Tell Me You're Mine

by Elisabeth Norebäck

  A woman approaches and sits down on the bench next to mine. “Excuse me,” she says, “I hope I’m not disturbing you.”

  “No, no,” I answer but still feel annoyed. I take out one of my spring rolls and bite into it. I’ve lost my appetite, and I put it back in the bag again. When I’m about to leave, the woman apologizes again.

  “I don’t want to intrude,” she says, “but are you okay?”

  I turn, about to give her a sharp reply. She smiles at me, and I realize I’m overreacting. The woman is obviously just lonely and wants to chat. There’s no reason for me to be dismissive.

  “I’m miserable,” I respond and try to laugh. “I hope that changes soon.”

  I expect her to say something encouraging, like “It’ll be fine soon enough.” Or react with embarrassment, apologize, and leave. Instead she sits quietly, looking at me. She doesn’t ask me to keep it together, doesn’t try to be cheerful. Just a meeting between two people. It feels surprisingly liberating.

  “My life is chaotic right now,” I say, and my voice breaks. “Everyone is afraid and wants me to act like nothing has happened. How can I do that?” Tears stream down my face. I feel like an idiot. I don’t want to break down in front of a complete stranger.

  The woman stands up from the bench, walks over, and sits next to me. She gives me a clumsy pat on the back.

  “Oh, dearie, what’s happened?” she asks.

  Pernilla’s voice was impatient; Mom’s was concerned. Henrik would be afraid and angry. This woman shows compassion.

  “My daughter disappeared when she was a year old,” I tell her. “They said she drowned, but I knew she was still alive. And now I’ve met her again. It’s so much harder than I thought it would be. Worse than anything I’ve ever been through, except when she disappeared.”

  “I understand,” the woman says. “I can really understand why.”

  “Why did it take so many years, why did it take so long for her to come back?”

  I must seem incoherent and confused. But the woman just keeps patting my back.

  I stop crying. “My mom and my best friend are worried about me. They think I’m making it up.”

  “Why?” she says, and takes out a pack of napkins and hands one to me. “They must realize you’re serious.”

  I pull out a napkin and wipe my eyes and nose.

  “I’ve been wrong before,” I answer. “I thought I saw her once. I was wrong. I became severely depressed. I was hospitalized, put on sick leave. They’re afraid it may happen again.”

  “But what about your husband?” She nods to my wedding ring. “What does he say?”

  “I haven’t told him,” I say. “I don’t know if I can handle that right now. Having him wonder if I’m sick, if I need to be committed again.”

  The woman watches me attentively and answers only hmmm.

  “I don’t know what to do,” I say. “I’ve never felt so lost.”

  “What do you want to do?”

  “I want to get to know her. But what would that mean? For me? For my family? And for her?”

  The woman looks out over the park. “Yes, who knows,” she says.

  “I’m sorry,” I say. “I probably don’t seem so with it. Stella is my name.” I hold out my hand.

  “Eva,” she says, taking it between her own. “Life is short. We only live once, remember that. What’s your daughter’s name?”

  “Alice.”

  “A good name.”

  “I never thought it would be so difficult. That it would hurt so much.”

  “Think about what would hurt more. Leaving things as they are and learning to live with it. Or doing what you need to do to find the truth, and letting everyone else think what they want about you.”

  I don’t know how long we sit next to each other in shared silence. After a while Eva stands and wishes me good luck. I watch her walk down the hill and out of the park. It’s ridiculous, but I hope we meet again. People who truly listen and show compassion are rare.

  When I get back to my office, life feels a bit easier again. I’m not superstitious. But the meeting in the park feels like a good sign.

  Isabelle

  I left home a while ago. Stopped by the Åhléns department store and walked through H&M in Vällingby shopping center. Now I’m on the platform waiting for the subway. I’m early, but I don’t want to get there late like the first time.

  I just started therapy, but it’s already raised so many questions and memories. They’ve always been there, I think, but only now do I dare to think about what they mean. It’s totally new for me. I’m also not used to saying what I feel and owning it. Like last time when they wondered how I reacted to my mother’s way of telling me about Dad. I have never been so angry with her. The hate I felt was so intense it scared me. I will never forgive her for the way she told me. Can you hate your own mother? It is terrible to feel like that. I wanted to talk about that last time, but I didn’t dare. I wanted to talk about it the very first time I met Stella, but couldn’t. It’s like carrying a wild animal inside of you. What would happen if I let it go? Would it consume me? Or is it already consuming me from within?

  I’m starting to risk sharing a few things. It’s so unfamiliar that no one questions whether I have the right to feel or say as I do. No one gets hurt or sad or angry. Nobody takes what I think or feel personally. On the contrary, they seem to be on my side.

  My phone rings. I pick it up and see it’s Mom. She wants to know everything about therapy. Interrogates me about every detail. I never should have called last week and told her how good I think it is. That was a mistake. I put the phone in my pocket again without answering.

