I turn out onto the street and drive away. In the rearview mirror, I see our neighbor standing with his tiny dog in the middle of the street. For some inconceivable reason, he’s holding his fist high in the air. Solidarity with the struggle? I laugh to myself. If Henrik were here, we’d laugh together.
I’ve only been driving for an hour when my phone rings. I jump a bit behind the wheel; the ring is so shrill and sudden. I turn in to a rest stop and answer.
“Did I wake you?” Henrik says.
“No, no,” I reply. “Are you having a good time?”
The wind blows in my ear; it sounds like he’s outdoors.
“Milo is still asleep. I went running. Now I’m having coffee in the garden. What are you doing?”
“Nothing,” I lie.
“I miss you,” he says. “But it’s good you’re getting some rest.”
“I miss you, too,” I answer.
They’re at the Widstrands’ country home, a manor house with horses, hunting grounds, and a private beach on the sea. I was supposed to be there, too. Instead, I’m on my way somewhere else.
We talk about the house and the boat for a while, about what they are going to do today. He says his parents send their love. I tell him to send mine to them and give Milo a big hug. We finish our conversation, and I drive out onto the road again.
The Widstrands belong to a different social class than me. I grew up in the working-class suburb of Kungsängen, in considerably simpler circumstances than Henrik. I was raised by a single mother, just Mom, me, and Helena, my seven-years-older sister. Henrik comes from the expensive Stockholm suburb of Lidingö, went to good schools, sailed, played tennis and golf. His ex was a law student named Louise Von-Something-or-Other. She had a trust fund and a huge apartment in the traditionally aristocratic neighborhood of Östermalm.
Mom and Helena didn’t think it would last between us. But Henrik’s parents welcomed me. His mother, Margareta, was delighted that their son had found a sensible person to share his life with. They’ve become as much my family as his.
I’m nearing Nyköping. Their country house isn’t far from here. Yesterday, Henrik made one last attempt to convince me to go with them.
He tempted me with peaceful evenings by the fireplace, crisp autumn walks, sexy nights, and sleeping late. I said I felt off, that I was tired and antisocial. I needed some alone time, needed to rest.
Usually, I’d feel guilty. Not now.
I drive past the exit.
Two hours later I turn off toward Storvik and Strandgården. Last time I came here, Daniel drove. I didn’t even have a driver’s license yet. I remember him swearing through the last few miles. The gravel road was dusty, the potholes deep, and the turns tight. He was worried about the shocks in his car, worried what the gravel would do to the paint, and he claimed he was afraid of colliding with some nutty country bumpkin.
Now the gravel road is broad and paved. Storvik used to be mostly forests and fields, now there are rows of newly built houses. House after house, as if they were delivered straight from a catalog. Rolled out the perfect lawns, the red tricycles, the obligatory trampoline, and the stone sundial. There’s not a tree on any of the plots. Some of them are still construction sites.
After that the asphalt ends, and the old gravel road takes over. There are no new houses or ongoing construction projects there.
I step on the brakes.
A large red deer is standing in front of me. It stares at me with dark, gleaming eyes. Its huge horns are like a tree. I open the car door, climb out, and hold out my hand. Why, I don’t know, perhaps as a greeting. The deer turns away from me. It takes a leap and heads out over a field on the other side of the road. I watch it until it reaches the edge of the woods and disappears into the trees. Then I get back in the car and drive on.
It’s nearly lunchtime when I turn onto the forest lane. After more than four hours, I’m at my destination.
Strandgården. The sign still hangs above the driveway. It looks just as I remember it, just weathered by wind and rain. The forest road consists of two deep grooves with grass growing high in the middle. On either side stand dense bushes, and tree branches arch over the road. I drive slowly through an orange tunnel of leaves and arrive at the parking lot.
An old camper with no doors and broken windows has been abandoned here. A few rusty bikes lean against the pines. The field is covered with leaves, needles, and pinecones.
