Tell Me You're Mine

by Elisabeth Norebäck

  I follow in their wake without really feeling present. Instead I’m thinking of Isabelle Karlsson.

  Of Alice.

  Seeing the dimple in your cheek. Your ear. Your careful smile that reveals none of your thoughts. I’ve thought about you more than you could ever know. You’ve been an ache inside me since the day you disappeared.

  Where have you been?

  Why don’t you want to tell me?

  The same questions arrive over and over again. Impossible to silence.

  But I do try, by drinking more wine.

  Jelena declares she wants a tour of our house.

  I escape to the kitchen with the excuse that I have to deal with the food.

  I empty my glass, refill it again as Jelena arrives to share her enthusiasm with me.

  She’s completely in loooooove with our huge gray sofas, with our rug and the copper urns and the giant cacti in them. She adooooores the black-and-white photographs on the wall near the patio, the huge landscape, the rugs, such adooorable rugs, and those small sculptures in the bookshelf, she loves it all! Our home could totally be in an interior design magazine, it’s just crazy how nice our house is.

  Henrik comes into the kitchen and saves me. Says I’ve always had a feel for design. Or maybe she’s the one he’s saving; probably he can see how she gets on my nerves.

  Again I empty my glass. Needing to go farther into the fog. Needing some escape from the sharp, prickly reality pressing all around me.

  I’m almost totally absent during dinner.

  Voices rise and blend with each other, chairs scrape, cutlery clicks against plates, there’s chewing and slurping; the sounds assail me, stick in my ears. Henrik is telling them about his company. How well it’s going, how they’re expanding, their sales increasing, new exciting challenges lie ahead. And us? We’ve been together for sixteen years, married for, how long has it been, honey? Jamón Serrano, parmesan, curry-roasted scampi. Well, that’s been. Oh my goodness, how was it now. Soon fourteen years and Milo is thirteen, and we’ve been in this house for twelve years, and it must be five years since we redid the kitchen, right? Honey? Sun-dried tomatoes and oven-grilled vegetables in garlic vinaigrette. And when we got there we went straight to the hotel and. Yes, this weekend we’ll see you at the Widstrand country house outside Nyköping; it will be so lovely. No, it’s been so long since Henrik went moose hunting. Feta and halloumi and asparagus and then it’s. In Abu Dhabi when we.

  All these words seem to be coming from another room, another house, where people sit around another table conversing in a language I’m no longer fluent in. Henrik puts his hand on my thigh and squeezes. Come on. Wake up.

  No, we have no plans to move; we love it here, right, honey? Another meaningful squeeze. I nod and smile like an idiot, like I’ve never done anything in my life besides nodding and smiling.

  “And you’re a psychotherapist?” Jelena bursts out and leans toward me.

  I straighten up in my chair. “That’s right,” I slur.

  “How can you listen to other people all day?” she says. “All their little worries and problems? I’d go crazy. Must be super depressing.”

  So much for mindfulness.

  I hand my glass to Henrik for a refill. He sends me a worried look that I pretend not to notice. He pours just a little. “Psychotherapy isn’t about dwelling on problems for their own sake,” I say and can hear that I sound like a robot. “The purpose is to detect patterns or behaviors that can be changed. To learn how to handle our fears. Exchange old habits for new ones. Develop as a person.” My default response, a simple guide to therapy for idiots.

  “How did you decide to go into that line of work?”

  “I met someone who inspired me.”

  “It’s super impressive,” Jelena says. “I mean that you’re able to help all those people.” She glances affectionately at Marcus and caresses his neck with her fingertips. “According to Marcus, you’re always happy,” she continues. “And you seem so balanced.”

  Balanced? I want to stand up, throw all the dishes on the floor, and scream at all of them to go to hell.

  Henrik puts his arm behind my back. “Stella is amazing. She’s strong, single-minded, accomplishes whatever she puts her mind to,” he says. “That’s why I fell in love with her.”

  “Has she always been so calm?” Jelena says.

