Tell Me You're Mine

by Elisabeth Norebäck

  “I took a taxi.”

  Henrik examines me closely. I give him a quick kiss, avoiding his gaze, and head into the kitchen. He follows me.

  “Milo needs to eat,” he says, opening the fridge. “He has to leave soon.”

  I forgot about Milo’s basketball practice. I never do that. I sit down at the kitchen table, check my phone. Two missed calls and one text message. Henrik takes a plastic container out of the freezer, shouts to Milo that food is on its way.

  “How was your day?” he asks after a while.

  “Good.”

  “Everything okay?”

  “Yes,” I answer.

  “Are you sure?”

  “I’m sure.”

  Henrik stirs the pasta and warms up the Bolognese. While telling me something about plans to visit his parents in the country next weekend and Milo’s basketball game on Saturday. Also, his day at work. He sets the table: plates, cutlery, and glasses, fills a pitcher with water. Tells me more about work.

  It’s just like any other Monday, meeting at home after a long day, chatting in the kitchen. My husband is the same, my son, too. Our beautiful home is unchanged. And yet it all feels so foreign. As if I’ve been transformed into someone else. As if I’m a stranger in my own life.

  Henrik calls out to Milo to tell him the food is ready. No reaction from the living room. He tells him to come now, but Milo dawdles. I walk to the living room, go over to the sofa. I take off his headphones and pull the iPad out of his hands. I snap at him that he’s in a hurry. Milo is surprised at first, then annoyed. He strides past me and sits down at the kitchen table.

  Henrik puts his hand on my arm when Milo’s not looking. I know exactly what he wants to say. Take it easy. What’s the matter with you?

  I should tell him what happened. Should talk to him. It’s not like me to keep secrets. I am, after all, a psychologist and a certified psychotherapist. I verbalize my emotions, I discuss things, figure out where the problem might lie. Especially when it comes to something that could transform our lives. Plus Henrik is my best friend. We’re always open with each other, we talk about everything. He knows me better than anyone else, which is what makes it so hard to hide something from him. I’ve never wanted to, either. Until now.

  I can’t choke down any dinner. Henrik and Milo talk to each other; I don’t know about what. I hear them, but also don’t. My thoughts constantly return to her.

  Isabelle Karlsson.

  I wonder why she’s using that name. I wonder how much she knows.

  Milo is telling us about some super-sweet bike he wants. He takes out his phone to show us. I apologize, get up from the table, and leave the kitchen. I go to the laundry room and try to compose myself.

  A panic attack. Only one, in twelve years. I’m losing control and can’t do anything about it. Panicked terror and paralyzing anxiety are taking over my body, invading my thoughts and feelings. Like boarding a runaway train, then being forced to ride it all the way to its final destination. And I never wanted to go there again. I’d do anything to avoid going there again. The thought of exposing my family to this terrifies me.

  If I’d known what this meeting would entail, would I have gone through with it? If I’d known who she was, would I have been brave enough to meet her?

  If it’s really her.

  I can see myself asking her. Looking into her eyes, formulating the question, watching my words reach her consciousness, starting some chain reaction.

  No, that’s not me.

  Truth? Lie?

  Yes, that’s me.

  Truth? Lie?

  I don’t trust Isabelle Karlsson. How could I? How could I trust her, when I have no idea what she wants? I have to find out more. I have to know.

  Henrik is standing behind me; he puts his hands on my arms.

  “What is it?” he says. “Talk to me, Stella.”

  “I’m tired.”

  “It’s not just that,” he says. “I can tell something happened.”

  He won’t give up. I turn around.

  “I had a shitty day,” I say. “I got a migraine, canceled everything, and went home.” I imply that it has to do with Lina, a patient I’ve had problems with recently. I can tell he understands. Knew he’d interpret it that way.

  Henrik touches my cheek and holds me. He asks if I have been contacted by the Health and Social Care Inspectorate. I haven’t. Not yet.

  He tells me the last few months have been stressful, but it will all work out in the end. He’ll take Milo to practice tonight, I can stay home.

