Isabelle: Yes, I’m from Borlänge.
She blushes. If she’s just acting she’s really good at it.
Isabelle: I moved here a year ago August to study.
Me: Were you born in Dalarna?
The rest of the group reacts to my direct question. But I can’t control myself.
Isabelle: I was born in Denmark. But I’ve lived in Borlänge most of my life.
Magnus: Do you like Stockholm?
Isabelle: It’s thanks to Dad I’m even here.
She laughs, seems embarrassed. I smile encouragingly. I don’t know what to think. Is she really that similar to Maria? Maybe I’m wrong.
Me: It sounds like you were very close to your father?
Isabelle looks at me. Defiant and scornful. Aggressive. She knows. There is no doubt about it anymore. She knows. But can she see that I know? Can she see that I know who she is? And if so, does she realize I’ve seen through her carefully constructed façade?
Isabelle: He was everything to me. That’s why it came as a shock when I found out he wasn’t my real father.
Now we’re getting there. Here it comes. In just a moment everyone will know her real reason for being here.
Arvid: Did you think he was your biological father?
Isabelle: Yes. But he adopted me when he and my mother met. I don’t know who my real dad is.
* * *
• • •
Adopted?
Did she tell me that at our first meeting? I don’t remember. Who is the woman she calls her mother? Is it her mother? Her biological mother?
The conversation continues, but I find it impossible to concentrate on what anyone is saying. Is time standing still? Or is it going faster than usual?
“Stella? Thank you for today?”
I snap out of it, meet Pierre’s derisive look and glance up at the clock on the wall: 2:33. My wristwatch shows the exact same time. Unsure if I can trust my voice, I nod and stand up.
I’m aware of how strange I’ve been acting. I let us run overtime, I haven’t paid attention for the most part, and I asked Isabelle a direct question, for no apparent reason. Usually I only speak when the conversation stalls, sometimes to help someone progress in their reasoning. But never like this. Not in this clumsy way.
Sonja is first out of the door; the others follow. I usually leave the room immediately, too. But today I remain standing, unable to move. I can tell my breath stinks. My armpits are sweaty, and I hope it’s not visible.
I can’t tear my eyes away from Isabelle.
She drapes the strap of her bag over her shoulder. As she turns, her ponytail dances to the side.
Her right ear is pointed and slightly longer than the other.
There are only two other people in the world with an ear like that.
Her right ear looks exactly like Daniel’s and Maria’s.
That insight is a punch in the stomach. My nausea returns.
I hear Daniel’s voice. As clear as if he were in the room. Yes, I have an elf ear, are you gonna make fun of me for it? You know it just means I’m gonna bring magic into your life, Stella.
“Isabelle?” I say.
“Yes?” she answers.
I want to tell her I’ve been waiting for this day for over twenty years. I want to go over to her and take her in my arms and never let her go.
“Thank you for today,” I whisper. That’s all I can manage.
Isabelle smiles. The dimple in her cheek deepens. She leaves.
She’s gone.
I sink into the armchair, close my eyes, and clench my trembling hands.
* * *
• • •
I buried you. We stood at your headstone in the cemetery. We wept and said good-bye.
Still, I never stopped looking for you. I searched for you in every crowd, in every face, on every bus, and in every street. Year after year.
Hoping. Wishing. Waiting. One day you would come back.
But then I stopped. Stopped hoping, stopped wishing. I had to move on. Either that or I had to follow you, to disappear. I moved on. For my own sake, for my son’s. Was that wrong?
I don’t understand why you pretend we’re strangers. Do you want to see what kind of person I am?
Want to see if I feel regret? If I’m plagued by guilt? Do you hate me as much as I hated myself?
Do you want to punish me? Make me feel pain?
I already do.
The pain of you never leaves me. It’s as much a part of me as you are. It never lets me forget. What is it you want to know, what do you want me to say?
I can only say sorry.
Forgive me, Alice.
Kerstin
I put the phone on the table and stare at it. Wait for it to ring. Isabelle rarely answers when I call these days. And she never calls me back, either. It’s not fair to be treated like this. After all these years, after everything I’ve done for her. I did the best I could. You can’t do more than your best. I’m only human.
I stand up and walk over to the coffeemaker on the counter. I reach for a mug in the cabinet, but there are none left. I look at the sink. Ever since the dishwasher broke, it’s always full.
Hans would have fixed it immediately. Hans Karlsson could fix anything. But he’s gone now, and I’m alone.
It smells. Dirty plates, glasses, coffee mugs, and cutlery. Piled up in a jumble. I should do the dishes. I don’t have the energy. It’s so depressing to cook and eat by yourself. Easier to just make a little sandwich, drink a cup of coffee. Who cares if the dishes are dirty? It’s only me here.
I roll up my sleeves and rinse out a mug. I pour myself some coffee, put in two sugars, and as I’m reaching for a third I hear him reproach me. Think about what you’re putting into yourself, Kerstin. He always scolded me for that last cube of sugar.
How can he be gone? Of course, he was twelve years older than me, but fifty-nine isn’t old. And he took good care of himself, didn’t smoke, only one cup of coffee a day, drank in moderation, and watched his weight. It didn’t matter. He died of a stroke.