  As soon as I told her I was going into therapy, I regretted it. I knew there would be questions. I knew she’d try to interfere. Knew she’d start snooping. She means well, of course. She always wants to be useful. She always wants to understand, but she never does. She suffocates me. I’m not ready to talk about it yet. Not with her. Sometimes I wonder if I’ll ever be. She’s like a leech, a parasite sucking the life out of me.

  It’s ringing again, and I take out my phone. Watch it until it stops. I get off at Fridhemsplan and climb onto the escalator.

  She calls again. I answer.

  “Hi, Mom.”

  “Hello, my dear girl. Are you on your way to therapy?”

  “You know I am,” I say. During my upbringing I learned to suppress any negative feelings. Now it’s as if I’ve lost the ability to pretend. My voice betrays my annoyance.

  “You don’t have to be so angry. I’m just asking.”

  I control myself. Take a deep breath. “How are things at home, Mom?”

  “Quiet. They always are nowadays.”

  Here comes the guilt trip. Dad is dead. Mom is alone. I’m a bad daughter.

  “Maybe you should try to meet someone,” I say. “Have you been to Grandma’s lately?”

  “Your grandmother is busy,” Mom says. “Sewing circles or whatever it is she does now.”

  “Do you know anyone else you could visit? You haven’t always lived in Dalarna.”

  Silence. A silence that means I’ve wandered into forbidden territory. I know it well, still I go on.

  “Where did we live when I was little? You’ve never told me about that. Just that we were somewhere in Denmark before you moved to Borlänge and met Dad.”

  “Hans, you mean?”

  I’m not allowed to say Dad. She wants to take that away from me, too.

  “Who was my real father then?” I say. “Are you ever going to tell me about him?”

  It’s been a long time since I dared to push this far.

  Mom clears her throat.

  “How exactly does this group therapy work?” she says. She sounds friendly and somewhat interested. But I know she just wants to snoop. Beneath the surfac
e she’s angry. And I don’t want to answer. It’s private. Still, I feel obliged to smooth things over. Try to calm her down.

  “We go there, sit in a circle. Then you can talk about anything. And the therapist—”

  “Stella?”

  “Stella is good. She asks questions that make me think. Reflect. I’m able to work on things.”

  “What kinds of questions? About us? About me?” Mom’s voice is cold. “Should a therapist really be asking you questions like that? You’re young, you’re grieving. What does she know about our lives? Her questions could do more harm than good. Don’t you see that?”

  “They’re not those kinds of questions. You don’t understand.”

  But I remember Stella’s blunt questions. How everyone fidgeted in the face of her intensity. She makes me feel unsure sometimes. I don’t know why, but it feels like she’s more interested in me than any of the others.

  “What are you telling them? What do you need to process?”

  Angry, mocking, patronizing. Mom is just like she’s always been. She roots around in my mind and demands total transparency.

  “That’s my business, Mom,” I say. “I have to go now.”

  “Well then, I’m sorry.”

  And now that hurt tone of voice. She’s misunderstood, but she means well.

  “Not all therapists are good, you know,” she says. “They can have a lot of influence. They believe they’re the bearers of the truth; they want to tell other people how to live. For someone vulnerable and sensitive like you, it can end badly.”

  “Stella never claimed to know everything,” I say.

  Mom sighs. “Sweetie, I’m just worried about you. You’re coming home soon, right? It’s awful to have to talk on the phone like this.”

  “I don’t know,” I say. “School is really intense right before exams.”

  “But I thought you had a free week before your exams?”

  “Yes, but I have to study really hard during it.”

  “Isabelle, come home instead. You need it.”

  “No, Mom, you need it. I need to be left alone.”

  I hang up and turn off the phone.

  * * *

  • • •

  Arvid: You seem to be in a bad mood, Isabelle?

  Me: I screamed at Mom. I can’t believe I did that.

  Clara: You seem to be taking it pretty hard. Is it so terrible?

  Me: I feel terrible. I haven’t done that since I was little.

  I hear Pierre snort.

  Pierre: What do you think is going to happen?

  I look down at the rug.

  Me: I don’t know. I’m not supposed to act like this. She gets hurt. Everything is worse now that Dad is gone.

  Stella: Last week, you said it would make more sense if she’d adopted you. What did you mean by that?

  I twist my hair between my fingers. A nervous tic of mine. It was hard to have a conflict with Mom, and it’s even harder to talk about it afterward.

  Me: I don’t know if I can explain. She’s not like other mothers. She wants us to be best friends. At the same time, she always insists I show her respect, because she’s my mother. She wants me to confide in her, but tries to pull it out of me before I’m ready to tell her. She wants to know everything. Every detail. My most inconsequential thought. Then she uses it against me. I can’t explain. It’s sick. Nothing is easy with her. Everything with her is one long battle.

  Stella: You’ve lived with her your whole life?

  Me: Yes, but I remember very little from my childhood. And I’ve never felt comfortable in her house. It’s been such a huge relief to move away from home. Scary, too.

  Stella: Go on.

  Me: The more she wants to be close with me, the more demanding she becomes. She gets disappointed and sad. She gets angry, and I’ve learned how to keep her in a good mood. I’ve learned to be who she wants me to be. To think what she wants me to think. Every time I try to take my own path, I feel guilty. I’ve even hated her, sworn I’d never forgive her. I’ve wished she were dead. Some days, that’s all I think about. How much I hate her. I almost feel like killing her. It’s sick, I know. There’s something wrong with me.

