She’ll come back. She has to. She’ll come back soon. She didn’t overturn that stroller on her own, didn’t crawl away, didn’t drown in the sea. She did not, it’s impossible.
Alice, where are you? Are you sad? Is someone else holding you now?
We’ve been searching everywhere. No trace, nothing. But she’s here, I know it. Come back to me. Listen when I call for you. Come back. You have to come back.
You are my everything. You are my flesh and blood! Without you I don’t want to live. You are in my blood.
Stella
Mom mutters to herself while rooting around in the kitchen drawer.
“Stella, where did you hide that can opener?” she says, pulling out another drawer. The way she says it you’d think she’d already scoured the whole house.
“In the second drawer,” I respond, forcing myself to be calm.
“No, it’s not here. It’s nowhere to be found.”
“It’s there.” I wonder why I invited her here. So I wouldn’t be alone? So I’d spend my time being irritated with her instead of thinking about Alice?
“That’s it, right there.” Mom picks up the mail from the kitchen counter. “Is it okay if I put this on the microwave?”
“Sure.”
“It looks like the local newspaper and . . .”
“It’s fine; put it there.”
“Shouldn’t we make enough food for Henrik and Milo?”
It’s the third time she’s asked.
“Margareta will see to it that they’re fed before they leave,” I say. “Or they’ll pick up something on their way.”
“Are you sure? We can always freeze the leftovers. You’ll have food for tomorrow,” she says.
“Mom. This will be enough.”
She throws up her hands in surrender. “Just trying to be helpful. Sorry for intruding.”
Mom has a tendency to take over. She starts baking and cooking, asks if she can help with the laundry and the vacuuming. It’s convenient for a while. But it also gets on my nerves.
“Have you heard from Helena?” I ask.
“She called this week. She and Charles and the children might come home for Christmas. I hope so.”
“Do you think she’s happy? In Oxford, with him?” That was stupid. Here we go again. Why do I keep doing that? Am I trying to start an argument? Mom wrinkles her forehead before she answers. “Yes, I think so. Don’t you?”
“She’s still there, I guess,” I say.
Not long after I had Milo, my sister met Charles while visiting London. He’s an English professor with an affinity for brown corduroy and long-winded monologues.
For thirteen years she’s lived in Oxford with him, and they now have three well-groomed sons.
“When was the last time you talked?” Mom says as she stirs the pot.
“Just before summer, I think.”
“How did this happen? Why don’t you two keep in touch with each other anymore?”
“We’re just different; we always have been.”
I hand Mom a wineglass. She sits down at the table and takes a sip.
“You gave me more trouble than Helena,” she says. “You always wanted to know why. She was content to accept things as they are.”
“She’s always been afraid of conflict.”
“We all have different ways of handling things. You of all people should know that.”
“She didn’t even talk about Alice once, after what happened. Never asked how I was doing. She pretended like nothing had changed. Would only discuss practical things—what do we eat, who should do what. She still does that. I hate it.”
“What’s the matter with you? You sound so angry and grumpy.”
“You two always want things to stay the same. You ignore anything difficult. What happened to me affected all of us, but nobody will acknowledge it.”
Mom puts down the wineglass. “Have you ever thought about what part you might have played?” she asks. “You pulled away from us. You wouldn’t let us talk about it. You didn’t want to. There were long periods of time when we barely saw you.” She stretches out her hand toward mine. I pull away.
“I brought you home from a party,” she says. “Pernilla called. You’d drunk too much, probably taken something else. You had an anxiety attack. Scared the wits out of everyone who was there.”
I don’t say anything. Stare down at the floor. I don’t want to hear this.
“I should have done something about it earlier. You’re right that I kept my eyes closed for too long, and I’m sorry for that. Then you started therapy. You felt better. Life goes on, you said. And it did. For all of us. So don’t be so hard on Helena.”
My mother’s words make me feel ashamed.
She continues. “You talked about this with Henrik when you met him. He wasn’t afraid, he was able to bear your grief. I know things have sometimes been tense between us. But I’m always here. I hope you know that.”
Now I take her hand. “I’m sorry, Mom. I know I’ve been unfair to you. And Helena, too.”
“Why are you thinking about Alice? Isn’t it better to let it be? You have Henrik and Milo now, a good life. Let it go, Stella.”
I get up and give Mom a hug. She’s right, I should let it be.
“Have you been to her grave recently?” she wonders. “Sorry, I know you’d rather call it her memorial stone.”
I shake my head. After we’ve eaten and Mom leaves for home, I sit in the kitchen thinking over our conversation.
I have only vague memories of the time between Alice’s disappearance and ward five. Mom had me committed in the spring of 1995. I was put into a secure psychiatric ward. I didn’t eat, lost weight. I was deeply depressed.
Eventually I came in contact with Birgitta, a psychotherapist. I got help, allowed myself to look toward the future, decided to live. Later, I studied psychology with the goal of becoming a psychotherapist. I’m good at what I do.
