In Every Mirror She's Black

  Maria read the most damning bits out loud from an article in a Swedish business journal. Kemi pulled out the easiest Swedish words from Maria’s speech to follow context.

  “Jaha,” Ingrid calmly exhaled once Maria was done. Everyone else who needed to be in the room was present, including Ragnar. As Jonny’s best friend, he was the closest thing to the man himself. Ingrid linked her fingers then turned to Kemi.

  “What should we do about this, since you lead diversity and inclusion?” she asked. All eyes focused on Kemi, waiting for guidance. Except she had none to offer. She was a marketing executive, not a human resource specialist.

  “I don’t know what to tell you, Ingrid,” she replied. “I don’t handle employee issues.”

  “But you’re in charge of diversity and inclusion,” Ingrid fought back.

  “On marketing and advertising campaigns, yes. Not filling diversity quotas in HR.” Kemi was agitated. Why were they looking to her to fix this? The room remained quiet as the Swedes threw looks at each other.

  Maria jumped in. “Maybe you can work with me to put out a press release?”

  “I’m sorry, but that’s not my job. That’s Ingrid’s. You know, as head of human resources?”

  “Yes, but you report to Ingrid and are in charge of diversity and inclusion.”

  “On marketing campaigns,” Kemi repeated. “Look, I didn’t come here to be the fall gal for every single blunder you made before my tenure, so I suggest Louise call Jonny and he get his ass back to Sweden to fix his own mess!”

  “But, Kemi,” Ingrid argued.

  “With all due respect, we have nothing more to discuss. You built this, you dismantle it.” She got up to leave. Her deep fear of being stripped of creative control and pushed into a quota-­filling corner was materializing. They had lured her here under false pretenses and were now trying to park her in a corner in which she had no expertise.

  Being a Black woman didn’t automatically mean she was professionally qualified to handle race relations and gender issues on a corporate level.

  She gathered her laptop in silence. The others waited eagerly for her exit. Kemi had been around them long enough to know they would burst into Swedish chatter once she left the room. Kemi walked out of the conference room and started down the hallway when Ragnar grabbed her arm. The heat he transferred was enough to boil her already simmering blood. His thumb stroked her skin. She let it linger there for a few seconds. Then she spun around to face him, inching out of his touch. They stole with their eyes what their bodies couldn’t.

  “Are you okay?”

  She was surprised by his concern. She had half expected a backhanded compliment drenched in condescension. That had been his style months ago when they first met. Nowadays, he had become a quiet observer who barely spoke unless absolutely necessary.

  “I’m fine; thanks for your concern.” He inched closer, and she retreated, stopping his advance.

  “How is Pia feeling these days?” She knew his wife was expecting their second child. She summoned up the woman’s name like a shield, hoping it would kill the weed or at least stunt its growth.

  “She’s fine,” Ragnar said flatly. “Thanks for your concern. And Tobias?”

  “He’s fine, thank you.”

  Ragnar moved closer, and this time, she didn’t retreat. He ran his hand up her forearm, his thumb stroking her skin through the light-­blue chiffon blouse she wore.

  “Did Ingrid upset you?” His eyes held hers, raging with emotion. She knew that look. One that was working hard not to pin her against the wall. She had seen something similar in Connor for years. But this felt different. Darker. Exhilarating.

  “It takes a lot to upset me.” Kemi tried to focus, his caressing thumb rendering her daft by the second. He took one step closer, his chest heaving, his hand still on her.

  “Ragnar…” She swallowed. “I’m fine. Thank you.”

  They stood in silence, basking in lingering looks. They were so wrapped up in each other’s heat that they didn’t hear Ingrid noiselessly slide up next to Ragnar. Kemi turned to acknowledge her presence, catching the intrigue Ingrid wore on her face.

  “And the Bachmann account?” Ingrid asked. “I hope it’s fine too?”

  Startled, Ragnar’s hand fell to his side and curled into a fist. He turned to regard Ingrid with a churning stare before pushing past Kemi.