I climb out of the car and stretch my stiff body. I follow the gravel path toward the main building. Behind the low house, the lawn spreads down toward the sea like a wild meadow. The mini–golf course to the left is covered in grass and brushwood. The verandah along the house is missing some boards here and there, and the bushes below have taken over. The windows are shuttered. This seaside resort seems to have been abandoned a long time ago.
I walk around the main building, follow the gravel road to the right toward the six cabins. They stand a bit off from the main area, between tall trees near the water’s edge. Number one is the farthest away.
We’re staying in a private cabin right by the beach. Number one. I’m sitting on the porch, Alice is sleeping in her stroller between the trees. Sleeping in the country air does her good, I think. Leafy elms and birches provide cool shade.
There are more cabins at the edge of the beach. All of them are occupied and the camp down the road is full. There are a bunch of Germans and Dutch people here, and a lot of families with kids and retirees with RVs.
Our cabin is secluded, calm, and cozy. Just Daniel, Alice, and me. We live in our own little bubble. These days have been wonderful, couldn’t be better. But tomorrow, our mini-vacation will be over and we’ll head home again, so it’s important to make the most of today.
The cottages are also in need of restoration. Almost all the paint has flaked off the sunny side, and on the other side, the roof is in bad shape. I walk up the verandah to the cabin we stayed in and peek through the windows. The table and three chairs by the window are gone, as are the brown-and-orange sofa and the double bed that took up most of the bedroom. Nothing remains.
I don’t feel anything special. No anxiety, no thunderous emotions. I’m at Strandgården. Where it happened. It doesn’t feel like I thought it would.
I turn around and go down to the beach.
The wind from the Baltic Sea. The smell of salt and seaweed. I breathe in, let the fresh autumn air fill me. I crouch down and touch the water. It’s ice cold. Even though it’s only September, the summer feels long gone. I stand up again, look out over the blue sea.
That night when Alice woke up and we went outside. We sat right here looking at the full moon. Just the three of us.
It feels strangely peaceful to be here.
The silence is broken by a muffled bark.
“Buster!” An old woman in a large, shapeless coat dashes after her dog with surprising speed.
The dog sprints out into the water, then sees me and joyfully bounds in my direction. It stops in front of me and shakes its wet fur. It’s an enormous dog. Drool flies in every direction as he tosses his big, wide head.
“Don’t worry, he’s not dangerous,” the old woman shouts, wrapping the coat around her as she approaches. The whole scene is so comical I can’t help laughing.
The dog is red-brown, short-haired, strong, and almost as big as its owner. I smile at her and pat the dog.
“Unfortunately, he’s got no manners,” the woman says as she leashes him.
“He’s cute,” I say.
“Do you hear that, Buster, you miserable cur?” Her tone is kind, and the dog responds with a deep bark.
“What’s the breed?”
“An English mastiff. The best lapdog you could ever imagine.” The woman squints at me. “And what brings you here? It’s not often we see someone at Strandgården.”
I look around. “I was here on vacation once. A long time ago. I was driving by and I wondered if it looked like I remember it.”
“I’m afraid not, not anymore.” The woman holds her arms out to her surroundings. Then she laughs and pushes her hand in my direction. “But what am I thinking. My name is Elle-Marja. We live on the other side of the hill. I’ve lived there for more than forty years, Buster for the last eight.”
“Stella,” I say, and we shake hands. “It used to be so idyllic here. Flowers everywhere. Plants of every color, flower boxes and flower beds, shrubbery and trees trimmed to perfection.”
“When were you here?”
“Ninety-four. August.”
“It’s a shame how this place has been abandoned. Back in the day Strandgården was well cared for. And popular. Always buzzing with guests in the summer.”
“Why doesn’t anyone take care of it?” I wonder. “The land must be worth a fortune.”
“There have been developers who’ve been snooping around over the years. Everyone wants to get their hands on it. But here it stands, year after year.”
“How could that be?”
“Well, let’s see, you were here in ninety-four, you say?”
I join Elle-Marja and walk down the beach, listening to her. The sun is high, the sea glittering. Buster is on the loose again, running ahead of us, and rooting around in the driftwood and debris on the beach.