  * * *

  • • •

  I stand at the kitchen window watching them leave.

  Go up to the attic. Look in the bag.

  The handbag in the attic. I haven’t touched it since we moved here, but after twelve years I still know exactly where it is. I don’t intend to look inside it. If I do, I’ll lose my mind again.

  Twenty-one years ago my life was destroyed, but I rebuilt it. I can’t forget that. I chose to live. I couldn’t do anything else. The only alternative was death, and that was something I couldn’t do.

  I focused on my education, on my goals. Five years later I met Henrik and fell in love.

  I buried her. That doesn’t mean I forgot.

  Look in the handbag, in the attic.

  My panic attack today was a singular event. It won’t happen again. And I don’t need to go to the attic. What I need is sleep.

  By the time I reach the bedroom I feel too tired to shower, too tired to wash off my makeup. Don’t even have the energy to brush my teeth. I take off the wristwatch Henrik gave me and put it in my bureau. My pants and shirt I throw on the chair next to the door. I take off my bra and crawl under the blanket.

  * * *

  • • •

  The rain’s still beating against the windows when I wake up in the middle of the night. I must have slept deeply, I didn’t even hear Henrik and Milo come home. The room is pitch-black thanks to our thick curtains. I usually prefer that, but tonight the darkness is suffocating.

  Go up to the attic. Look in the handbag.

  Henrik’s arm is draped over my waist; he grunts when I lift it off. I climb out of bed and pull on my robe. I sneak out of the bedroom and close the door. I pull a chair down the hall and place it under the hatch that leads to the attic. I climb up, grab the handle, and pull it down. Hold my breath when it creaks. I pull down the ladder, climb up, and turn on the lights.

  The handbag is in the corner. I move a few boxes before I’m able to see it. A blue and wine-red paisley pattern, given to me by my mother years ago. I pick it up, then sink down to the floor and unzip it.

  The spider has soft, limp legs of purple and yellow and a big silly smile. I pull the cord under its belly, but nothing happens. It used to play a few bars of “Itsy Bitsy Spider.” We found it hysterically funny.

  A white blanket with gray stars. A small blue dress with lace around the neck and sleeves, the only garment I saved. I bury my nose in it, but it smells only of mothballs.

  Photographs. In one stand three happy teenagers. Daniel; his sister, Maria; and me.

  I’ve almost always had long hair. It’s thick and dark brown and naturally wavy. When this picture was taken it hung to the middle of my back. I’m wearing a yellow dress with a wide black elastic belt around my waist. Daniel’s arm is draped around my shoulders, he seems cocky and self-assured. His black hair is as disheveled as ever, and he wears a pair of worn jeans and a flannel shirt with the sleeves cut off.

  I wonder where he is right now. Wonder if he’s happy. If he ever thinks of me.

  I look closely at Maria. Her waist-length straight hair is as black as Daniel’s. The resemblance to Isabelle Karlsson is uncanny. They could be sisters. Twins.

  But it’s a coincidence. It has to be.

  Mor
e photos. A seventeen-year-old holding a small baby. She’s barely more than a child herself. Both she and the baby are laughing. They have dimples.

  My eyes sting, and I rub them with the sleeve of my robe. At the bottom of the bag is a red hardback book. I pick it up.

  DECEMBER 29, 1992

  Heeeeeelp! Shit, shit, shit. I’m pregnant. How could this happen? Or, I know how. But still. So that’s why I’m so tired all the time. So that’s why I’ve been so insanely moody and weepy.

  Or like today. Me, Daniel, and Pernilla went to Farsta Center to try on some clothes. I found a pair of super-cute jeans, but couldn’t button them even though they were my size. I really tried, but I couldn’t get them closed.

  I totally overreacted, I know. I cried in the fitting room. Daniel didn’t get it at all and was insensitive, like he can be. “You on your period? Try on a bigger size, what’s the big deal?” I got so angry I cried even harder. Pernilla chewed him out for me. We skipped shopping and got coffee instead.