  Over the following weeks, Kemi skillfully avoided Ragnar, distancing herself as much as she could, considering they worked closely on the same project.

  The weed was now fully grown, spilling green twines and offshoots out of her ears and nostrils, threatening to consume her. Late summer made way for autumn, which was slowly pushed out by winter.

  By December, their attraction had turned lethal.

  BRITTANY-­RAE

  The only time Brittany had talked to Jonny’s mother had been at their botched lunch at Berns two years ago. Jonny’s parents still hadn’t seen their grandchild in person, only in photos Louise sent to them on Jonny’s behalf, a task Brittany refused to do herself.

  When Jonny, Brittany, Maya, and her au pair returned from two weeks sailing the Adriatic Sea along the Dalmatian Coast, Astrid von Lundin materialized. But it wasn’t to seek forgiveness.

  “What’s that spice again?” Brittany was trying to guess the nutty flavor her tongue was picking up in Antonia’s seafood casserole. Antonia didn’t answer. She stared at Brittany with a resignation indicating weight on her mind. “What’s wrong?”

  “My mother sent a letter… I need to discuss it with you privately.” Brittany pursed her lips. There was nothing Astrid could do or say at this point that could thaw her indifference. That Astrid couldn’t love her grandchild was a cut that refused to heal.

  “Now?” Brittany asked. Antonia nodded then motioned for her to follow. Brittany wiped her lips, tossed her napkin, and got to her feet. Maya was napping in one of Antonia’s guest bedrooms upstairs, her au pair recovering in an armchair by the bed. Antonia moved slowly, and Brittany matched her pace, concern filling her pores. Antonia walked them over to her glass-­walled sunroom, which overlooked the bay now coated with fresh winter snow. She pointed to a sturdy wicker chair padded with sheep fur, motioning for Brittany to take a seat. The normally demure room had been decked out with sparkling red, green, and silver touches of Christmas.

  If Brittany had been nervous before, a quiet Antonia exponentially incited anxiety.

  “You’re scaring me.” Brittany crossed her long legs. “What is going on?”

  “This arrived from Astrid.” Antonia reached into her pocket and pulled out a white envelope with etchings in gold—­von Lundin stationery—­and handed it to Brittany.

  It was a letter handwritten in Swedish with a photo inside. Brittany found herself looking into the eyes of a teenage Jonny with that grin of a thousand teeth. An arm was thrown possessively around a teenage girl, her own hand resting on his stomach.

  Brittany inhaled sharply as she gawked at a dead ringer for her teenage self. Dark, cappuccino-­brown skin, narrow face, arched brows, and thick lashes over small eyes, her own hair straightened with relaxers. The resemblance left Brittany breathless, and she touched her throat, gasping for air. He couldn’t have been more than fifteen or sixteen with wind-­tousled hair as they embraced in the photo taken in front of Big Ben in London.

  “What is this? Who is this?” Brittany wanted answers immediately. Why was Antonia showing her this? Why was Antonia showing her that her dear husband, who couldn’t lie, did in fact have a fetish with her very image?

  “Maya Daniels.”

  “Maya… Oh God.” A hand flew up to her forehead as she connected her child to his obsession. “Who is Maya?” Brittany peered down at the photo once more, her world collapsing into it. “Did you know about her?”

  They all did.

  The name Maya
Daniels had long been tied to an iron anchor over two decades ago and sunk to the bottom of von Lundin history. Antonia, by way of Astrid, had just dredged her up from the depths, bloated with secrets.

  At sixteen, Jonny had been an exchange student at an international school in London for a semester. He had mailed them this picture with a hastily scribbled note saying he had met the love of his life, a Black Brit named Maya Daniels. The beginning embers of his proclivity.

  “Hon älskar mig för den jag är,” he had gone on to explain in his letter. She loves me for who I am.

  He had detailed how much Maya loved him despite his eccentricities, Antonia told Brittany. Maya had had a brother who had officially been diagnosed as being on the spectrum, and she was the only person who had looked him in the eye with love when everyone else had bullied him. Jonny had refused to return home after his single semester, begging his parents to extend his term because he couldn’t live without this person.

