Tell Me You're Mine(6)

The door opens, Pierre comes in.

Pierre: Sorry. Stuck in traffic.

I give another long look. Doubt he even notices it. Pierre pulls out the armchair next to Isabelle. She seems embarrassed.

Me again: Welcome, Pierre. Nice of you to make it. As I told the others, Isabelle is joining the group starting today.

Pierre: Hi, Isabelle. Hope you contribute more than some of the others in here.

He looks meaningfully at Sonja. Isabelle lowers her gaze to the rug. Is she annoyed?

Pierre: Therapy is pointless if you never open your mouth. So why are you here?

Isabelle: My dad died.

Her voice catches. She clears her throat, looks at me, looks down again. She seems genuinely sad. Have I misjudged her? Or is she acting again?

Isabelle: It went so fast. I wasn’t able to make it home in time. We never had the chance to say good-bye. I didn’t even know he was sick.

Arvid: Home? Where do you come from, is that a Dalarna County accent?

Isabelle: Yes, I’m from Borlänge.

She blushes. If she’s just acting she’s really good at it.

Isabelle: I moved here a year ago August to study.

Me: Were you born in Dalarna?

The rest of the group reacts to my direct question. But I can’t control myself.

Isabelle: I was born in Denmark. But I’ve lived in Borlänge most of my life.

Magnus: Do you like Stockholm?

Isabelle: It’s thanks to Dad I’m even here.

She laughs, seems embarrassed. I smile encouragingly. I don’t know what to think. Is she really that similar to Maria? Maybe I’m wrong.

Me: It sounds like you were very close to your father?

Isabelle looks at me. Defiant and scornful. Aggressive. She knows. There is no doubt about it anymore. She knows. But can she see that I know? Can she see that I know who she is? And if so, does she realize I’ve seen through her carefully constructed façade?

Isabelle: He was everything to me. That’s why it came as a shock when I found out he wasn’t my real father.

Now we’re getting there. Here it comes. In just a moment everyone will know her real reason for being here.

Arvid: Did you think he was your biological father?

Isabelle: Yes. But he adopted me when he and my mother met. I don’t know who my real dad is.









Adopted?

Did she tell me that at our first meeting? I don’t remember. Who is the woman she calls her mother? Is it her mother? Her biological mother?

The conversation continues, but I find it impossible to concentrate on what anyone is saying. Is time standing still? Or is it going faster than usual?

“Stella? Thank you for today?”

I snap out of it, meet Pierre’s derisive look and glance up at the clock on the wall: 2:33. My wristwatch shows the exact same time. Unsure if I can trust my voice, I nod and stand up.

I’m aware of how strange I’ve been acting. I let us run overtime, I haven’t paid attention for the most part, and I asked Isabelle a direct question, for no apparent reason. Usually I only speak when the conversation stalls, sometimes to help someone progress in their reasoning. But never like this. Not in this clumsy way.

Sonja is first out of the door; the others follow. I usually leave the room immediately, too. But today I remain standing, unable to move. I can tell my breath stinks. My armpits are sweaty, and I hope it’s not visible.

I can’t tear my eyes away from Isabelle.

She drapes the strap of her bag over her shoulder. As she turns, her ponytail dances to the side.

Her right ear is pointed and slightly longer than the other.

There are only two other people in the world with an ear like that.

Her right ear looks exactly like Daniel’s and Maria’s.

That insight is a punch in the stomach. My nausea returns.

I hear Daniel’s voice. As clear as if he were in the room. Yes, I have an elf ear, are you gonna make fun of me for it? You know it just means I’m gonna bring magic into your life, Stella.

“Isabelle?” I say.

“Yes?” she answers.

I want to tell her I’ve been waiting for this day for over twenty years. I want to go over to her and take her in my arms and never let her go.

“Thank you for today,” I whisper. That’s all I can manage.

Isabelle smiles. The dimple in her cheek deepens. She leaves.

She’s gone.

I sink into the armchair, close my eyes, and clench my trembling hands.









I buried you. We stood at your headstone in the cemetery. We wept and said good-bye.

Still, I never stopped looking for you. I searched for you in every crowd, in every face, on every bus, and in every street. Year after year.

Hoping. Wishing. Waiting. One day you would come back.

But then I stopped. Stopped hoping, stopped wishing. I had to move on. Either that or I had to follow you, to disappear. I moved on. For my own sake, for my son’s. Was that wrong?