I used to be.
Not anymore. Right now I can’t help anyone. I can’t even help myself.
I stand up, wipe down the kitchen counter, and pick up the local newspaper Mom put on top of the microwave. An envelope falls down onto the floor. I pick it up. It’s handwritten and addressed to me, Stella Widstrand, formerly Johansson. No postage, no address. Someone put it directly into the mailbox.
I open it. There’s a piece of paper folded inside the envelope. It has a cross drawn at the top. The text beneath is written neatly in black ink.
Stella Widstrand,
born November 12, 1975,
has suddenly and unexpectedly left us.
She will not be missed.
No one mourns her.
Isabelle
The cold seeps straight through my clothes. Even with a thick scarf wrapped around half my face, I feel naked. I hunch my shoulders against the rain and dash down Valhallavägen. The storm rumbles above Stockholm for the third day in a row. We only had one lecture and many stayed home today. Like Johanna. If it weren’t for group therapy I would have, too. Or at least considered it. But I don’t want to miss my appointment with Stella. Too much is at stake.
Forty-eight minutes until group therapy begins. I’ve been looking forward to it all week.
What if she’s not there?
I walk across the street toward the bus stop. The bus arrives, I hop on, and the air on board feels heavy, damp from soaked clothes and dripping umbrellas. The windows are foggy; the lights outside glow as if in mist.
Ever since I found Stella I think about her. Maybe too much. Last time she looked at me very thoroughly. As if she already knows who I am. As if she understands why I was there. But she doesn’t. She can’t know anything about me or my life. She has no clue.
The bus stops outside the Västermalms Mall. I push my way through the doors and hurr
y toward the clinic. I open the front door and walk in. I ride up to the fourth floor. Greet the receptionist, pay, and head toward the lounge.
I sit down in one of the armchairs, put my phone on silent. Stella comes in at exactly one o’clock and closes the door behind her. I examine her. Beautifully dressed in a knee-length dress today, her hair pinned up in an elegant, thick knot.
Everyone seems like they’re in a bad mood today. Clara is nervous about a presentation she has to give to corporate management tomorrow. Pierre snaps that she’s always worrying and whining, but then everything always goes well for her. She snaps something back.
I glance at Stella again. It’s difficult to read her. So far, she hasn’t spoken. She just sits there.
She’s listening. Studying us one by one. After a while, I feel Stella’s gaze on me.
I meet it and smile. She does not smile back.
Stella
I regret recommending group therapy to Isabelle Karlsson. Given the social difficulties she reported having, this kind of therapy seemed appropriate. But that was before I knew.
Others have talked today, but not Isabelle. So far, she hasn’t said anything. Not a word.
The group has been silent for a while. I have to make her say something. Have to find out why she’s here.
* * *
• • •
I take the floor: How has your week been, Isabelle?
Isabelle: It’s been okay. We started a new group project, and I like my group. Which is nice. And I became a blood donor.
She smiles again. The dimple on her left cheek appears.
Isabelle: Yesterday was the first time I donated blood. I’m a little afraid of needles. Like my mom, she’s ridiculous about them. But it went better than I thought.
She’s silent for a moment. Who is this woman she calls “Mom”?
Isabelle: By the way, she wants me to come home this weekend, but I really don’t want to.
Magnus: Why?
Isabelle: We’re not really getting along right now. She was the one who told me Hans wasn’t my real dad.
Arvid: How did it come about?
Isabelle: I was crying. I told Mom I missed him. Told her it doesn’t get any easier, like everyone claims. I said I would never get over it. She couldn’t take that. She got angry and told me that I should be thankful I still have her.
She takes a deep breath and looks around. Is her story true? Is what she says real?
Isabelle: Dad and I were close. I know she wishes I was close to her, too, that things were as natural between us. But they’re just not.
Her voice quivers; she’s close to tears. It’s genuine. No one can be that convincing without real feelings. What does it mean? Am I wrong? Did I imagine everything? Is this not Alice, but just Isabelle?
Isabelle: So she said, he’s not your real father anyway.
Clara: What a terrible way to say that. Awful.
Pierre: So freaking mean.
Arvid: Just sick. How do you feel about it?
Isabelle: I don’t know. She’s sad, too. I don’t want to be unfair to her. It’s been hard for her as well. She hasn’t had an easy life. She’s done her best to be a good mother.
Is it a coincidence that Isabelle is sitting here? Imagine if she actually doesn’t know anything. It can’t be that simple. She must be hiding something. But what?
Clara: Of course, she’s grieving, but still.
Arvid: It’s still not okay. You don’t tell someone something like that so callously.
Isabelle: It would make more sense if Mom had been the one who adopted me.
Me: What do you mean by that?
Several of the participants stare at me and exchange looks with one another. I don’t care. I need to know.
Me: What’s her name, your mother’s?
Isabelle: Kerstin.
