It feels like an invasion. I get up from the table without drinking my coffee and leave. I go to the left, take the stairs down to the subway, and regret that I had Henrik drive me here this morning. Wet commuters squeeze in around me on the train headed toward Alvik. The air is stuffy, smells damp and sweaty. Everybody wants to be home already, or at their destinations. Everyone wants to be anywhere but here.
The back of my neck burns, as if someone behind me is staring.
I turn around, study the other passengers. Nobody is paying any attention to me.
I switch to the bus at Alvik. The rain flows down the windows. The streetlights shine along the wet streets. The outside world is blurry and diffuse. The sky is dark and indifferent. I get off and walk homeward in the rain.
Again, I have the unpleasant sensation of being watched. I stop and turn around but see no one. I speed up my pace.
I hang my coat in the hall, lean my purse against the bureau. The house is empty. Milo should be home soon, Henrik will come shortly after, if he’s not working late. I should cook dinner. Can’t. Won’t.
Why didn’t I let Mom make enough food for the whole week? I should call Henrik, tell him to buy something on his way home. I never know when to expect him nowadays.
I go into the living room and stand by the window. I lean my forehead against the cold glass and close my eyes.
A glass of wine. A hot bath. Then sleep. That’s what I need. The symptoms are clear, and if I don’t take them seriously, this will end in disaster.
I open my eyes.
A man is standing in the street. He’s wearing a dark, shapeless raincoat with the hood obscuring his face. His arms hang rigidly at his sides.
I gasp for breath and take a step back. The man watching me doesn’t move. I turn around, grab the phone from the living room table to call the police. When I look back, nobody’s there.
The wind whips the trees; the rain pummels the windows.
I stand with the phone in my hands, ready to call. I look out over the garden, across the street.
The man in the raincoat is gone.
Kerstin
I’ve probably spent half an hour organizing the shelves in the nursing home’s storage room. Messes make me crazy. If everyone just pitched in to keep things tidy, just did a little bit, then I wouldn’t end up having to do this.
But I like routines. I’ve always found them important. Going to work, doing the same tasks every day, it makes me feel calm. It gives me a sense of purpose.
Anna-Lena sticks her head in. “Kerstin, do you have a second?”
“When I’m done in here,” I answer.
What does she want now? I look at the time and notice she came in forty minutes early today. She often does that. And it doesn’t matter if anyone notices. Efficient, responsible Anna-Lena. She’s only thirty-five, but she thinks she’s better than the rest of us. However, I’ve never seen her cleaning up the storeroom. It will never happen. She’s far too important to concern herself with such things.
I arrange the cleaning sprays on the shelf in neat lines. I’m in no hurry. I lock up the storage room and walk leisurely through the corridor. I don’t intend to stress.
“You needed something?” I say when I get to her office.
“Sit down.” Anna-Lena gestures to the chair on the opposite side of the desk. She finishes what she’s working on before turning to me. “I’ve been told things aren’t going so well lately.”
“I think things have been exceptionally calm. Who said otherwise?”
“It doesn’t matter who.” A searching look, a regretful smile. “You’ve been impatient and hard on the residents.”
“So this is about me? I’m the problem?” Anna-Lena refuses to meet my eye and fiddles with a few papers. “I’m sorry to hear that,” I continue. “What exactly does this person claim to have seen?”
“Well, she didn’t say anything specific, but—”
“Then it’s hard to talk about it,” I interrupt. “Right? If she didn’t see me doing anything wrong.”
“Well, she has that perception. And Greta has complained.”
“Greta?” I laugh to show what I think of her. “What doesn’t she complain about? That woman thinks everyone is wrong. She’s never satisfied. You would know that if you ever worked the floor.”
Anna-Lena sighs. As if I’ve said something unusually stupid.
Drama at work exhausts me. Especially battles of this kind. The others gang up on me, complain that I switch my shifts, that I don’t work all my hours, that I go home early. They’ll invent anything to make me feel terrible. But there’s no reason for any of it.
I’m not the most social and chatty person on the staff, I know it. That must be why. Yet I’ve been here longer than any of them. Me and Ritva, sixteen years soon. They wouldn’t know what to do without me. New shooting stars like Anna-Lena rarely last long. To cope with this job, you need more than just the desire to play boss. It’s not like it looks on paper. Theory is one thing, practice is another. Some people are totally out of touch with reality, that much is clear.
“Yes, well, I just wanted to check in with you,” Anna-Lena says and makes a snooty face.
“There’s nothing wrong with how I do my job.”
“Please, Kerstin, why do you always get so defensive? We need to talk about this. You have received a complaint. Again. I know things have been difficult lately, because of your husband and such. But we can’t let it affect your work.”
She doesn’t understand. She doesn’t understand anything. She doesn’t understand shit.
Without a word I stand up and leave the room. Anna-Lena follows me into the corridor and calls after me. I pretend not to hear.