  Marcus laughs. “Stella has a temper, I swear. But she’s settled down over the years. Or what do you say, Henke?”

  Yes, Henke, what do you say? Has Stella calmed down?

  He grins at me. “Only on the surface.”

  Idiot. I love you, Henrik, but tonight you’re an idiot.

  * * *

  • • •

  After dinner, Marcus takes Jelena to inspect the second floor. She’s already seen all the rooms downstairs. I hide in the kitchen again. I make coffee, set the table with the fine Rörstrand porcelain service we got from Henrik’s grandmother. Though I have a good mind to throw all of it against the wall.

  “You haven’t said much tonight.” Henrik comes in and leans against the kitchen counter.

  “Did I need to?” I take a drink out of my wineglass. Again.

  “Sweetie.” He puts it away. “Now you’re being unfair. And you’re drinking more than you usually do.”

  Jelena’s heels click clack above us.

  I point to the ceiling and hiss, “She’s absolutely hysterical, the clearest example of borderline I’ve ever seen. Besides the obvious, what does Marcus see in that high-strung bimbo?”

  “If anyone is being high-strung, it’s you,” Henrik answers and looks at me. “You seem like you want to throttle her; it’s not like you.”

  He takes my hand and draws me close, kisses my hair. I let him hold me for a moment before wriggling loose and telling him I have to go to the bathroom.

  I enter, sit down on the toilet lid, and put my head in my hands. I’m an awful person. And I feel very sorry for myself.

  * * *

  • • •

  It’s quiet in the house now. The catering company picked up the food warmer, trays, plates, and bowls, cleared the table and did the dishes.

  The guests are gone, Milo is asleep. Henrik is behind me in bed, caressing my body. It’s been a long time since we indulged in more than a good night kiss. I try to enjoy his touch, but can’t relax even after all the wine I drank. I’m too angry. Too sad.

  After a while he pulls back. He gives me a kiss on my shoulder, mumbles good night, and turns around.

  When I’m sure he’s asleep, I leave the bed. I go fetch my handbag from the hall. I creep onto the sofa and open the diary.

  AUGUST 5, 1994

  Pernilla came by today. It was fun to converse in something other than baby talk for a while, a nice break from my usual days. I’m so thankful for her; all my other friends have disappeared.

  But we’re tough, my little fur ball and me. Most of the time she’s happy and content. (Everyone asks if she’s a “good” baby, like she’s a dog or something. “Yes, she’s so good, she doesn’t bite at all,” or “Well, she’s never mean on purpose.”)

  But lately she’s been fussier than usual. And she’s a light sleeper. As soon as I lay her down, she wakes up and protests. If I’m lying next to her and try to stand up, she starts to scream.

  Could she be teething? That’s what we’ve been saying for weeks. It’s become a joke between the two of us, as soon as she’s unhappy. “It’s the teeth.” But we haven’t seen a glimpse of any new ones yet. Gas? Hungry, too full, tired, too warm, too cold?

  Maybe it’s just a phase. Not a fun one.

  Anyway, Daniel turned twenty, and his parents gave him the most thoughtful present. A mini-vacation for the three of us. Yippee! We’re leaving next weekend. Headed to Strandgården, a place on the Blue Coast in Småland.


  Doesn’t that sound delicious? Strandgården. The Beach Garden.

  Maybe we’ll sleep better there than we do at home, who knows. Hope so, because we’re pretty exhausted. Daniel has worked his butt off all summer, morning to night. We’ve hardly seen each other, and when we do we can barely stand each other. We need this.

  Need to get away somewhere together. Cruise around in the car singing silly songs. We’ll be staying in our own little cabin, sunbathing and swimming.

  I can’t wait!

  Stella

  I get dressed and make coffee early Saturday morning. I should eat something, but that will have to wait. I gulp down the last of my coffee; it’s hot and tastes a bit like dishwashing soap. I rinse my mouth with water, spit it out in the sink.

