Marcus sent a text message:
Does dinner Wednesday work for you? My brother defers to you.
I’ve always liked Henrik’s little brother, but I have no desire to socialize with anyone right now. Still, I reply that we’re looking forward to finally meeting his new love interest. And seeing him and the kids, of course.
Another basketball mom I recognize asks if she can sit down. I scoot over on the bench and look out at the players. Milo is dribbling on the other side of the court. I wave but he doesn’t see me. I take my diary out of my purse, balance it on my knees. In my teens I kept a diary almost daily, and this ended up being the last one.
There’s obviously page after page about Daniel, but also about what I wanted to do with my life. A teenager’s thoughts, plans, and dreams. I wanted to be a tailor. Or a ceramist. Maybe work in fashion or interior design. I wanted to do it all. I wanted to be a Renaissance woman, working in some creative field, traveling around the world, spending a month here or there.
Daniel didn’t share my dreams. He had no interest in traveling or studying or learning new languages. He wanted to stay in Kungsängen, the suburb of Stockholm where we grew up, and eventually open an auto repair garage. He was content with his cars, some street racing, and a few beers with his buddies on the weekends. We were very different. But I was in love, and we were happy.
In the fall of 1992 Daniel and I spent all of our time together. We drove around in his red Impala, having fun, with no clue what was in store for us. We both wanted to keep the baby. We even talked about having more.
I wrote about the pregnancy, about my anticipation and my fear. About the looks people gave us. We were teenagers expecting a child and not everyone thought it was as wonderful as we did.
The birth, the first time I held her to my breast. Daniel with tears in his eyes and Alice in my arms.
The first time we met the little person who would turn our lives upside down. Her scent. I could smell her forever. Her sweet little mouth. Her dimples.
I thought I’d feel more when I read about all of this. That every word would grab me, give me joy and laughter, or sorrow and tears. Honestly, I don’t remember much of what I’ve written. It’s like a story told to me by an acquaintance.
As long as I refuse to think about that day a year later. As long as I keep the door closed to that room. I don’t know if I have it in me to face the pain, if I could handle hearing the accusations. I just don’t think I can go back, let guilt drag me down again.
Why weren’t you there?
I flinch when someone scores a basket, and the man behind me roars.
Milo takes the rebound and dribbles across the court.
When he was younger I went to every practice, every game. Both basketball and tennis. Even though I don’t need to anymore, I still go to many of them. He’s thirteen. And I am hopelessly overprotective. He’s my only child.
I wonder when I stopped thinking of him as my second.
Both of them got their smiles from me. Milo has my curly hair and Alice, my eyes. Otherwise they both favor their fathers.
Alice. Daniel.
Milo. Henrik.
Different lives.
Are they colliding now?
What will that do to me? To my family?
It must be a coincidence. It has to be my imagination. I’ve spent enough time hoping and believing. I can’t handle more anxiety and useless suspense. Nothing will change what happened. I’ll never get back the time I lost.
As we leave Vasalund Hall, I throw the diary into a trashcan.
JULY 29, 1993
I’m a mother now!
Alice Maud Johansson is one week old today.
There was no way I could have imagined what it feels like, I know that now. My life has changed completely.
Who knew I was capable of feeling instant love for a person. She is the most perfect thing you could possibly imagine. Little, tiny chubby fingers and toes. Tons of hair sticking out in every direction. She was born with her own fur hat, Daniel says. Just like him. Thick, black hair.
The world’s cutest little mouth. I think she even has dimples. Especially one on the left side, like me. Her right ear looks like Daniel’s and Maria’s. Elf ears. It’s genetic.
She looks more like her dad, but she has my eyes. She’s a mix of the two of us. I have never been so happy in my life.
She’s also so helpless, completely dependent on me.
It’s a lot of responsibility.
It hasn’t been that long since I waddled home lugging bags of groceries—which Daniel chewed me out for afterward. Apparently, I wasn’t supposed to lift anything heavier than a carton of milk or a loaf of bread. Then he put his ear on my belly and listened. He sang Elvis songs to it, “Teddy Bear” and “Love Me Tender.” Then he fell silent and stared at me with wide eyes, whispered that he could feel her moving. Then he ran his hands over my stomach, searching for our baby, trying to feel her feet. That was just a week ago. It could have been a century ago.
I was in labor through a whole night. It hurt like crazy, and I thought she’d never come out. It was awful, but also the most awesome thing I’ve ever experienced. When they finally put her on my breast, all pink and wrinkled, her big eyes stared straight into mine, and it was the most beautiful moment of my life.
Daniel didn’t like seeing me in so much pain. I squeezed his hand so hard he thought he might faint, too, he told me later.
And he did actually faint! At the precise moment Alice was born. He fell like a tree and hit his head against a chair. He doesn’t want me to mention it, but he got five stitches near his hairline. My love. My brave hero.
The first time he held her, he cried. I feel more in love with him than ever.
Mom and Helena were here today. Even though Mom thinks we’re too young, she could barely bring herself to let go of little Alice. Helena was kind of stiff, both to me and Daniel. She still can’t relax around him. And she didn’t want to hold my daughter. It made me sad.
