Tell Me You're Mine(8)

But I do try, by drinking more wine.

Jelena declares she wants a tour of our house.

I escape to the kitchen with the excuse that I have to deal with the food.

I empty my glass, refill it again as Jelena arrives to share her enthusiasm with me.

She’s completely in loooooove with our huge gray sofas, with our rug and the copper urns and the giant cacti in them. She adooooores the black-and-white photographs on the wall near the patio, the huge landscape, the rugs, such adooorable rugs, and those small sculptures in the bookshelf, she loves it all! Our home could totally be in an interior design magazine, it’s just crazy how nice our house is.

Henrik comes into the kitchen and saves me. Says I’ve always had a feel for design. Or maybe she’s the one he’s saving; probably he can see how she gets on my nerves.

Again I empty my glass. Needing to go farther into the fog. Needing some escape from the sharp, prickly reality pressing all around me.

I’m almost totally absent during dinner.

Voices rise and blend with each other, chairs scrape, cutlery clicks against plates, there’s chewing and slurping; the sounds assail me, stick in my ears. Henrik is telling them about his company. How well it’s going, how they’re expanding, their sales increasing, new exciting challenges lie ahead. And us? We’ve been together for sixteen years, married for, how long has it been, honey? Jamón Serrano, parmesan, curry-roasted scampi. Well, that’s been. Oh my goodness, how was it now. Soon fourteen years and Milo is thirteen, and we’ve been in this house for twelve years, and it must be five years since we redid the kitchen, right? Honey? Sun-dried tomatoes and oven-grilled vegetables in garlic vinaigrette. And when we got there we went straight to the hotel and. Yes, this weekend we’ll see you at the Widstrand country house outside Nyköping; it will be so lovely. No, it’s been so long since Henrik went moose hunting. Feta and halloumi and asparagus and then it’s. In Abu Dhabi when we.

All these words seem to be coming from another room, another house, where people sit around another table conversing in a language I’m no longer fluent in. Henrik puts his hand on my thigh and squeezes. Come on. Wake up.

No, we have no plans to move; we love it here, right, honey? Another meaningful squeeze. I nod and smile like an idiot, like I’ve never done anything in my life besides nodding and smiling.

“And you’re a psychotherapist?” Jelena bursts out and leans toward me.

I straighten up in my chair. “That’s right,” I slur.

“How can you listen to other people all day?” she says. “All their little worries and problems? I’d go crazy. Must be super depressing.”

So much for mindfulness.

I hand my glass to Henrik for a refill. He sends me a worried look that I pretend not to notice. He pours just a little. “Psychotherapy isn’t about dwelling on problems for their own sake,” I say and can hear that I sound like a robot. “The purpose is to detect patterns or behaviors that can be changed. To learn how to handle our fears. Exchange old habits for new ones. Develop as a person.” My default response, a simple guide to therapy for idiots.

“How did you decide to go into that line of work?”

“I met someone who inspired me.”

“It’s super impressive,” Jelena says. “I mean that you’re able to help all those people.” She glances affectionately at Marcus and caresses his neck with her fingertips. “According to Marcus, you’re always happy,” she continues. “And you seem so balanced.”

Balanced? I want to stand up, throw all the dishes on the floor, and scream at all of them to go to hell.

Henrik puts his arm behind my back. “Stella is amazing. She’s strong, single-minded, accomplishes whatever she puts her mind to,” he says. “That’s why I fell in love with her.”

“Has she always been so calm?” Jelena says.

Marcus laughs. “Stella has a temper, I swear. But she’s settled down over the years. Or what do you say, Henke?”

Yes, Henke, what do you say? Has Stella calmed down?

He grins at me. “Only on the surface.”

Idiot. I love you, Henrik, but tonight you’re an idiot.









After dinner, Marcus takes Jelena to inspect the second floor. She’s already seen all the rooms downstairs. I hide in the kitchen again. I make coffee, set the table with the fine Rörstrand porcelain service we got from Henrik’s grandmother. Though I have a good mind to throw all of it against the wall.

“You haven’t said much tonight.” Henrik comes in and leans against the kitchen counter.

“Did I need to?” I take a drink out of my wineglass. Again.