  Then I go out to the Audi. I start the car and twist around to look out the back window while I reverse. I pass the gateposts and am just about to turn the wheel when there’s a knock on the passenger-side window. I brake and look around.

  Johan Lindberg grins at me. His little dog is behind him, trembling. I roll down the window, expecting a brief account of how he just killed it on the stock market, or maybe too much information about his “open” relationship with Therese.

  “Are we in a hurry?” he says.

  “Sorry, Johan. I didn’t see you.”

  “I hid behind the hedge, Stella. Not your fault.”

  I start to roll up the window again. Johan puts his hand on it. He leans forward and winks.

  “And you just get hotter every time I see you.”

  I look at the time. Give him a smile that can only be interpreted one way.

  “And what have you done with Henrik? Does he know the little missus is headed out on a solo adventure?”

  “Please don’t tell Henrik. Don’t betray me.” I continue backing up. Johan Lindberg refuses to let go of the window. He looks at me with a shocked expression on his face.

  “Are you joking, Stella? Wow, that’s cool. Like I say, that’s how you keep a relationship strong. A little excitement. You go, girl!”

  I turn out onto the street and drive away. In the rearview mirror, I see our neighbor standing with his tiny dog in the middle of the street. For some inconceivable reason, he’s holding his fist high in the air. Solidarity with the struggle? I laugh to myself. If Henrik were here, we’d laugh together.

  I’ve only been driving for an hour when my phone rings. I jump a bit behind the wheel; the ring is so shrill and sudden. I turn in to a rest stop and answer.

  “Did I wake you?” Henrik says.

  “No, no,” I reply. “Are you having a good time?”

  The wind blows in my ear; it sounds like he’s outdoors.

  “Milo is still asleep. I went running. Now I’m having coffee in the garden. What are you doing?”

  “Nothing,” I lie.

  “I miss you,” he says. “But it’s good you’re getting some rest.”

  “I miss you, too,” I answer.

  They’re at the Widstrands’ country home, a manor house with horses, hunting grounds, and a private beach on the sea. I was supposed to be there, too. Instead, I’m on my way somewhere else.

  We talk about the house and the boat for a while, about what they are going to do today. He says his parents send their love. I tell him to send mine to them and give Milo a big hug. We finish our conversation, and I drive out onto the road again.

  The Widstrands belong to a different social class than me. I grew up in the working-class suburb of Kungsängen, in considerably simpler circumstances than Henrik. I was raised by a single mother, just Mom, me, and Helena, my seven-years-older sister. Henrik comes from the expensive Stockholm suburb of Lidingö, went to good schools, sailed, played tennis and golf. His ex was a law student named Louise Von-Something-or-Other. She had a trust fund and a huge apartment in the traditionally aristocratic neighborhood of Östermalm.

  Mom and Helena didn’t think it would last between us. But Henrik’s parents welcomed me. His mother, Margareta, was delighted that their son had found a sensible person to share his life with. They’ve become as much my family as his.

  I’m nearing Nyköping. Their country house isn’t far from here. Yesterday, Henrik made one last attempt to convince me to go with them.

  He tempted me with peaceful evenings by the fireplace, crisp autumn walks, sexy nights, and sleeping late. I said I felt off, that I was tired and antisocial. I needed some alone time, needed to rest.

  Usually, I’d feel guilty. Not now.

  I drive past the exit.

  * * *

  • • •

  Two hours later I turn off toward Storvik and Strandgården. Last time I came here, Daniel drove. I didn’t even have a driver’s license yet. I remember him swearing through the last few miles. The gravel road was dusty, the potholes deep, and the turns tight. He was worried about the shocks in his car, worried what the gravel would do to the paint, and he claimed he was afraid of colliding with some nutty country bumpkin.

  Now the gravel road is broad and paved. Storvik used to be mostly forests and fields, now there are rows of newly built houses. House after house, as if they were delivered straight from a catalog. Rolled out the perfect lawns, the red tricycles, the obligatory trampoline, and the stone sundial. There’s not a tree on any of the plots. Some of them are still construction sites.