We’re becoming so different as time goes by.
I brood more and maybe I’m a bit on the introverted side. But how do you get anywhere if you don’t reflect and think? My sister likes to get things done; she doesn’t like to think so much. She carries on no matter how she feels. I got pregnant accidentally, and I don’t really know what to do with my future; she spends her time focusing on minor details.
Do I wish I were different? How could I? Who would I be then?
Life is unpredictable. Anything can happen.
No matter how much I brood or how much Helena plans, neither of us knows what to expect. Isn’t that what makes life interesting? I know I’m being silly now. A teenager trying to sound deep or whatever.
I need to sleep. Daniel and Alice are lying next to me, sleeping like logs. My family.
Stella
Today is Wednesday. Time’s been moving unbelievably slowly.
I finish my morning coffee, put the cup in the dishwasher, and close the diary lying open on the kitchen table. It was stupid to throw it away. As if doing so would change anything. When we got out to the car in the parking lot, I told Milo to wait for me. I ran back to Vasalund Hall and fished the diary out of the trash. Dried it off and put it back in my purse.
Eventually, reading it brought the past back to life. Just like I had thought it would. The guilt, the anxiety. Knowing what I did, what I can never undo. But I have no choice, I have to go on. Meanwhile I keep trying to pretend like nothing happened. Henrik can’t know. Not yet.
I’ve locked the front door and am headed toward the car when our neighbor shouts my name and waves. Johan Lindberg somehow manages to always be outside when we leave or enter our home. He was recently fired from his position as a financial adviser at a big investment firm, let go immediately when it was discovered he’d been sending dick pics to his female
coworkers. But of course, they gave him a golden parachute. When a man at that level crosses the line, his landing is a soft one. Johan Lindberg will never have to work again. We call him the investor. He’s always around home, boasting about his new life as a day trader. He’s annoying, but harmless, and sometimes almost pleasant to talk to. But I don’t feel like it today, so I wave back and drive off.
I pass by the reception desk and say hello to Renate. She asks me how I’m feeling, thinks I look pale. I don’t mention my sleepless nights or loss of appetite. Instead, I smile and blame my genes, I always look pale. She laughs. I laugh, too, for good measure, and continue down the hallway toward my office. I hang up my coat and change my shoes. Sit down at my desk, take out my calendar and MacBook Air. I look through the calendar, taking note of today’s sessions. Two in the morning, then group therapy after lunch, and one session after that.
It’s been nine days since I met her. The woman who calls herself Isabelle Karlsson. Nine meaningless days. Nine days of suffocating nothingness. I’ve been drinking more than I should. Self-medicating of course, what else?
I don’t like the red wine Henrik persists in bringing home. I don’t even like wine. It tastes bad, gives me headaches, and makes me feel ill every time I drink more than two glasses. But for the last few nights I’ve gulped it down just to be able to sleep. And even that has barely helped. Still, it’s better than sleeping pills. When I use those, my brain ceases to function the next day. Then again, in the long run I know alcohol is not truly an option. The risk of relapse increases the more I drink.
The uncertainty is excruciating. Not knowing, never being able to silence the swarm of thoughts and questions buzzing around inside me. And I waver constantly between certainty and doubt. So sure my instincts are correct, and then just as sure that I’m wrong. My mood is terrible; I have no patience.
Isabelle Karlsson. Today she’ll participate in group therapy for the first time. I don’t remember the last time I felt this nervous about a therapy session. Or scared. Maybe my self-esteem as a psychotherapist isn’t what it used to be. But no. I know that what happened to Lina Niemi wasn’t my fault. I’m good at what I do.
Still, I should have detected the problem sooner. I tried for a long time, but I couldn’t help her. In the end, she became dependent on me, wanted me to always be available to her.
Lina Niemi’s staged suicide attempt occurred following my decision to refer her to someone else. Last May she took a handful of antidepressants and washed them down with alcohol. Her mother found her. She spent one night in the hospital for stomach pains, that was all.
Her life was never in danger. But according to Lina herself, she’d almost died. She claimed everything was my fault: I wasn’t responsive enough in our conversations, I didn’t care about her problems, I didn’t heed her cries for help. She said I was unprofessional, fostered her destructive dependence on me.
Lina’s parents listened only to their daughter. Which I suppose is understandable. But afterward Lina’s mother started blogging about me. I’m manipulative, my methods are dubious, I get off on being needed. I’m never mentioned by name, but there aren’t many psychotherapists with the initials SW who practice on Kungsholmen.
Still, I was surprised when they reported me to the Health and Social Care Inspectorate. I took it hard. Did I make a mistake in my treatment of Lina? I’ve analyzed it so many times, and every time I come to the same conclusion.
No, I did not.
However, I am far from sure that my colleagues share that opinion. Of course, they want to cover their backs. Several times they’ve asked me if there were really no signs of self-harm. Every time I have assured them I did everything I could for Lina Niemi. They’ve also wondered if maybe I need a break, even suggested I take a leave of absence. I made it clear to them that I don’t think I need that.
