Tell Me You're Mine

by Elisabeth Norebäck

  I go back to the front desk, say hello to the young man sitting there as I pass through a turnstile. I go down five flights of stairs covered by a glassed-in extension. The microfiche room is located at the very bottom.

  A slim, slightly bent woman in her sixties is sitting behind a high desk. Her glasses hover at the tip of her nose, about to fall off. She pushes them up as I approach her, but they slide down again.

  I ask for help finding articles from Småland that appeared between August and October in 1994. She accompanies me to the other side of the room, toward large shelves of Swedish newspapers in microfiche. She bends her head back, peering through her glasses, and finds the shelf we need to access. When she finds it, she cranks a large knob on the side, moving it laterally. An aisle opens up between the shelves.

  We go in, and she takes out a box from a Småland newspaper marked Autumn 1994. She shows me how to mount the film in a reader and scroll between pages.

  I thank her for her help and get started.

  There aren’t many articles about the disappearance. They occur more frequently those first few weeks, and all basically contain the same information.

  A one-year-old girl disappeared from Strandgården around noon on the 13th of August.

  The stroller was found overturned near the beach.

  A Stockholm family were on holiday over the weekend.

  The teen mother left the child unaccompanied.

  The father was seen in Oskarshamn around the time of the disappearance.

  The teen mother was interviewed by the police.

  The teen mother has been cleared of suspicion.

  The police have no leads; the public is asked to report any possible tips.

  One theory was that an animal might have overturned the stroller. Maybe someone saw a child by herself and took care of her. Or the child rolled it over herself and crawled away. Speculation, all of it more or less likely. Every theory except that Alice was taken. No one thought that sounded believable when I said it. Not even Daniel. Who would take our child? It was too far-fetched, the police said. I hadn’t witnessed anyone showing any excessive interest. They investigated whether or not any of the guests had a criminal record, but no one did. A search was organized, but led to nothing.

  Since no animal tracks were found, and no one came forward with information on where she might be, it was assumed that the child had crawled into the water and drowned. There’s a steep drop-off, and the area is known for its strong currents. The police searched the water despite little likelihood of finding such a small body. A tragic accident. The parents interrogated. No suspicion of a crime.

  After a few weeks, the articles dwindled to a final short notice. Child still missing. No tips have led to discovery of the one-year-old. She is assumed drowned, her body removed from the scene by the current.

  The police investigation has been discontinued. The girl has been declared dead.

  I think about what would have happened today. My possible guilt, my negligence, all of it would have been dissected and debated online. Just the fact that we had a child at such a young age would have been considered irresponsible. Unflattering images of me would have appeared all over the Internet. The tabloids would have dug into our private lives, reported on our breakup a few months later. Everyone would have wallowed in our tragedy.

  I keep moving forward. Find nothing. Still nothing. Until a headline catches my attention.

  Strandgården has closed for business immediately, no new management will be taking over.

  This was what Elle-Marja told me about. Roger Lundin, manager and owner of Strandgården, passed away suddenly due to complications from diabetes. Elle-Marja said Strandgården shut down permanently in August of that year.

  I go to the shelves and search for another local newspaper. Load the film and start to scroll. The same articles again. A missing one-year-old. A young mother questioned, but never formally under suspicion. The girl assumed drowned. Case closed.

  I see a familiar face. The police officer responsible for the investigation. Sven Nilsson was his name. I remember him as compassionate and understanding. The scent of the steaming coffee cup he gave me, the blanket he wrapped around my shoulders. His younger colleague was more insensitive. I find his name farther down in the article. Per Gunnarsson. He thought I was guilty. He was sure I’d killed my own child and tried to cover it up by reporting her missing. He was the first one who interrogated me at the police station.

  We have a witness who puts your boyfriend, Daniel, in Oskarshamn at the time in question. What were you doing?

  Why did you leave your baby alone?

  Why were you not there?

  How long were you away?

  If you were so close by, why didn’t you hear anything?

  Where exactly were you?

  You’re so young. Do you like being a mom? It must get pretty tough sometimes. Hearing the kid scream all the time. Sometimes you wish you could escape.

  Have you suffered from postpartum depression?

  Was there an accident you don’t want to tell us about?