Me: Do you and Kerstin have a close relationship?
Isabelle: There’s close and then there’s close. How should I say this? I could talk to Dad about everything. Me and Mom, we might as well be from different planets.
Arvid: What mother doesn’t come from another planet?
Relieved laughter from the group. I try to smile.
Arvid: My own mother insists on visiting me in the morning. I never learn to say no.
Clara: You have to set boundaries.
* * *
• • •
The conversation changes focus and the participants continue the discussion among themselves. I want to hear more about Isabelle, but can’t interrupt without arousing suspicion. I think Isabelle wants to talk about Kerstin, the woman she calls Mom.
It would make more sense if Mom had been the one who adopted me.
What does that mean?
Does she know Kerstin isn’t her biological mother? Does she want me to know she knows? Who is this Kerstin? And what does she know?
It’s impossible to concentrate. I have no idea what the group is talking about anymore. There is too much moving through my mind.
Alice, everything that happened when she disappeared and the aftermath.
What happened later, twelve years ago, when my life fell apart again.
The visit to Strandgården.
Lina Niemi’s report.
My own death notice.
Who would put something like that in someone’s mailbox?
Is it a warning?
A threat?
Henrik was upset. Mostly because I didn’t think it was necessary to report it to the police. Unfortunately, it’s not uncommon for a therapist to receive threats. But this is the first time I’ve received a threatening letter. Whoever is behind it was at our house. He put it into our mailbox himself. But the idea that someone intends to physically harm me seems improbable. Nobody hates me enough to go that far. As far as I know.
And what could the police do? The letter is handwritten, there’s no signature, no return address.
Henrik assumed it was from Lina or her parents, the only client in my years as a psychotherapist who’s been openly hostile.
Maybe he’s right. It could be Lina’s parents, one or both, who wrote it. It could be Lina herself. Or it could be completely unrelated. Another patient of mine. It could be someone sitting in this group.
It could be Isabelle Karlsson.
I’ve been lost in my own thoughts for far too long, so I straighten up in my chair.
Pierre is going on about social media. He can’t understand why people spend their time on Facebook or Instagram—why would forty-eight likes give your life meaning, and why do people seek confirmation for a photoshopped picture of an imagined reality. He wonders if Isabelle ever posted a picture of her “father,” with air quotes, if she wrote: I will never forget you? People do crap like that all the time. I think about you every day. Like, your mother or your cat has been dead seventeen years. It’s bullshit. People forget. There’s no way you could go seventeen years and still think about someone every day, miss someone, he says. You grieve, you move on.
“What is grief?” I say. “What is it to miss someone? When someone is taken from you, they take a piece of you with them. A piece that can never be replaced by anything else. The grief, the loss is there forever. And it hurts. It bleeds and aches. It becomes a scab, and it itches, and then it falls off. And it bleeds again. One day it becomes a scar. The wound heals, but the scar remains.”
Everyone is staring at me. The silence is oppressive.
“After a few years, sadness and loss have changed you,” I continue. “They’ve become a part of your interior. They help to form the rest of your life. No day passes without that grief being there. You never forget. It’s part of you, of who you are.”
Without looking at any of the participants in the group, I stand up and leave the room.
SEPTEMBER 2, 1994
> Twenty days. The longest days of my life.
A living nightmare.
Don’t give up yet. You have to take care of yourself. You have to believe; you have to hope. That’s what everyone said in the beginning. They meant well; they were trying to be supportive, to comfort me. Their words are empty.
Now they tell me she’s gone. Alice has drowned; she no longer exists. She’s dead.
I refuse to believe it.
But my hope is gone.
It took only a second. The blink of an eye.
My little girl has disappeared forever. How can I live with that?
They are afraid of my grief. Mom, Helena, Maria. As if I might be contagious.
Daniel is silent. He won’t look me in the eye. I hate the distance between us. I wish he would scream at me, blame me as I blame myself. I know he does, but he won’t say it.
We have lost Alice. And in our grief we lost each other, too.
Stella
People are crouched under their umbrellas, hurrying down St. Eriksgatan. I step into Thelins Bakery, buy a coffee, and sit in a corner near the front. I left the building without telling Renate, without canceling my next appointment. I’ve never done that before. And this is the first time I left a therapy session early.
I put my head in my hands, stare down, and see myself reflected as a dark shadow in the black coffee. I straighten up and observe the other customers, who are either reading or in conversation with each other. We are in different worlds. We have nothing in common. My hand shakes as I lift my cup.
I must be more affected by the death notice than I realized. Somebody hates me. Someone wishes me dead. Who? And why?
Once again I go through every problem, every question. I try to sort it all out, think through it logically, but I’m too upset.
Four mothers enter and sit down at the table next to mine. They park their strollers and start to strip layers of clothes off crying and screaming babies. Over and over again they tell their children to be quiet, stop climbing on tables and chairs. They laugh, they discuss the houses they want to buy and winter vacations they want to take.
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