I submitted Lina’s patient journal for review and gave my version to the Health and Social Care inspectors. I’m still waiting for a decision.
Right now, I can’t afford more complaints.
I need to be professional around Isabelle. The problem is I have no clue what her intentions are. And it frightens me.
There’s a knock at the door. It’s nine o’clock. My first patient has arrived.
* * *
• • •
In a few minutes, it will be one o’clock. My fear has increased. I can’t handle another panic attack. I try to calm myself down. I try not to let my emotions get the better of me. I try to think rationally, to talk some sense into myself.
It’s just a figment of your imagination, Stella.
There has to be some rational explanation. It’s a coincidence.
It’s a misunderstanding.
It can’t be her.
Inhale. Exhale.
It doesn’t help.
Nothing helps.
Anxiety gnaws at my stomach, and my field of vision narrows to a single blurry point of light.
I rush out into the hall and down to the bathroom. I fall on my knees in front of the toilet and throw up. Then I stand up, holding on to the edge of the sink, and close my eyes. Wait for the dizziness to subside.
I rinse my mouth, wipe my forehead and the rest of my face with a paper towel. I study my expression in the mirror. Attempt a smile. I leave the bathroom and go to the lounge.
Nine red armchairs circle a round rug. Someone, probably Renate, has prepped the room, and the air is fresh. I sit down in my usual chair and force myself to relax, breathe.
Sonja comes in next and sinks down in the chair closest to mine. When the session is over, she’ll be the first to leave. She has social anxiety disorder and has been in this group the longest. Still, she never speaks. I greet her; she answers with a motion of her hand.
My armchair is placed with its back to one window. To the left of me is another wall with high windows, to the right is the door. I look at the clock above it and glance at my wristwatch. I’m always careful to come just before the session begins and finish exactly ninety minutes later.
Two minutes left.
Still no Isabelle Karlsson.
Clara is already in place, afraid as she is of arriving late.
She sits on my left. Her expectations for herself are incredibly high. Despite a good job as a project leader in a successful media company, she constantly doubts her own abilities.
Magnus is here, too. He sits in the chair opposite me with his eyes glued to his old shoes. He looks up, brushes his hair out of his eyes, then looks down again. Chronically depressed.
Isabelle opens the door.
Her black, shiny hair is pulled up in a ponytail. She is wearing light blue jeans, a black top, and a dark brown leather jacket. She gently closes the door behind her and slides down into the armchair next to Sonja.
I realize I’ve been holding my breath and release it.
Her face is impossible to interpret. I resist the impulse to stare at her. To my great relief, the strong emotions of the last meeting do not return. She isn’t as similar to Maria, Daniel’s sister, as I thought the first time. At least that’s what I tell myself.
Our eyes meet. I realize this isn’t a coincidence.
Isabelle is here for a reason.
She must have tracked me down to see who I am, not just for therapy. I have to find out what she’s really searching for. I have to find out what she wants and why she’s so secretive. Before I dare to confront her. Everything would be so much easier if she’d just be honest with me. I have no idea why she’s not.
I am about to start when Arvid pulls open the door and rushes in. He throws himself into the chair next to Magnus. I give him a long look and hope he understands how much I disapprove of his habitual lateness. He ignores me. Takes out a box of mints and puts one in his mouth.
I begin: Welcome. As I told you last week, we have a new group member starting
today. Her name is Isabelle.
Short silence. Everybody looks at Isabelle. She smiles, pretending to be shy. She does it well. Where did she learn to lie so convincingly?
Magnus: I don’t think Anna should have left. She was just starting to get somewhere.
Clara: She had to stop in order to keep progressing, she said. This is more about you and how much you dislike change.
Magnus: Maybe. But still.
Silence.
Clara: How’s your week been, Arvid? You had a family reunion to go to, right?
Arvid: Ugh. I thought I was gonna go insane. Being with my family for a couple days, what a fucking nightmare. My sister was weird. As usual. Dad drank, Mom was a nervous wreck. Then we pretended to be a “happy family” for the relatives. Good God. Total fucking fakes.
The door opens, Pierre comes in.
Pierre: Sorry. Stuck in traffic.
I give another long look. Doubt he even notices it. Pierre pulls out the armchair next to Isabelle. She seems embarrassed.
Me again: Welcome, Pierre. Nice of you to make it. As I told the others, Isabelle is joining the group starting today.
Pierre: Hi, Isabelle. Hope you contribute more than some of the others in here.
He looks meaningfully at Sonja. Isabelle lowers her gaze to the rug. Is she annoyed?
Pierre: Therapy is pointless if you never open your mouth. So why are you here?
Isabelle: My dad died.
Her voice catches. She clears her throat, looks at me, looks down again. She seems genuinely sad. Have I misjudged her? Or is she acting again?
Isabelle: It went so fast. I wasn’t able to make it home in time. We never had the chance to say good-bye. I didn’t even know he was sick.
Arvid: Home? Where do you come from, is that a Dalarna County accent?
Tell Me You're Mine Page 3