  Tears run down my face; I’m sobbing now. I feel both relief and embarrassment, crying like this in front of the others. I wonder if I’ve said too much. Maybe I exaggerated. Because I’m angry. No matter what I do it’s wrong.

  Stella: But has she been kind to you? Comforted you when you were sad? Has she ever hit you?

  Now she seems so intense again. Several of the others seem nervous. Is something wrong?

  Me: Hit me? She would never do that. And comforting me is what she does best.

  Maybe I’ve gone too far. Maybe I’ve said too much.

  Me: We’ve had our good times, too. And she hasn’t had an easy life. When I was little, she was often left alone with me. Dad had to travel far away for work, and I was sick a lot. She had a lot on her plate.

  I have to clear my throat. It feels like something’s stuck there.

  Me: And she almost died when I was born. She’s Rh-negative, and I’m Rh-positive. Our blood mixed, and she ended up with blood poisoning. So she means it when she says she’d give her life for me.

  Clara: That’s not how blood poisoning works. And if the blood were to mix, it’s the infant that gets sick, not the mother.

  Me: Are you sure?

  Clara: Yes.

  Me: Weird. She must have told me that story a hundred times. I must have misunderstood something.

  The room falls silent. I feel stupid. It feels like I’m the only one talking today. And Stella.

  Me: I’ve often wondered if she was jealous of Dad for some reason. Maybe it’s because we had an easier relationship. Better than what she and I have ever had.

  Stella leans forward, gripping her knees.

  She asks: Has it always been like that?

  Has it always been like that? I suppose so. We’ve had our good times, too, we definitely have. But basically it’s always been like that. I don’t know why, though, I really tried. I’ve tried to be a good daughter, haven’t I?

  Stella: Alice?

  Pierre: Who’s Alice?

  Stella

  A distant, fluctuating noise streams in from the street. I pull the curtains and sit down at my desk. The muscles in my back and neck have cramped up, and it doesn’t help to massage them. It’s like kneading a rock. The pain behind my eyes is so intense I feel nauseous. I search my purse for the painkillers Mom gave me. I swallow one and close my eyes.

  The blankness in her eyes when I said her name.

  Alice. Her real name.

  It means nothing to her. She doesn’t know who I am. I could be anyone to her. I’m a stranger.

  She hasn’t been searching for me. She hasn’t tracked me down. She hasn’t thought about me. She hasn’t been waiting or longing for me. She doesn’t miss me. She doesn’t know I felt her grow inside me. That she’s my daughter, and I carried her for nine months. That I spent a never-ending night enduring the worst pain of my life for her. She doesn’t know I fed her at my breast, gazed into her eyes, that she slept in my arms.

  I don’t exist to my own child. What was it Eva said in Kronobergs Park? I can let this be.

  I can go on like before. Maybe I shouldn’t meet Isabelle again. Maybe I should let her go.

  Never.

  It’s impossible.

  How could I possibly live like I did before when I know Alice is alive? There is nothing that can tear me away from her again.

  I have to continue. I need to find out what happened to her, need to get to know her. It will turn our lives upside down, it already has, but I’m prepared for anything.

  Whatever I choose to do, there will be serious consequences. That’s inevitable.

 
; Can Isabelle handle the truth? She’s already found out that her dad was not her biological father. And now neither is her so-called mother. I’m going to cause even more problems for her. Her entire life will be destroyed.

  I missed her childhood. Missed watching her grow up. And I’m far from sure that she’s had it easy.

  Alice deserves to find out the truth. Both of us deserve it.

  What does Kerstin know? What’s her explanation for raising my daughter?

  My phone vibrates on my desk. I don’t recognize the number. I answer. One of Henrik’s assistants informs me that Henrik will be picking up Milo from tennis today, so I don’t need to. I thank her and hang up.

  Milo. How will he take it? How am I going to tell him his sister is alive?

  There’s a knock at the door. Renate sticks her head in: “Stella, your patient is waiting.”

  “My patient?”

  “Are you okay?”

  I smile. “Just fine, thank you.”

  “Kent is in the waiting room. He says his appointment was supposed to start a quarter of an hour ago.”

  I totally forgot about him.

  I tidy my hair, grab my coat and my purse, and go to the reception area. I stretch out my hand and greet Kent with a quick handshake, then tell him I have to cancel our appointment today. Didn’t he get my message? How unfortunate that it didn’t reach him. I ask him to book a new time with Renate.

  I should be ashamed of my lie. But all I feel when I leave the office is relief.

  Stella

  I park on Engelbrektsgatan. I take the path through Humlegården park that leads to the National Library. The ground is covered with red and yellow leaves. High above me, the treetops look like they’re on fire. The building itself is quite beautiful, and two rows of large windows cover the main building. I walk up the front stairs, enter a small marble hall with pillars and two large statues. I turn to the right, deposit my coat in a locker next to the café, turn the sound off on my phone and put it in my purse.