To say I like it here would be an exaggeration. There’s always some foolishness, differing opinions on routines and how tasks should be performed. Easy things end up getting complicated, and it creates twice as much work. I somehow always end up getting the short end of the stick. And these young people who get paid by the hour. Shouldn’t a work ethic be a basic requirement? They ignore the old folks and do the absolute minimum. They’re always causing trouble, trading shifts, calling in sick at the last second, always on Friday nights or Monday mornings. I sub for them, pitch in when I can. But I’m the one who gets shit for it. The world is a thankless place.
Working somewhere else sounds appealing. But I’ll be fifty soon. I’m too old, nobody wants me anymore, the job market is closed. I’ll stick to my routines here at Hällsjö Home, no matter how unpleasant my colleagues are or how incompetent the management is.
I enter the staff room.
“Soon I’ll be home at last,” Ritva says in her thick Finnish-Swedish accent.
“Yes,” I answer. “At last.”
“Me and the old man are going to Ikea. You been there yet?”
“No. I don’t need any more furniture than I already have.”
“The old man is happy they’ve opened a store here in Borlänge,” Ritva says and laughs. “He won’t have to drive to Gävle all the time.”
“Hello,” Cecilia says, bouncing into the kitchen.
I turn away. I can’t stand her. What is she, twenty-three? Twenty-four? Some little nursing student who thinks she’s in possession of infinite knowledge. I’m glad she doesn’t work with us every day. She likes to tell you how to improve everything. Know-it-all kids, is there anything more annoying? Brats who take that tone once they land their first real job.
Right behind her comes Hattie, around forty, a woman from Iran, I think. She rarely talks, but she’s pleasant and modest, humble in some way. Not pushy and self-important like some people around here.
“Do you want coffee, Kerstin?” Ritva holds out a cup to me. I sink down in the nearest chair and put in three sugar cubes. I deserve them today.
Ritva pours one for Hattie, who take
s it and smiles gratefully.
“None for me, thank you,” Cecilia says, though no one asked her. “I don’t see how you all can drink so much coffee every day.” She makes a great fuss of fixing herself a cup of herbal tea. “This job really fucks with you. How can you stand it year after year?”
“Lucky you won’t have to then,” Ritva says and sits down next to me. “You’ve always been in nursing, right, Kerstin?”
“More or less,” I answer. “But you do get worn down.”
“There’s too much to do,” Cecilia says, throwing her feet up on the chair next to her. “Too little time.”
“You have to take it easy,” Hattie says. I smile encouragingly at her. She’s getting better and better at Swedish. Imagine if everyone were so ambitious and goal-oriented.
“Someone has to do the job,” Ritva says and frowns. She’s gruff and doesn’t fawn over anyone. She does what has to be done and goes home. No bullshit. Just like me.
“How’s Isabelle? Does she still like Stockholm?” Ritva asks.
“Seems like it.” I don’t want to tell her how worried I am about my daughter. In just a few minutes I’ll report to the evening staff, change my clothes, and go home. Home to silence. Still, I carry on. “But it would be for the best if she moved home again.”
“Why?” Ritva says. “Best for who?”
I’m startled by this blunt question. But Ritva is just like that, I know. I swallow my annoyance.
“I think it would be best for her. It’s been hard for her since Hans passed. She’s started therapy.”
“You make it sound like that’s a bad thing,” Cecilia says.
“I didn’t say that.”
“If she’s having a hard time, sounds like it might be good for her to have someone to talk to?”
“Maybe,” I answer. “But she can talk to me. I don’t know if I believe in sharing private matters with strangers.”
My spoon rattles around in my coffee cup. My face turns hot as they stare at me. I shouldn’t have said anything.
“I know my daughter,” I continue. “She’s very vulnerable right now.”
“You don’t have to worry,” Ritva says. “Isabelle is a good girl.”
“I think it’s useful to talk to an outside person sometimes,” Cecilia says. “Everybody should go to therapy now and then, I’m certain of that.”
Of course you think so. And if you think so, I guess it’s automatically right? You are half my age, but of course you know best. You have no idea how much I miss my girl, or how worried I am.
“Of course I support her,” I say after a while. “If that’s what she wants, I’ll do what I can to help.”
I’ve been abandoned. What do they know about that? Do they lie in bed at night worrying about their own flesh and blood? Do they know how it feels to watch their only child become a stranger? Isabelle is slipping farther away from me with each day. They don’t understand, they can’t imagine what it’s like. It’s meaningless to even try to explain. I drink the rest of my coffee and leave to report to the next shift.
* * *
• • •
My old Nissan starts on the first try, thank goodness. Before I leave the parking lot, I clear the fog off the window with my sleeve. I drive down Hemgatan and turn onto Faluvägen. Some driver behind me honks his horn and blinks his headlights. A young guy passes me and gives me the middle finger. Yes, yes, I should have stopped at the intersection. It’s all too much right now. My head is swimming with thoughts and speculations. I’m not really myself.
I turn into the driveway. Just sit in the car thinking. It was nice to leave work, but I don’t want to enter that emptiness. If only Isabelle would move home. Then we’d have each other. Like before. Everything would be just like before.
To my great surprise, she called me yesterday and told me about her therapy. Until now the subject had been completely taboo. She refused to tell me anything. She’d been quite rude and said it didn’t concern me. Now she was all excitement. She’s getting so much out of it, tons and tons. But when I asked what she wouldn’t tell me. Apparently everyone in the group is on her side, can you believe it, Mom?