  You can talk to us. We’ll understand if something happened.

  The truth always comes out in the end. It’ll go better for you if you’re the one who tells us what really happened.

  What did you do to your child?

  Hard eyes full of suspicion. I was not formally a suspect. But I was suspected. Sven Nilsson interrupted the interrogation and explained that they had no reason to keep me there. He’d talked to a woman who backed up my version of events. She’d seen me rock Alice to sleep in the stroller under the trees. Soon after, she’d seen me walk down to the beach.

  I take out my laptop. Search for Oskarshamn’s police station. Sven Nilsson must have retired a long time ago. I have no idea how police work is archived, but old investigations have to be kept somewhere. It’s worth a chance.

  * * *

  • • •

  I walk out through the front entrance and stretch my back. I call the police, am connected to the police station in Oskarshamn. I’m thinking about what to say and I’m just about to hang up when a woman answers.

  My words rush out. August 1994, Strandgården, on a visit from Stockholm over the weekend, an abducted girl, she was only one year old, the police, an old investigation, closed, of course, Sven Nilsson, Per Gunnarsson—

  “Per Gunnarsson? He’s gone home.”

  Silence on the line.

  “Hello?” I say and wonder if she hung up.

  “Wait, you’re in luck, he’s still here. You can speak to him. Please hold.”

  “Hello. Per Gunnarsson.” His voice is raspier than I remember. But I recognize it.

  “My name is Stella Widstrand. Johansson is my maiden name. You were at Strandgården in August 1994. When my daughter disappeared. She disappeared from her stroller.”

  “Ninety-four? What the hell is this?” Impatient and irritable. He was back then, too.

  “At Strandgården. In Storvik, north of Oskarshamn. You came there with Sven Nilsson and then—”

  “Now, just calm down for a minute. Speak slower. And a bit louder, too, please.”

  I clench my teeth, then start over. “You and Sven Nilsson. You were the officers who investigated the disappearance of my daughter. She was only one year old. You interrogated me and my daughter’s father at the police station.”

  “Okay, I think I remember that,” Per Gunnarsson mutters. “What’s this all about?”

  “I’d like to take a look at the investigation. What you did, who you talked with, those sorts of things.”

  A tired sigh. “Honey. It’s been, what, more than twenty years? That case has been closed a long time. Don’t you think we have more important things to do than root around in old files?”

  “Is there anyone else I can talk to?”

&
nbsp; Another sigh. “Do you think this is some kind of Make-A-Wish program? We’re swamped as it is. We can’t take on stuff like this, too.”

  I don’t respond.

  Per Gunnarsson coughs.

  “Sven Nilsson. He’s been retired for many years. Last I heard he’d moved to Norrköping. I know he saved some material. He often talked about some tip we never followed up on. Don’t have a clue what he meant by that; he was a curious fella. We turned over every stone, as you probably remember. There were no tips we forgot about. It was a hopeless case if you ask me. But get ahold of him, that’s all I can tell you. Now I have other things I need to do.”

  He hangs up.

  I see on the screen that I have nine missed calls and ten text messages. Angry and annoyed text messages from both Henrik and Milo wondering if I’m alive. It makes me annoyed.

  I text Henrik that I’m on my way home. Then I turn off my phone.

  The evening is coming on. The air is cool and fresh, and I don’t hurry as I walk through Humlegården park.

  Stella

  Henrik and Milo are sitting on the sofa eating popcorn. They’re watching a rerun of Top Gear and roaring with laughter at some RVs crashing into each other.

  Henrik notices that I’ve entered the living room and throws me a quick glance. I can see that he’s angry with me. Why? Because I’m not available every second of every day?

  “Hello, my loves,” I say.

  “Hi, Mom,” Milo says. “Where have you been?”

  “Yes, indeed, where have you been?” Henrik says.

  “Did you miss me?”

  “I waited for you for forever after practice,” Milo says.

  “What?” I say.

  “Yeah, you never showed up, so I went home by myself.”

  “Did you ride the subway by yourself?”

  “I had my subway card with me.”

  “Why didn’t you pick him up?” I say to Henrik.

  I sound angry but actually I’m terrified. I think of all the things that could have happened. He could have been hurt, gotten lost, been robbed or kidnapped. Why didn’t Henrik pick him up?