  Brittany watched as Antonia contemplated her next words, her chest heaving as she gulped for air.

  “He got her pregnant,” Antonia explained to Brittany, whose hand had now moved from her neck to cover her slightly parted lips. “Astrid paid for her abortion,” Antonia confessed, lingering on those words. “She didn’t make it. She was quite young, and something went wrong.”

  Brittany gasped, hand still over her open mouth. Then her tears fell. They gushed relentlessly as Brittany realized she was living the life of Jonny’s first love, Maya. He had meticulously crafted the life he’d always dreamed of living with Maya around Brittany instead.

  “You all knew this? You? Svea?” Antonia’s betrayal tasted foul on Brittany’s tongue.

  “I’m so sorry.” Antonia’s voice shook. “We all swore never to mention her name for Jonny’s sake. So, when Svea and I saw you at the kräftskiva, we couldn’t believe it.” Brittany’s wails punctuated her confession.

  “As far as we are all concerned, Maya and Jonny never existed,” Antonia continued. “Jonny never recovered from her death.”

  The room was closing in on Brittany, smothering her, cutting air from her lungs, her breaths deep and loud.

  “Jonny never gets over things,” Antonia explained. “He doesn’t like loose ends. We all know this.”

  “Loose ends?”

  “Jonny is…different.”

  “Tell me something I don’t know!”

  “Yes, but my parents never accepted this. He was the boy they longed for. But…” Antonia collected her breath.

  “But what?”

  “Jonny didn’t start talking until he was five years old. He was always collecting and hoarding small things like insects, especially snails. He loved snails. But then he would crush them with his feet when others tried to take those snails away from him. If he couldn’t have them, no one else could.” Antonia paused for air. “When he got angry, he never screamed, but he was always pounding and punching at anything and anyone in his way. He was a very angry child.”

  “Why didn’t anyone help him?”

  Antonia sighed. “That would have meant admitting he was different. Our parents didn’t want him to feel different. He was already perfect the way he was.”

  “This makes no sense!” Brittany screamed. “Being different doesn’t mean there’s something wrong with you or that you aren’t perfect as you are. It simply means getting special support so you can live your best life.”

  “I know all this.”

  “Then why didn’t you give him what he needed?”

  “There are a lot of other people in the world like Jonny…” Antonia started, but Brittany cut her off.

  “No! The difference is, they have people supporting them and admitting they have extra needs. You have built a privileged palace of lies around your brother!”

  Antonia regarded Brittany, quietly contemplating her next words.

  “But…”

  Brittany cut her off again.

  “Jonny has special needs!”

  “But no one has ever said that to my brother,” Antonia said. “No one has ever said he was different. No one has ever told him no.”

  Two years later, and Jonny’s words from that clinic parking lot in Alexandria slowly slipped back into her mind, clearing up her fog and finally devastating her.

  “Nothing is wrong with me.”

  “You didn’t tell me to stop.”

  “I would have if you’d told me to.”

  “If you had said no.”

  “Why are you telling me all this? Why now?” Antonia could have simply ignored her mother’s request to “Berätta för henne! Tell her!” which was written on the back of the photo. Astrid’s letter had wrapped Maya and Jonny’s photo like a birthday gift.

  Why did Antonia willingly want to be the proxy for Astrid’s damnation of Brittany? Were they trying to save their brother from himself?

  “I had no choice. Astrid forced my hand.”

  “Forced? Did she threaten you? How can she force you to do this to me?”

  Antonia remained quiet with a look Brittany interpreted as guilt spreading across her face.

  “I see.” Realization hit Brittany. “It’s about your kingdom, isn’t it?”

  “Kingdom?” Antonia seemed confused.

  “All this.” Brittany swept a hand around the room. “All this! Astrid threatened you, didn’t she? To take it all away?”

