work here anymore.”

The nametag on her scrubs says Ritva. She shuffles back into the storage room. I follow and stand in the doorway.

Ritva is unpacking disinfectant from a box and says, “She missed several shifts and didn’t even notify us. And even when she was here she was getting complaints.”

“Complaints?”

“She’s always been a bit off, but lately she’s been mean to the old people. Rough and angry. And medicines have gone missing.” Ritva straightens up and looks at me. “Are you a friend of Kerstin’s?”