Tell Me You're Mine(7)

She prides herself on doing the Swedish Classic every year, skiing the Engelbrektsloppet, swimming in the Vansbrosimningen, running the Lidingöloppet, and biking the Vätternrundan.

Both she and her husband, Nils, are outdoorsy types. They have no children and spend their time on sports and running. Maybe they’re fulfilling some sort of need, I don’t know. They store their equipment in an immaculate garage that sits next to their cozy house and perfect garden. They have no idea what it means to raise a child. To care about somebody more than yourself, to constantly have your needs take a backseat to someone else’s. It’s hard not to find them annoying. And they hate having me as a neighbor.

“Perfect day for some gardening, don’t you think?” she says.

“Maybe,” I say.

Gunilla tilts her head to one side. In her eyes I see both sympathy and contempt.

It makes me wonder how others perceive me. I look down at the shapeless, washed-out sweater I usually wear. I push my hand through my hair, which surely has its fair share of gray. Not so strange considering how life has treated me. My wrinkles have multiplied and deepened. I am hollow-eyed, and the skin beneath my chin sags. And I’ve put on weight lately. I feel far older than Gunilla. I look far older than Gunilla.

“You know, Nils is heading to the recycling center in Fågelmyra later today,” she says. “He has room for more if you want help carting away anything?”

That short hesitancy says everything. The pile of trash Hans and I cleared out of the shop is what she’s referring to. We abandoned the project and left everything in front of the house when he started feeling sick. It’s an eyesore for all our perfect neighbors. But it can stay where it is. I have the right to do what I want. I don’t owe anyone anything.

“No thanks,” I say.

Gunilla seems taken aback. She stretches, getting ready to go. “I was just trying to be kind.”

I sigh, so she’ll understand that I feel embarrassed and am aware how unpleasant I must have sounded.

“I’m sorry,” I say. “Thank you for the offer, Gunilla.”

I make an effort to smile, but it feels more like I’m just stretching my face. She sits down on the stairs below.

“You know, Kerstin, we’d be happy to help you. This place must feel pretty empty now that Hans is gone. And with Isabelle in Stockholm, too. We’ve been worried about you.” She puts her hand on my knee but pulls it away when I stiffen. “We care about you.”

“Thank you, it’s nice of you to say so,” I answer.

“You always used to be out in the garden.”

“I just haven’t felt up to it.”

“I understand that. I really do.”

“Oh, you do?”

“What do you mean?”

“First, my daughter moves out. Then I lose my husband. I’m completely alone now. How do you know how that feels? How could you possibly understand?”

“The only thing I’m trying to say is that we are here for you. We don’t want to disturb you, but isolating yourself doesn’t seem like a good thing, either.”

“I’m grieving. There’s a difference, Gunilla.”

She looks down at her brightly colored running shoes and sighs. Neither of us speaks for a long time.

“Just tell me if we can do anything,” Gunilla says, then stands up and goes back to her own yard.

I wish I was better at small talk. But I’d rather sit with my own thoughts. Things were easier with Hans. Now, after he’s gone, I realize he made me a better person. We were happy, in our way. We had a fine family. And Isabelle wasn’t as angry as she is now.

She’s changed. I don’t know why. She doesn’t tell me anything anymore. She’s just unresponsive and cold. Something has happened, but I don’t know what. It’s more than just mourning her father. Every day I wonder what she’s doing, what she’s thinking. I wish she would tell me stuff, share things with me. Like when she was little, and she was my doll. My darling little girl. We used to get along so well, talked about everything, made each other laugh, and we comforted each other when we felt sad.

Suddenly I am on the verge of tears. This is not the life I dreamed of. It wasn’t supposed to turn out like this. I dump the rest of the coffee out next to the stairs and stand up. I open the patio door and walk back into the dark, silent house.





Isabelle



I’m standing on the platform at Fridhemsplan subway station, waiting for the green line train. Line 19 toward Hässelby is arriving in three minutes.