  When Brittany was met with silence from Antonia, her palms moved to cover her face, shoulders trembling. Jonny had been pining for a ghost all these years. It all made sense now. London was his hideaway. His glass watchtower in Canary Wharf was where his spirit wailed like a banshee for Maya’s over London’s twinkling lights. The realization Jonny may never have loved Brittany at all grabbed her beating heart and squeezed it of life.

  “Please forgive me. Astrid forced me to tell you,” Antonia said.

  Brittany held up a splayed hand to stop her from talking. Antonia pressed on.

  “He was obsessed with Maya. He still is.” Antonia peered at her. “That’s why he married you. Her face is all he sees when he looks at you. That was why he was at my house when you were in the hospital. He couldn’t look at you. He was afraid you were going to die like her.”

  “Why are you saying these things to me?” Brittany’s chest was heaving, its rhythm, wild and frantic.

  “Would you rather keep living a lie?” Antonia’s voice was stern.

  YES! Brittany wanted to scream. Living this lavish lie was spades better than the opposite. The peculiar man she simply thought couldn’t lie now seemed diabolical. What else had he lied about to her face? Staring down that possibility was much worse. Antonia’s sunroom became stuffier, and Brittany launched to her feet.

  “Brittany, I’m doing this for you.”

  She pushed past Antonia and ran across the great hall and up the stairs in search of her Maya. She burst into the guest room, startling her au pair and inadvertently waking the child. Maya began to cry, and Brittany rushed to scoop her up.

  “Quick, pack up her things! We’re going to Rival!” she ordered the au pair before whirling out of the room, child in hand. The von Lundin bubble was closing in on her. She couldn’t breathe. She had to flee to survive.

  She had rushed into Jonny’s kingdom to be taken care of only to find it tailor-­made for Maya Daniels, the loose end Jonny was still trying to tie up. She had given up everything to be with him and was now left with a shell of her former self. Jonny had stripped her bare while his archangels—­Eva and Louise—­hovered around her. She had been primed and primped for Jonny’s pleasure while he remained lord of his universe.

  Brittany had simply become a ghost.

  MUNA

  Muna planned it all out.

  First, she would complete the bachelor’s program in business and economics at Stockholm School o
f Economics then move on to a master’s degree in accounting and financial management. She surfed the school’s website, pride swelling within her as she looked at stock images of people with purpose. They were smiling at one another, pointing at whiteboards, beaming with confidence, ready to change the world, one ledger at a time.

  She scrolled through the program description, soaking it all in with possibility, and then looked at what was needed of her to be a part of their smiling world. The application deadline had passed weeks ago, but this news didn’t deter Muna. She was a woman on a mission. She could easily wait a couple of months until new waves of applications were being accepted. What was a couple of months in a lifetime?

  But dread gushed up through her, her mouth resting between her fingers as she glanced at the screen. She had nothing to show. No high school transcripts or proof that she had indeed been a student in Mogadishu before she had been forced to flee with her family. This meant starting from scratch and going back to high school. Even if she tried taking the exam to test out, she couldn’t properly write in Swedish. Her SFI classes weren’t enough to help her. SFI got her to an elementary level of comprehension.

  At twenty years old, she wasn’t sure she could handle sitting through lectures with fifteen-­year-­olds.

  She logged out of the computer at Tensta Library and got up in a daze, trying to process this roadblock. That sliver of hope that had slid into her life had escaped like air from a popped balloon. She was now back to the drawing board. After all, Gunhild had told her to dream beyond her dishwashing job. She had strutted into the Lebanese restaurant like a peacock, announced that she was going to be an accountant, told them she wasn’t coming back, and had strutted out in similar fashion. Beyond covering once for Huda on short notice when she fell sick, Muna hadn’t been back to von Lundin Marketing.

  Naturally, she couldn’t show her face there anymore, so she had only one place to go.

  “Muna Saheed,” Yagiz stressed her name as he continued slicing kebab meat. He didn’t seem annoyed to see her like he usually was. This time around, it was a casual indifference, which she much preferred. He served two customers before turning back to her. “What do you want?”