“Sweetie.” He puts it away. “Now you’re being unfair. And you’re drinking more than you usually do.”

Jelena’s heels click clack above us.

I point to the ceiling and hiss, “She’s absolutely hysterical, the clearest example of borderline I’ve ever seen. Besides the obvious, what does Marcus see in that high-strung bimbo?”

“If anyone is being high-strung, it’s you,” Henrik answers and looks at me. “You seem like you want to throttle her; it’s not like you.”

He takes my hand and draws me close, kisses my hair. I let him hold me for a moment before wriggling loose and telling him I have to go to the bathroom.

I enter, sit down on the toilet lid, and put my head in my hands. I’m an awful person. And I feel very sorry for myself.









 It’s quiet in the house now. The catering company picked up the food warmer, trays, plates, and bowls, cleared the table and did the dishes.

The guests are gone, Milo is asleep. Henrik is behind me in bed, caressing my body. It’s been a long time since we indulged in more than a good night kiss. I try to enjoy his touch, but can’t relax even after all the wine I drank. I’m too angry. Too sad.

After a while he pulls back. He gives me a kiss on my shoulder, mumbles good night, and turns around.

When I’m sure he’s asleep, I leave the bed. I go fetch my handbag from the hall. I creep onto the sofa and open the diary.





AUGUST 5, 1994


Pernilla came by today. It was fun to converse in something other than baby talk for a while, a nice break from my usual days. I’m so thankful for her; all my other friends have disappeared.

But we’re tough, my little fur ball and me. Most of the time she’s happy and content. (Everyone asks if she’s a “good” baby, like she’s a dog or something. “Yes, she’s so good, she doesn’t bite at all,” or “Well, she’s never mean on purpose.”)

But lately she’s been fussier than usual. And she’s a light sleeper. As soon as I lay her down, she wakes up and protests. If I’m lying next to her and try to stand up, she starts to scream.

Could she be teething? That’s what we’ve been saying for weeks. It’s become a joke between the two of us, as soon as she’s unhappy. “It’s the teeth.” But we haven’t seen a glimpse of any new ones yet. Gas? Hungry, too full, tired, too warm, too cold?

Maybe it’s just a phase. Not a fun one.

Anyway, Daniel turned twenty, and his parents gave him the most thoughtful present. A mini-vacation for the three of us. Yippee! We’re leaving next weekend. Headed to Strandgården, a place on the Blue Coast in Småland.

Doesn’t that sound delicious? Strandgården. The Beach Garden.

Maybe we’ll sleep better there than we do at home, who knows. Hope so, because we’re pretty exhausted. Daniel has worked his butt off all summer, morning to night. We’ve hardly seen each other, and when we do we can barely stand each other. We need this.

Need to get away somewhere together. Cruise around in the car singing silly songs. We’ll be staying in our own little cabin, sunbathing and swimming.

I can’t wait!





Stella



I get dressed and make coffee early Saturday morning. I should eat something, but that will have to wait. I gulp down the last of my coffee; it’s hot and tastes a bit like dishwashing soap. I rinse my mouth with water, spit it out in the sink.

Then I go out to the Audi. I start the car and twist around to look out the back window while I reverse. I pass the gateposts and am just about to turn the wheel when there’s a knock on the passenger-side window. I brake and look around.

Johan Lindberg grins at me. His little dog is behind him, trembling. I roll down the window, expecting a brief account of how he just killed it on the stock market, or maybe too much information about his “open” relationship with Therese.

“Are we in a hurry?” he says.

“Sorry, Johan. I didn’t see you.”

“I hid behind the hedge, Stella. Not your fault.”

I start to roll up the window again. Johan puts his hand on it. He leans forward and winks.

“And you just get hotter every time I see you.”

I look at the time. Give him a smile that can only be interpreted one way.

“And what have you done with Henrik? Does he know the little missus is headed out on a solo adventure?”

“Please don’t tell Henrik. Don’t betray me.” I continue backing up. Johan Lindberg refuses to let go of the window. He looks at me with a shocked expression on his face.

“Are you joking, Stella? Wow, that’s cool. Like I say, that’s how you keep a relationship strong. A little excitement. You go, girl!”