Dandelion Girl

by Isa Hansen

“You went to Björnsjön looking for her. What made you think she’d be there?”

  Lottis’s narrow shoulders hunched forward. She sat quiet, thinking back. Her face was changing with remembrance and when she spoke, her tone was softer. “When I realized she was gone, when she didn’t come to school the day after she disappeared, I was worried. No one else was concerned. Well, Hans was. But it was just the two of us. Everyone else said, ‘Don’t worry about her, she’s probably just taking some time away.’”

  “Who said that?” Celia asked.

  “Oh, people. Our friends, our teachers. ‘She’ll show.’ Even my parents said that. But Hans and I, we felt something was wrong.”

  Lottis was looking straight at Celia, but from the cloudy look in her eye, she seemed to be back in the past.

  “Out of all of our friends, Liv was the upstanding one. The one to take her studies seriously, the one who wanted to do everything right. Hans and I, we both knew she wouldn’t just suddenly start skipping school. So when she was gone all of the next day, we decided to look for her.”

  In other words, Celia thought to herself, if Hans was the one who killed Liv, he was doing a convincing job of playing the concerned boyfriend. “Was Hans in love with Liv?” she asked.

  “Oh, very much,” Lottis said. A sad smile passed over her face. “He was crazy worried when she went missing. We looked for her in the afternoon. He covered all of the city, asking people in the streets if they’d seen her.” Here she paused and let her eyes fall upon Celia. “There was a lot less diversity back in those days, and Liv’s dark eyes and hair among all the blondes, well, people took notice of her. Hans thought someone might have remembered her, but no one had seen her.” Lottis waved her hand at the side note. “Anyway, I took my bike to the trails and lakes where I knew she’d sometimes go to work out. I went to Björnsjön when it was almost evening.” Lottis’s voice dropped an octave. “That was the last place I was going to look before giving up, and that’s where I found her.”

  Celia followed up, trying to put the question delicately. “Was there anything about the way that she died that seemed off to you?”

  Lottis’s answer was immediate: “Yes,” she said. “I could have bought that she went swimming, maybe even left school early for the day. You never know. We were at a strange age. Kids go through things. But she disappeared and was gone all next day, too. That wasn’t like her at all. Liv—” Lottis cleared her throat. “She didn’t care for being alone. She wouldn’t have just been gone like that for so long.”

  Celia felt herself stiffen.

  That was eerily close to what Hans had said.

  So either the two of them had genuinely been concerned for the same reasons or they had recently gotten together to create a cohesive storyline.

  “Was she scared?” Celia watched Lottis. “Before she died, did she seem worried?”

  “There was something.” Lottis shifted. “I wasn’t sure what. Liv wasn’t the kind who’d easily confide in others, so I didn’t hassle her. But she did—she acted different.”

  Celia said, “I talked to Katja. She said that Liv was about to break up with Hans.”

  Lottis wrinkled her forehead with thought, then nodded. “Yes, that’s right.”

  “Do you know why?”

  Lottis’s eyes took on a strange expression.

  “I wonder if it wasn’t Katja.”

  “It wasn’t Katja who what?”

  “Who caused Liv to want to break up with Hans. I think Katja may have manipulated her.”

  “Why would Katja do that?”

  Lottis cocked her brow. “Because Katja always wanted what she couldn’t have and therefore she wanted Hans.”

  A breathy “oooh” came out of Celia. Somehow that didn’t surprise her. Katja did seem like the jealous, vindictive type.

  Lottis shrugged. “I don’t know. I stayed out of that drama.”

  “Did they get together later, after…?”

  “No,” Lottis said with certainty. “Hans was never interested. At least not enough to pursue her. They never happened. I always thought maybe Katja felt a little disdain toward Liv. It was unusual for Katja not to get what she wanted, and I think she had a hard time accepting that Hans chose Liv over her.”

  “Did Hans know she was going to end things?”

  “I don’t think so.”

  “But you said she was scared. Can you think of anyone who was threatening her?”