I’m thinking about Stella. I think about her a lot, can’t help it. She’s beautiful, looks so young. I wonder how old she really is? But I see glimpses of a hardness in her. She probably doesn’t realize it herself. I wonder what she’s trying to hide. Or to protect herself from. Is she afraid? Maybe.

She should be. You never know what might happen.

Never.

I stifle a yawn and sit down on a bench. I’m tired. Barely have the energy for anger anymore.

Stella’s nails were painted a different color today. Cerise red. Not one hair out of place. Tasteful makeup, discreet lipstick, lovely earrings that looked expensive. Her black pants fit perfectly, her gray top made from some fancy material. She seems so put together. She must be rich. She’s married, too; a wide gold band sits on her left ring finger. With diamonds on it.

Everything is easy for Stella Widstrand.

She sits with her back straight, but relaxed. She seems so confident. How did she become like that? Maybe she’s good at maintaining a mask. What does she look like when she takes it off? Is she as ugly and evil as me? I wish I knew more about her than I do.

Right before I walked into group therapy, I was sure I wouldn’t be able to handle it. I wanted to blurt everything out. Tell them all of it. But I couldn’t. Everyone was staring at me. The words got stuck; I couldn’t pull them out. They’re too heavy.

And Stella stared at me. Does she know? Does she understand?

I had the opportunity to reveal everything when Pierre asked me what I was doing there.

They were waiting for my reply. But I couldn’t get any of it out.

Not a single word of what I intended to say. I felt Stella’s inquiring eyes. I’m sure she was staring straight through me.

If any of them knew what I know, if any of them knew who I am. How is it possible to walk among all these people and not a single one of them can see?

The train enters the station. I board and sit down across from an old lady. She holds her purse tightly, but smiles when she meets my eyes. She doesn’t see it, either. I smile back, lean against the window and close my eyes, feel the coolness of the glass against my forehead.

Everyone is afraid. Everyone. But we smile and pretend, we lie with our faces so that the real us doesn’t shine through.

But I’ve made up my mind. Next time I’m going to tell you. I’m going to tell you everything.

The whole truth.





Stella



Damn, they’re here already.

I’m in the kitchen, listening to the sounds in the hall. The stamping of shoes against the hall carpet, the rustle of jackets and the clink of hangers. The shrill voices of little girls, backslaps, men’s laughter, a high and penetrating woman’s voice that demands attention and immediate response.

Henrik reminded me this morning of the dinner, and I pretended to be looking forward to it. Unfortunately, it was too late to cancel. I called a catering company, and they arrived with their fancy autumn menu. The staff set up in the dining room, placed the food onto serving dishes and plates, and then put those into a food warmer.

How am I going to make it through this?

After group therapy today, everything else seems insignificant.

I take a deep gulp of wine, thankful Henrik managed to make it home before they arrived.

Glue on a smile and go out into the hall to greet our guests.

“There she is.” Marcus lights up and gives me a big hug.

“Stella,” Jelena chirps and gives me a kiss on each cheek. “We meet at last. I’ve heard so many amazing things about you.”

Marcus’s new girlfriend is a model. According to her. But she does indeed look like one. She’s a devoted blogger on beauty, health, and mindfulness. She flashes her unnaturally white teeth constantly in a wide smile. Her body lacks even an ounce of excess fat and her long, shapely legs are golden-brown. She’s enjoying showing them off in a short little black dress. She can’t be more than twenty-five, and she’s insufferably perfect and obvious as only a woman of that age can be.

Ebba and Sophia, Marcus’s daughters, are nine and five years old. They’re loud and squabble without interruption. To my great relief, Milo comes out of his room and offers to let them play video games. I have to remember to reward him abundantly for that. Henrik takes Marcus and Jelena into the living room and handles the conversation.

I follow in their wake without really feeling present. Instead I’m thinking of Isabelle Karlsson.

Of Alice.

Seeing the dimple in your cheek. Your ear. Your careful smile that reveals none of your thoughts. I’ve thought about you more than you could ever know. You’ve been an ache inside me since the day you disappeared.

Where have you been?

Why don’t you want to tell me?

The same questions arrive over and over again. Impossible to silence.