  How am I gonna tell Mom? She’s gonna hit the roof. Helena will think it’s awful. And Daniel, what’s he gonna say? He’s going to be a father. That’s not what we planned.

  My emotions are out of control. My whole life is spinning.

  I can’t believe we were so stupid. So irresponsible. All my plans, what am I gonna do now?

  It feels like I’m going crazy. I go from laughing to crying every other second. I’m overjoyed. I’m terrified. A human being. Just like that?! Is it possible to already love this little creature inside me?

  I want this baby. With him. I hope he wants it, too, because I can’t do anything else.

  So, hello and welcome, whoever you are. The rest will have to wait.

  Isabelle

  It’s mid-morning rush hour at Östra Station. Susie is a few steps below me on the escalator. I just turned around and noticed her looking at me. That means I’ll have to converse with her the rest of the way. Try to seem carefree, normal.

  Normal. I don’t even know what the word means.

  To be like everyone else?

  Will I ever truly learn how to do that? So nobody sees what a weirdo I am? How evil I am?

  Evil. I can’t call it anything else. I don’t do mean things. But sometimes I’m afraid I will. The hatred inside me, the ever-increasing rage. That’s what makes me evil. I don’t know what to do about it. And I suspect it will end badly. These thoughts I have, these feelings swirling inside me will surely lead to something terrible.

  Am I being melodramatic again?

  I step off the escalator and wait for Susie.

  “Heeey, Isabelle!” she bursts out and comes over to me. She always speaks in exclamation marks. “So crazy that it’s not raining! It’s been such crappy weather for days! Where’s Johanna!”

  “She’s grabbing something to eat, I think.”

  “Grabbing something to eat.” She laughs and mimics the melody of my country bumpkin accent. That happens more rarely now, and I don’t feel as embarrassed as I did in the beginning.

  “Where’s the lecture?”

  “Q1 hall,” I answer.

  “Did you do the homework?”

  “Yes,” I say. “And you?” I toss my hair. A habit I’m trying to break.

  Susie grimaces. “You’re so smart. I hope I don’t get called on today.”

  She chatters the rest of the way, about how thankful she is it’s Friday, tells me everything that’s happening this weekend, how some people are going out on Saturday and do I want to come along, and then about how her dog threw up yesterday, and did I know her friend is a veterinarian, and, boy, do they see some gross stuff, ha ha. She reminds me that half of September has gone by, time is moving so fast, and it’s going to rain again soon.

  I listen, hmmm sometimes. When we get to the hall, she heads off to the bathroom. I open the door and enter. The lecture won’t start for another eleven minutes. I look around before heading down the stairs. I choose a spot near the end of the third row.

  I always sit close to the front. And always get there early. Sit with my notebook and pencils in front of me, ready to take copious notes. Every number and letter. I use different colors to mark things, underline them, and draw connections as a memory aid. There is something slightly neurotic about it. I know that. I’ve read about it. I have a thing about numbers. Even if I know I’m going to remember them, or will never need them again, I always write them down.

  See you at three twenty-six. 03:26.

  Take bus five-fifteen or sixty-seven from Odenplan. 515, 67.

  Height sixty-four inches, weight one hundred and twenty-three pounds. 64, 123.

  A lot of people think I’m too serious. Every student I know here at KTH takes their studies seriously, but they party, too. A lot. On Fridays there’s cheap beer at the student union, then there are the dinner parties where everyone wears coveralls over their nice clothes and ends up getting wasted, there are also the beer-drinking contests and the pub crawls organized by the various classes, and when exams are over there’s always a huge blowout to celebrate. Not to mention all the house parties.

  Johanna and Susie always try to get me to go to them, but I’ve only done so a few times. The freshman party last spring was the only big party I’ve been to.

  It’s not that I don’t want to join. I want to be one of the gang, and I wish it were easier for me. Easier to forget who I am.