I defiantly put a third cube of sugar into my coffee and take the mug with me to the library. That’s what he called the small room just inside the kitchen. I take a sip, stare at shelves filled with books. His books, of every sort. I myself rarely read. Don’t get the point of it. Spending your time dreaming of some other world, hearing words in your mind that aren’t your own. No, thank you. I’d rather watch TV. Some sweet, funny movie, a series maybe. A bit of romance, but preferably no sex scenes. Though they’re hard to avoid these days. You can hardly put on the boob tube without having nakedness inflicted upon you.
But aren’t the walls in here a bit drab? Yes, I do believe they are. When we decorated this room, I thought that brown was a beautiful, soothing color. Maybe it’s time for an update?
I’m trying to trick myself, it’s obvious. Because, of course, that will never happen, I know that. I’m the only one who has to stare at these walls now; it’s not worth the trouble.
Since he passed away, and Isabelle left, the house has been far too lonely and quiet. The clock on the wall ticks. Tick tock, tick tock, tick tock. But somehow time is standing still, not moving an inch. I can’t stand the sound of it anymore.
I walk out the front door, follow the gravel path around the house to the back. The air is fresh, the sun shining. But the garden is in the shadows. The trees around it have grown high and barely let any light through. It’s like living in the middle of a forest.
I look up at the house, a classic country red with white trim. It was perfect for our family, a bathroom and bedrooms for each of us upstairs, a living room, library, and kitchen on the ground floor. But it looked different before. Now the paint on the window frames is flaking off, and the gutters are hanging aslant. The red needs repainting, too.
As if that weren’t enough, a pipe is leaking in the bathroom upstairs and a stain is starting to spread in the kitchen ceiling.
How will I be able to handle it all? How will I afford it?
I sit on the back steps with my mug, staring at my uncut lawn. I’ve only managed to mow it once. It was the yard that first drew me when we moved here almost twenty years ago. Isabelle helped me do the planting every spring. But as she got older she thought it was boring. Lately, I’ve quit doing that, too. Everything is overgrown now.
I should put the garden furniture into the shed. Our nice outdoor furniture, the plastic was once completely white. Now it’s gray.
“Hello, Kerstin, it’s been so long since I’ve seen you out here.” My neighbor is standing not far away.
“Hello, Gunilla,” I say.
She pulls off her gardening gloves and wipes her forehead with her sleeve. Gunilla is in her mid-fifties. She dyes her hair a copper brown in an obvious attempt to hide the gray. But her body is fit, and she’s energetic and sporty.
She prides herself on doing the Swedish Classic every year, skiing the Engelbrektsloppet, swimming in the Vansbrosimningen, running the Lidingöloppet, and biking the Vätternrundan.
Both she and her husband, Nils, are outdoorsy types. They have no children and spend their time on sports and running. Maybe they’re fulfilling some sort of need, I don’t know. They store their equipment in an immaculate garage that sits next to their cozy house and perfect garden. They have no idea what it means to raise a child. To care about somebody more than yourself, to constantly have your needs take a backseat to someone else’s. It’s hard not to find them annoying. And they hate having me as a neighbor.
“Perfect day for some gardening, don’t you think?” she says.
“Maybe,” I say.
Gunilla tilts her head to one side. In her eyes I see both sympathy and contempt.
It makes me wonder how others perceive me. I look down at the shapeless, washed-out sweater I usually wear. I push my hand through my hair, which surely has its fair share of gray. Not so strange considering how life has treated me. My wrinkles have multiplied and deepened. I am hollow-eyed, and the skin beneath my chin sags. And I’ve put on weight lately. I feel far older than Gunilla. I look far older than Gunilla.
“You know, Nils is heading to the recycling center in Fågelmyra later today,” she says. “He has room for more if you want help carting away anything?”
That short hesitancy says everything. The pile of trash Hans and I cleared out of the shop is what she’s referring to. We abandoned the project and left everything in front of the house when he started feeling sick. It’s an eyesore for all our perfect neighbors. But it can stay where it is. I have the right to do what I want. I don’t owe anyone anything.
“No thanks,” I say.
Gunilla seems taken aback. She stretches, getting ready to go. “I was just trying to be kind.”
I sigh, so she’ll understand that I feel embarrassed and am aware how unpleasant I must have sounded.
“I’m sorry,” I say. “Thank you for the offer, Gunilla.”
I make an effort to smile, but it feels more like I’m just stretching my face. She sits down on the stairs below.
“You know, Kerstin, we’d be happy to help you. This place must feel pretty empty now that Hans is gone. And with Isabelle in Stockholm, too. We’ve been worried about you.” She puts her hand on my knee but pulls it away when I stiffen. “We care about you.”
“Thank you, it’s nice of you to say so,” I answer.
“You always used to be out in the garden.”
“I just haven’t felt up to it.”
“I understand that. I really do.”
“Oh, you do?”
“What do you mean?”
“First, my daughter moves out. Then I lose my husband. I’m completely alone now. How do you know how that feels? How could you possibly understand?”