  It was potentially a moot question. If Liv had been scared of her friends in Vi fem, there wasn’t much chance Lottis was going to mention any of that. Still, it was worth asking.

  Lottis shook her head.

  Celia skipped ahead. “Do you know of a doctor called Sten Lagerkvist?”

  After a moment of thought, Lottis shook her head again. “I don’t think so.”

  “You don’t remember that name?”

  “No.”

  “Do you remember if Liv sprained her ankle and saw a doctor?”

  Up until this point Lottis’s face had been blank, but now her face changed. Something had struck her as familiar.

  “No,” she said. “I don’t recall.”

  Celia deliberated—push it or leave it? Maybe she could round back to it somehow. “About Liv being anxious,” she said. “Did anything ever happen, that, I don’t know, stuck out?”

  Lottis said, “Not really, Liv wasn’t the kind to have enemies.” But then she added, “There was this one thing that did stand out. It was strange…”

  Celia nodded, urging her to go on.

  “Well, we were sunbathing. I was with Katja and Liv—at her father’s summer house. We were topless. It was the 80s, so that was pretty common back then. I still felt a little shy about it even though no one was around. Anyway, we were up on the grass in the front yard. And suddenly this man is walking up the path toward us. He was older. Well, seemed old to me then, but he wasn’t actually. He was probably quite young. And then Katja—” Lottis stopped and gave a little laugh. “Well, Katja did what she did best. She garnered attention. She pushed herself up, arching her back, lifting her breasts to the air. It was almost comical. And like clockwork, the guy just stopped, transfixed.”

  “Yes?” Celia said.

  From her peripheral view she saw that was Zari leaning forward as well.

  “And then, right after, Liv’s father was there. And he was scolding the younger man, saying something like ‘this is why I’ve kept you away from your sister.’ It was really bizarre and uncomfortable.” Lottis scratched her head. “By this time Katja was already bored and was strutting down to the beach. Maybe she saw some boys down there, who knows.”

  Celia straightened. Her thoughts were tumbling, swirling. “What else did Liv’s father say?”

  Lottis moved her head to the side. That was the only thing I caught. Liv and I were both frantically looking for our clothes. Without Katja there, and all of a sudden with grown men around…”

  “Anything else?” Celia said urgently. “Did you ever see them again? Ever hear anything?”

  “That was the only time I saw her brother. And I only knew him to be the brother because of what her father said. Liv didn’t speak of him, the brother that is. The father I had met once or twice before. It was all just strange.”

  Celia was becoming increasingly dizzy. Not only had Erik known about his sister—his own father had been concerned about any potential interaction between them. She swallowed, “So, nothing else, then? About Liv’s brother or father?”

  “No, nothing else.”

  She fumbled for her next question. “Günther Weber,” she managed. Although she didn’t have it in her to ask about that, not after what Lottis had just revealed.

  “What?”

  Celia looked up to see Lottis’s body frozen into a straight line.

  “Uh … Günther Weber,” Celia repeated.

  It was as if the temperature in the room had dropped. Lottis stare was hard and cold.

  She rose swiftly.
“Time’s up. You need to go.” She practically pushed Celia and Zari out of the office.

  Leaving, they took the stairs instead of the elevator.

  Back out on the street, Zari looked perplexed. “What do you make of that?” she asked.

  Zari was probably referring to Lottis’s erratic reaction to the mention of Günther Weber. “Charlotta is hiding something, just like the rest of them,” Celia answered. But she wasn’t concerned about Günther or what Lottis was hiding.

  All she could think of was what she had found out about Erik.

  CHAPTER 39

  Celia was back home from Borås, her mind tripping. She had dropped Zari off and was now hovering in the kitchen. She hadn’t been ready to confess to Zari the sordid thoughts that were cutting through her. She’d just barely been able to hold it together until she got home. But the moment she was alone, her brain went haywire.

  And for each minute that passed, her craze worsened. It didn’t help that outside the winds had picked up and were rattling against the walls and window panes.