I don’t understand why you pretend we’re strangers. Do you want to see what kind of person I am?

Want to see if I feel regret? If I’m plagued by guilt? Do you hate me as much as I hated myself?

Do you want to punish me? Make me feel pain?

I already do.

The pain of you never leaves me. It’s as much a part of me as you are. It never lets me forget. What is it you want to know, what do you want me to say?

I can only say sorry.

Forgive me, Alice.





Kerstin



I put the phone on the table and stare at it. Wait for it to ring. Isabelle rarely answers when I call these days. And she never calls me back, either. It’s not fair to be treated like this. After all these years, after everything I’ve done for her. I did the best I could. You can’t do more than your best. I’m only human.

I stand up and walk over to the coffeemaker on the counter. I reach for a mug in the cabinet, but there are none left. I look at the sink. Ever since the dishwasher broke, it’s always full.

Hans would have fixed it immediately. Hans Karlsson could fix anything. But he’s gone now, and I’m alone.

It smells. Dirty plates, glasses, coffee mugs, and cutlery. Piled up in a jumble. I should do the dishes. I don’t have the energy. It’s so depressing to cook and eat by yourself. Easier to just make a little sandwich, drink a cup of coffee. Who cares if the dishes are dirty? It’s only me here.

I roll up my sleeves and rinse out a mug. I pour myself some coffee, put in two sugars, and as I’m reaching for a third I hear him reproach me. Think about what you’re putting into yourself, Kerstin. He always scolded me for that last cube of sugar.

How can he be gone? Of course, he was twelve years older than me, but fifty-nine isn’t old. And he took good care of himself, didn’t smoke, only one cup of coffee a day, drank in moderation, and watched his weight. It didn’t matter. He died of a stroke.

I defiantly put a third cube of sugar into my coffee and take the mug with me to the library. That’s what he called the small room just inside the kitchen. I take a sip, stare at shelves filled with books. His books, of every sort. I myself rarely read. Don’t get the point of it. Spending your time dreaming of some other world, hearing words in your mind that aren’t your own. No, thank you. I’d rather watch TV. Some sweet, funny movie, a series maybe. A bit of romance, but preferably no sex scenes. Though they’re hard to avoid these days. You can hardly put on the boob tube without having nakedness inflicted upon you.

But aren’t the walls in here a bit drab? Yes, I do believe they are. When we decorated this room, I thought that brown was a beautiful, soothing color. Maybe it’s time for an update?

I’m trying to trick myself, it’s obvious. Because, of course, that will never happen, I know that. I’m the only one who has to stare at these walls now; it’s not worth the trouble.

Since he passed away, and Isabelle left, the house has been far too lonely and quiet. The clock on the wall ticks. Tick tock, tick tock, tick tock. But somehow time is standing still, not moving an inch. I can’t stand the sound of it anymore.

I walk out the front door, follow the gravel path around the house to the back. The air is fresh, the sun shining. But the garden is in the shadows. The trees around it have grown high and barely let any light through. It’s like living in the middle of a forest.

I look up at the house, a classic country red with white trim. It was perfect for our family, a bathroom and bedrooms for each of us upstairs, a living room, library, and kitchen on the ground floor. But it looked different before. Now the paint on the window frames is flaking off, and the gutters are hanging aslant. The red needs repainting, too.

As if that weren’t enough, a pipe is leaking in the bathroom upstairs and a stain is starting to spread in the kitchen ceiling.

How will I be able to handle it all? How will I afford it?

I sit on the back steps with my mug, staring at my uncut lawn. I’ve only managed to mow it once. It was the yard that first drew me when we moved here almost twenty years ago. Isabelle helped me do the planting every spring. But as she got older she thought it was boring. Lately, I’ve quit doing that, too. Everything is overgrown now.

I should put the garden furniture into the shed. Our nice outdoor furniture, the plastic was once completely white. Now it’s gray.

“Hello, Kerstin, it’s been so long since I’ve seen you out here.” My neighbor is standing not far away.

“Hello, Gunilla,” I say.

She pulls off her gardening gloves and wipes her forehead with her sleeve. Gunilla is in her mid-fifties. She dyes her hair a copper brown in an obvious attempt to hide the gray. But her body is fit, and she’s energetic and sporty.