“The only thing I’m trying to say is that we are here for you. We don’t want to disturb you, but isolating yourself doesn’t seem like a good thing, either.”
“I’m grieving. There’s a difference, Gunilla.”
She looks down at her brightly colored running shoes and sighs. Neither of us speaks for a long time.
“Just tell me if we can do anything,” Gunilla says, then stands up and goes back to her own yard.
I wish I was better at small talk. But I’d rather sit with my own thoughts. Things were easier with Hans. Now, after he’s gone, I realize he made me a better person. We were happy, in our way. We had a fine family. And Isabelle wasn’t as angry as she is now.
She’s changed. I don’t know why. She doesn’t tell me anything anymore. She’s just unresponsive and cold. Something has happened, but I don’t know what. It’s more than just mourning her father. Every day I wonder what she’s doing, what she’s thinking. I wish she would tell me stuff, share things with me. Like when she was little, and she was my doll. My darling little girl. We used to get along so well, talked about everything, made each other laugh, and we comforted each other when we felt sad.
Suddenly I am on the verge of tears. This is not the life I dreamed of. It wasn’t supposed to turn out like this. I dump the rest of the coffee out next to the stairs and stand up. I open the patio door and walk back into the dark, silent house.
Isabelle
I’m standing on the platform at Fridhemsplan subway station, waiting for the green line train. Line 19 toward Hässelby is arriving in three minutes.
I’m thinking about Stella. I think about her a lot, can’t help it. She’s beautiful, looks so young. I wonder how old she really is? But I see glimpses of a hardness in her. She probably doesn’t realize it herself. I wonder what she’s trying to hide. Or to protect herself from. Is she afraid? Maybe.
She should be. You never know what might happen.
Never.
I stifle a yawn and sit down on a bench. I’m tired. Barely have the energy for anger anymore.
Stella’s nails were painted a different color today. Cerise red. Not one hair out of place. Tasteful makeup, discreet lipstick, lovely earrings that looked expensive. Her black pants fit perfectly, her gray top made from some fancy material. She seems so put together. She must be rich. She’s married, too; a wide gold band sits on her left ring finger. With diamonds on it.
Everything is easy for Stella Widstrand.
She sits with her back straight, but relaxed. She seems so confident. How did she become like that? Maybe she’s good at maintaining a mask. What does she look like when she takes it off? Is she as ugly and evil as me? I wish I knew more about her than I do.
Right before I walked into group therapy, I was sure I wouldn’t be able to handle it. I wanted to blurt everything out. Tell them all of it. But I couldn’t. Everyone was staring at me. The words got stuck; I couldn’t pull them out. They’re too heavy.
And Stella stared at me. Does she know? Does she understand?
I had the opportunity to reveal everything when Pierre asked me what I was doing there.
They were waiting for my reply. But I couldn’t get any of it out.
Not a single word of what I intended to say. I felt Stella’s inquiring eyes. I’m sure she was staring straight through me.
If any of them knew what I know, if any of them knew who I am. How is it possible to walk among all these people and not a single one of them can see?
The train enters the station. I board and sit down across from an old lady. She holds her purse tightly, but smiles when she meets my eyes. She doesn’t see it, either. I smile back, lean against the window and close my eyes, feel the coolness of the glass against my forehead.
Everyone is afraid. Everyone. But we smile and pretend, we lie with our faces so that the real us doesn’t shine through.
But I’ve made
up my mind. Next time I’m going to tell you. I’m going to tell you everything.
The whole truth.
Stella
Damn, they’re here already.
I’m in the kitchen, listening to the sounds in the hall. The stamping of shoes against the hall carpet, the rustle of jackets and the clink of hangers. The shrill voices of little girls, backslaps, men’s laughter, a high and penetrating woman’s voice that demands attention and immediate response.
Henrik reminded me this morning of the dinner, and I pretended to be looking forward to it. Unfortunately, it was too late to cancel. I called a catering company, and they arrived with their fancy autumn menu. The staff set up in the dining room, placed the food onto serving dishes and plates, and then put those into a food warmer.
How am I going to make it through this?
After group therapy today, everything else seems insignificant.
I take a deep gulp of wine, thankful Henrik managed to make it home before they arrived.
Glue on a smile and go out into the hall to greet our guests.
“There she is.” Marcus lights up and gives me a big hug.
“Stella,” Jelena chirps and gives me a kiss on each cheek. “We meet at last. I’ve heard so many amazing things about you.”
Marcus’s new girlfriend is a model. According to her. But she does indeed look like one. She’s a devoted blogger on beauty, health, and mindfulness. She flashes her unnaturally white teeth constantly in a wide smile. Her body lacks even an ounce of excess fat and her long, shapely legs are golden-brown. She’s enjoying showing them off in a short little black dress. She can’t be more than twenty-five, and she’s insufferably perfect and obvious as only a woman of that age can be.
Ebba and Sophia, Marcus’s daughters, are nine and five years old. They’re loud and squabble without interruption. To my great relief, Milo comes out of his room and offers to let them play video games. I have to remember to reward him abundantly for that. Henrik takes Marcus and Jelena into the living room and handles the conversation.
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