  She’d never tried crystal meth or anything like it, but she could imagine that this was what a bad high felt like. Pressure and pulse soaring, focus abash, paranoid images blazing through the mind.

  Every light in the house was on and the shades were all closed, blocking views of the street and the view of herself to the outside world.

  But it didn’t give her cover; she still felt bare, exposed. Vulnerable with the new knowledge.

  Erik had lied.

  He knew about the house. He’d even been there. He knew he had a sister—and that his father and Liv had a relationship.

  He’d lied about practically everything.

  She pulled out a chair from the kitchen table and planted herself on it, burying her head in her hands.

  Over and over, she kept running through Lottis’s words—what Lars said to Erik: This is why I kept you away from your sister.

  Celia had always known Erik as the stoic Swedish uncle, and that had never bothered her. Distant in his manner. That was just the way he was. Now she wondered what exactly resided under that stoic exterior.

  The image came before her again: Maj-Britt’s face filled with concern, hand reaching out while calling to Liv. Previously, Celia had worried that the displayed guilt was because of something Lars had done.

  But now a new thought was taking over.

  What if it was her son?

  What if it was Erik?

  After all, a husband can be discounted as a stroke of misfortune, or a string of bad decisions, but a son. A son is close, like skin and bone. A son is an extension of one self. This is someone you have created, molded, formed; so much more to feel guilt over.

  Her body shivered cold.

  Had Erik stalked his own sister?

  Worse yet—had Erik killed his sister?

  She swayed on her chair, gripping the rim of it.

  Erik was seven years older than Liv. When she was 16, he would have been 23. A full-grown man. Liv wouldn’t have stood a chance if he’d been out to harm her.

  What had Erik said when they talked up in his office? She was the product of an affair. She was why my parents split up…

  What if he took his anger and sorrow out on Liv?

  That horrible thought dovetailed straight into the next horrible thought.

  Nattvakten

  Until now the mere thought of Erik as the night guard would have been unimaginable. And yet—who was in closer proximity to her than anyone?

  Who had access to her phone?

  Who had handed her the dress?

  Celia swallowed hard.

  She reminded people of Liv so much that it was visceral for them. Liv’s mother wanted to cradle her in her arms, Hans wanted to kiss her.

  Did Erik want to kill her?

  A knock on the door.

  She jumped, hurtling off the chair, twisting her leg under her.

  Right after, “Lelle?”

  Relieved to hear the nickname for her that only Oskar used, she stumbled up and lunged for the door.

  The door clattered open to an icy gust of wind.

  Oskar lumbered in, his hair tinged with crystal snowflakes, the tips of his ears bright red. He was loaded down with several bags. Celia relieved him of a canvas tote of groceries and forced the door shut, closing out the shrieking wind. “A little rugged out there…” he said, placing his things on the floor and stomping off snow on the mat.

  She found a spot on the counter for the bag of food while he pulled off his boots.

  “I’ll put this in the living room, if that’s OK?” he said, scooping up a sleeping bag and shouldering a satchel.

  “Of course, that’s fine.” Celia tucked her fists into her arms and followed him to the other room. Her hands were still shaking—she didn’t want him to notice.

  He tossed the sleeping bag on the sofa.

  “Here will be good,” Oskar declared, more to himself than to Celia. Then he let the overnight bag glide off his elbow. “Hi, by the way—” He hitched an arm around her shoulders, giving her a friendly squeeze.

  With the embrace she already felt one notch safer, one notch more sane. He had that about him; a steadiness. A sense of calm.

  But she couldn’t get herself to stop trembling.

  “Hey, you all right?” Oskar was studying her.

  She gave him a faint smile and nod. She wanted so badly to tell Oskar everything, right then and there, but the words wouldn’t come out.

  It wasn’t just that she wanted to talk to him; she felt that she should, was obliged to. If her uncle was dangerous, then Oskar had a right to know. Oskar was staying with her after all, in said uncle’s house. All this affected him, too.