No, I don’t. I don’t understand any of it.
In my world you solve things on your own; that’s how it works. I want Isabelle to talk to me, not total strangers in group therapy. Who knows who they are, what kind of baggage they have, what kind of advice they’re giving? I want the two of us to figure everything out; I want us to have the chance to talk through things properly. But I’ll have to let her try this first. I’ll wait and see. In time, everything will work out for us, I’ll make sure of it.
My purse is in the backseat, and I have to wrench my body around to grab hold of it. I’m so stiff. On my way to the house, I stop and stretch. I forgot the mail. I turn around and go back.
I bought the mailbox next to the gate at an auction just after we moved here. It looks like a miniature house, painted yellow with gingerbread trim and a fence and tiny, fine details. I just had to have it.
Later Isabelle biked into it, it fell over, and its tiny fence was destroyed. She must have been around seven then? It made me so sad and a little upset. Isabelle got sad, too. Hans fixed it as well as he could and put it up again. It’s still nice, even if it’s not like before.
I talked it through with Isabelle, showed her how you can be upset and disappointed, and it’s no big deal. You can be friends again later. I bandaged her skinned knees and taught her that life goes on. I taught her we stick together no matter what happens.
The front door of the neighboring house opens. Gunilla comes out and stands on the top of the stairs. I have absolutely no desire to expose myself to her well-meaning babble. I go up the path without looking to the side. She calls my name, but I don’t care. I fumble with my keys, unlock the door, open it, and go inside. I close the door behind me and lock it. Then I sink down onto the hall floor.
Sweat runs down my back, my heart is racing, and I feel dizzy. I don’t know what’s wrong. It must be the stress. All those disappointments. All those worries and anxieties. The grief after Hans.
I’m grieving for him. I feel both sorrow and relief. Freedom. Are you allowed to feel like that?
Life is strange. Can you ever master it?
I stay there for a while. Then I pick up the phone and call Isabelle.
She misses me, too, I know it.
Stella
Milo and Hampus, Pernilla’s son, are sitting in the backseat with their heads close together, staring at their phones.
“Can you believe you boys have known each other your whole lives.” I see them exchange glances in the rearview mirror. “You’re both so cute.”
“Mom,” Milo exclaims.
Hampus laughs. “You’re just as embarrassing as my mom,” he says.
“Embarrassing, how could that be?” I say, and park outside Konradsbergs Hall, which sits opposite the Dagens Nyheter Tower. “I’ll leave your bag with Pernilla, Milo.”
“Thanks, Mom.”
They’re already out the door by the time I shout out a good-bye. Milo raises his hand in answer as he saunters away. It strikes me again how similar he is to Henrik. Tall and lanky and with the same boyish charm.
I watch them walk away with their gym bags and basketballs. As they enter the glass doors, I start the car and head toward Pernilla’s apartment near Kungsholms Strand.
Pernilla and I grew up on the same block, went to the same school from first to ninth grade. She’s like a sister, closer to me than Helena. She had Hampus the same year Milo was born, and the boys hang out a lot outside of basketball, too.
She was one of the few who stayed in my life after I had Alice. Other friends disappeared. They went to high school, partied, lived their lives. And after Alice vanished, Pernilla was the only one I kept in touch with. Or rather, she was the only
one who kept in touch with me.
No one else saw how bad it got for me. Not Mom and definitely not Helena. Only Pernilla.
I was manic. Did everything I could to suppress the guilt, to forget my grief. I just kept going. I drank. I escaped into a haze of partying, drinking, doing drugs. I slept with unfamiliar boys and strange men. Afterward, I remembered none of them, not their names or what they looked like. From the outside it looked like I was reliving my lost teen years. But in reality it was something else. I was headed toward a complete mental breakdown.
I’m looking forward to an evening with Pernilla. Talking to her, telling her about everything that’s going on. I find a parking spot on Igeldammsgatan and walk down toward Kungholms Strand, where she lives.
“Do you want a glass of wine, or are you driving?” Pernilla says when I sit down on the sofa.
“Uncork it. I’ll pick up the car tomorrow,” I say. “I’m so glad that Milo can stay the night.”
“It’s fun for us.”
I stare through the big windows, looking out over the canal and Karlberg Palace. Pernilla puts on some music, pours a glass of wine for me. I flip through the magazines on the coffee table. “Health & Fitness, iForm, Feel Good, Fitness Magazine,” I read aloud. “You’re taking this new hobby of yours very seriously.”
“Don’t make fun of me,” Pernilla says. She settles down on the sofa next to me. “It’s not a hobby. It’s a lifestyle.”
“Does that lifestyle include wine on a Thursday night?”
“I believe in balance.” Pernilla raises her glass as in a toast. “It’s never too late, Stella. You’re slim, but even you could exercise a bit. Fit over forty—check out the hashtag on Instagram.”
“I don’t have Instagram,” I say.
“You’re a dinosaur,” she replies. “And you’ll end up all wrinkled and flabby if you don’t start moving. Come with me sometime and pound the shit out of your body in the gym—it’s wonderful.”
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