  Still, moving here is the best thing I’ve ever done. The number of friends I have on Facebook has increased drastically. I have more followers on Instagram. And I have Snapchat. I love it! I document my daily life. I take selfies. My digital reality is awesome, crazy, insane. When you look at my pictures you see a life filled with unforgettable moments where I’m surrounded by all these amazing friends who love me. Every like, every comment makes me happy. I know it’s superficial, but I don’t care. There’s nothing wrong with being superficial. And until last summer I was social in real life, too, not just online.

  Then Dad died.

  There’s a movement at the corner of my eye, and I look up. A guy I don’t recognize. He’s good-looking. He asks if he can pass by me, and I feel myself blushing. I stand up, and he smiles at me before squeezing into the row. Throws a long glance at my short dress and my knee-high boots.

  One thing I’ve gotten used to this year is guys looking at me. At home I was invisible. My hair was the only feature I was satisfied with, even proud of. But my body? Sometimes they check me out, like now. It’s weird. But at the same time, I like it. No one looks beneath the surface, no one looks behind the mask. No one sees how fake, nasty, ruined, and twisted I am. No one is allowed inside.

  Johanna and Susie gave me a makeover. It started when I borrowed a shirt from Johanna, which fit really well. Then they made me try on one of her shortest dresses. It was definitely too short. But according to them, that was the point. My legs were made for showing off.

  They dragged me to H&M, Monki, Gina Tricot, all over the place. I discovered the secondhand stores here are way better than in Borlänge. Now I have a whole new wardrobe. Clothes in sizes and styles I’ve never bought before.

  I’ve gotten used to being noticed. Realized it’s not that bad. Quite the opposite. It’s easier to hide that way. You can choose who you are in other people’s eyes.

  My newly won freedom. My new strength.

  I just wish I could forget the real me completely.

  And that’s where Stella Widstrand comes in.

  My thoughts are interrupted when the lecture begins. I listen closely and take notes until the break. Then I stand up and let the people in my row file past me into the aisle. I’m considering if I should leave the hall or stay, when I hear his name.

  Fredrik.

  I look around the hall. He’s sitting a few rows above me. He looks up, meets my eyes, and nods briefly. I know I’m staring. He
rises and turns around, looking for Medhi. He shouts out something to him that I don’t quite catch.

  Fredrik is slender and slightly taller than me. He has a thick mop of blond hair that he often tosses to the side or runs his hands through. He laughs a lot. I can imagine the seven-year-old version of him in his school picture. Pretty much like now, but with a tooth missing in the front.

  He usually wears jeans or chinos low on his hips and T-shirts. He’s a skater and coaxed me onto his long board once. He ran along beside me, holding my hand and laughing so hard. When I asked why, he told me I squeal like a girl. He’s cute, cool, handsome. And he’s a good dancer. I know from experience, at the freshman party.

  He can never, ever know what I’m really like.

  There’s a gorgeous, rail-thin brunette sitting next to him. She stands up, pulls on his hand, and he looks at her. Laughs at whatever she’s telling him as they climb up the stairs toward the exit. He’s obviously tired of me. Maybe he suspects something. Maybe he knows.

  Maybe everybody knows there’s something wrong with me.

  I sit down again. Wish my life was different. Wish I fit in, that I was like everyone else. That there was no shadow inside me. Nothing to hide. But my life is not like anybody else’s.

  And it’s her fault.

  I want revenge.

  I want her to suffer, like I’ve suffered.

  I want her to cease to exist.

  I want her to die.

  Stella

  Thunk, thunk, thunk. The sound of basketballs bouncing against the floor and walls. Now and then a ball actually hits the backboard with an echoing racket. The noise level is deafening.

  I’m headed down the bleacher stairs at the Vasalund Hall in Solna. A firm grip on my paper cup of scalding-hot coffee. I sit down and nod to some familiar faces, then take out my phone to avoid conversation. I spent the week going to work, listening to my patients, buying groceries, cooking dinner, doing laundry. Pretending that everything is the same as always. But I haven’t been able to think about anything but Isabelle Karlsson. I think about her all the time. It didn’t matter to me that Henrik was working late every night or that Milo hung out with his friends too much.