  She would tell him.

  In the morning.

  Because despite everything, she was hoping that the night would change the narrative. That in the morning light she’d see it all clearly and realize she was mistaken. And yet, she didn’t see how anything would actually be different tomorrow. How could it be?

  ***

  When she woke up the next morning, the first thing that hit her was a grinding anguish. It took her a few foggy moments to connect the agony to its source: Erik. Sounds from the kitchen. She sat up in bed, remembering. Oskar was there.

  She got up, attempting to smoothen her hair. She left her room and moved toward the kitchen, pausing in the doorway.

  The coffee machine was puttering away and Oskar was making breakfast. Not a traditional Swedish breakfast but rather something that seemed more English. He was frying potatoes with mushrooms and onions, bacon, eggs. He gave her a sheepish smile. “I got hungry.”

  He had pulled up the blinds, the windows now letting in streams of light.

  It was still windy out, but the sun was making a glowing appearance.

  Celia rested her hand against the doorframe.

  She noticed her thoughts of Erik shifting.

  They were still there, troubled and throbbing, but in the light of the day, and with Oskar bustling around a sunny kitchen, they were less haunting. Less like a harrowing trip and more like a bad circumstance, albeit an acute one that would have to be dealt with. The dealing with part was something she wasn’t looking forward to.

  Oskar circled around from the stove, cooking spatula in hand.

  Suddenly she felt shy.

  They faced each other; her in slippers and pajamas, him in socks and a t-shirt and trousers similar to the ones she slept in when she was at his house.

  “Good morning to you.”

  “Morning to you too.”

  He asked, “Are you hungry?”

  She didn’t have the heart to tell him she wasn’t. “I could eat.”

  Hoping the lie wasn’t all too visible on her face, she went for a pair of mugs from the cupboard and poured coffee into them. He drank his coffee black, and while she still sweetened and diluted hers with cream and sugar, she was headed in the same direction.

  Oskar heaped u
p the food onto plates and brought them over to the table.

  Celia sat down next to him and forced herself to eat. Thank goodness Oskar could cook. Different circumstances and she’d have found the food absolutely delicious.

  Now she had to work to get it down.

  She kept thinking, Erik. She had to tell Oskar about Erik.

  But how would she even go about starting a conversation like that?

  After they were done eating, Oskar brought over his rucksack to the kitchen table and started rifling out things from it: “I brought something for us to watch. I know this is old-fashioned, ah, you know DVDs … but here.” He held up a package of double discs. “Flight of the Conchords.”

  “Hey, that’s so sweet of you,” Celia said. He remembered that from the evening on the beach when they first talked.

  She glimpsed a drawing on the pile of stuff that had been pulled out from his backpack. First she thought it might have been one of Oskar’s sketches, but picking it up, she deemed it was by a very young artist.

  He saw her looking at it. “Oh, that was from when I was at my cousin’s house. I was helping them with a house project. Her son drew that.”

  Celia appraised the piece of art. It said Til Oskar. Then there were some colorful, rather inspired crayon squiggles and at the bottom: Kötbular.

  “To Oskar,” she said, and couldn’t help but smile. “Meatballs.”

  Oskar laughed. “Yup.”

  “That’s cute. How old is he?”

  “Five.”

  She scanned the text again. “Looks like he missed a t and a couple of ls.”

  “Right.”

  “Good. My Swedish spelling has now passed the level of a five-year-old. That’s reassuring.”

  Oskar smiled. She gave the drawing back to him.

  “Speaking of that, I didn’t finish what I was working on over there. I said I’d come by and get it done today. Is that OK? You could come with me?”

  “Actually, I have some stuff I need to do here,” Celia said.

  She could use the extra time to figure out what to do about Erik. She felt steadier now and was gearing up toward becoming productive and actually coming up with a plan. “I’ll be fine here. Don’t worry,” she said. “Nothing will happen while you’re gone.” She didn’t add what she was thinking: The person I’m worried about is over 250 miles away in Stockholm...