  After that the asphalt ends, and the old gravel road takes over. There are no new houses or ongoing construction projects there.

  I step on the brakes.

  A large red deer is standing in front of me. It stares at me with dark, gleaming eyes. Its huge horns are like a tree. I open the car door, climb out, and hold out my hand. Why, I don’t know, perhaps as a greeting. The deer turns away from me. It takes a leap and heads out over a field on the other side of the road. I watch it until it reaches the edge of the woods and disappears into the trees. Then I get back in the car and drive on.

  It’s nearly lunchtime when I turn onto the forest lane. After more than four hours, I’m at my destination.

  Strandgården. The sign still hangs above the driveway. It looks just as I remember it, just weathered by wind and rain. The forest road consists of two deep grooves with grass growing high in the middle. On either side stand dense bushes, and tree branches arch over the road. I drive slowly through an orange tunnel of leaves and arrive at the parking lot.

  An old camper with no doors and broken windows has been abandoned here. A few rusty bikes lean against the pines. The field is covered with leaves, needles, and pinecones.

  I climb out of the car and stretch my stiff body. I follow the gravel path toward the main building. Behind the low house, the lawn spreads down toward the sea like a wild meadow. The mini–golf course to the left is covered in grass and brushwood. The verandah along the house is missing some boards here and there, and the bushes below have taken over. The windows are shuttered. This seaside resort seems to have been abandoned a long time ago.

  I walk around the main building, follow the gravel road to the right toward the six cabins. They stand a bit off from the main area, between tall trees near the water’s edge. Number one is the farthest away.

  * * *

  • • •

  We’re staying in a private cabin right by the beach. Number one. I’m sitting on the porch, Alice is sleeping in her stroller between the trees. Sleeping in the country air does her good, I think. Leafy elms and birches provide cool shade.

  There are more cabins at the edge of the beach. All of them are occupied and the camp down the road is full. There are a bunch of Germans and Dutch people here, and a lot of families with kids and retirees with RVs.

  Our cabin is secluded, calm, and cozy. Just Daniel, Alice, and me. We live in our own little bubble. These days have been wonderful, couldn’t be better. But tomorrow, our mini-vacation will be over and we’ll head home agai
n, so it’s important to make the most of today.

  * * *

  • • •

  The cottages are also in need of restoration. Almost all the paint has flaked off the sunny side, and on the other side, the roof is in bad shape. I walk up the verandah to the cabin we stayed in and peek through the windows. The table and three chairs by the window are gone, as are the brown-and-orange sofa and the double bed that took up most of the bedroom. Nothing remains.

  I don’t feel anything special. No anxiety, no thunderous emotions. I’m at Strandgården. Where it happened. It doesn’t feel like I thought it would.

  I turn around and go down to the beach.

  The wind from the Baltic Sea. The smell of salt and seaweed. I breathe in, let the fresh autumn air fill me. I crouch down and touch the water. It’s ice cold. Even though it’s only September, the summer feels long gone. I stand up again, look out over the blue sea.

  That night when Alice woke up and we went outside. We sat right here looking at the full moon. Just the three of us.

  It feels strangely peaceful to be here.

  The silence is broken by a muffled bark.

  “Buster!” An old woman in a large, shapeless coat dashes after her dog with surprising speed.

  The dog sprints out into the water, then sees me and joyfully bounds in my direction. It stops in front of me and shakes its wet fur. It’s an enormous dog. Drool flies in every direction as he tosses his big, wide head.

  “Don’t worry, he’s not dangerous,” the old woman shouts, wrapping the coat around her as she approaches. The whole scene is so comical I can’t help laughing.

  The dog is red-brown, short-haired, strong, and almost as big as its owner. I smile at her and pat the dog.

  “Unfortunately, he’s got no manners,” the woman says as she leashes him.

  “He’s cute,” I say.

  “Do you hear that, Buster, you miserable cur?” Her tone is kind, and the dog responds with a deep bark.