  He raises his eyebrows, and we stare at each other over Milo’s head.

  “Why didn’t you pick him up?” he replies.

  “Because you told me you were.”

  “Where did you get that idea from? You always pick him up after tennis.”

  “I know,” I say. “But you called and said you were going to do it.”

  “When did I call?”

  “This afternoon. Around two-thirty or so.”

  “I had a meeting at that time.”

  “It wasn’t you. It was some assistant who gave me the message. Otherwise, of course I would have been there.”

  “Which assistant? Erica? Why would she call you?”

  “I don’t know her name. But she probably called because you asked her to?”

  “I didn’t ask anyone to give you that message. But it all turned out fine. Right, buddy?” He squeezes Milo’s shoulder.

  “Sorry, honey,” I say, stroking his hair. “It was a misunderstanding. I didn’t mean for you to have to go home by yourself.”

  “Please, he can handle it,” Henrik says. “We talked about it before you got here. He’s ready to start riding the subway on his own now.”

  I want to protest. I don’t want him going anywhere by himself. Never.

  Henrik reads my reaction immediately.

  “He’s been riding around with his friends quite a lot lately. There’s never been any problem, Stella.”

  I go out to the kitchen. Pour myself a glass of wine. I feel like smoking for the first time in many years. Henrik follows me.

  “Where have you been?” he says. “I imagined all sorts of crazy scenarios when I couldn’t get ahold of you.”

  He strokes my arm. I pull away.

  “I was at the library.”

  “Why are you angry?” he asks.

  “You’re the one who’s angry.”

  “Not at all. But you always let me know what you’re up to. It’s not like you to be so hard to reach.”

  He touches me again. I take my glass and go to the other side of the kitchen.

  “You didn’t have to accuse me as soon as I came in the door,” I say.

  “And you don’t have to sound so pissed off. You really haven’t been yourself lately. Could it be that you’re projecting some of your state of mind onto me?”

  “Are you trying to play psychologist now, Henrik? Please don’t.”

  He crosses his arms.

  “If I said I was going to pick up Milo, wouldn’t I have done that?” he says. “I’ve never asked any employee of mine to call you.”

  “Someone called me. Or do you think I dreamed it up?”

  He doesn’t answer that. Instead he says, “Milo can ride the subway on his own now, Stella. He’s thirteen years old. You don’t need to drop him off and pick him up everywhere.”

  “I do that gladly,” I answer.

  “It wasn’t an accusation.”

  I don’t meet his eyes.

  He sighs audibly and leaves the kitchen.

  I see a movement from the corner of my eye and recoil from the window. Someone walked by on the street. I lean forward warily and peer out. A plastic bag is whirling across the street. I prop my hands on the sink and exhale. Am I losing my mind? A few weeks ago I wouldn’t have reacted so strongly to Milo riding home on his own. Wouldn’t have gotten half so scared and jittery. But lately I’ve been reminded what just one moment of negligence can result in.

  When I left Alice alone, the consequences were devastating. I lost her forever.

  And Milo, I left him alone as well. It turned out fine. Nothing happened. But afterward I swore never to be negligent again. When he was younger, I avoided places, wherever crowds gathered. I’d rather his friends sleep over at our house. Hampus and Pernilla and his grandparents are the only exceptions. I take him to all of his practices and games. Drive or walk with him to all of his friends’ houses, even if they live close by. I’m overprotective.

  Henrik has tried to balance that out as much as possible. He took Milo to Gröna Lund; I could never bring myself to join them. He hasn’t made a big deal out of it, either. I’ve gotten better at managing my fears over the years, gradually eased up on my need for control. Until now.

  Milo has to be allowed to stand on his own two feet. I know that. But he’s only thirteen. I’m not quite ready to let go. Maybe I never will be.

  I heat up the food that was on the stove, but I don’t have any appetite. I poke at it and throw most of it away. I stand at the sink.

  I can’t go on like this. I have to talk to Henrik. He has the right to know at some point that I’ve found Alice. I want him to understand that it’s real this time. He’s going to understand. He’ll help me.

  I pour two glasses of wine and go to the living room. It’s dark outside; the wind rocks the trees. Rain is coming. I light the candles on the coffee table and go over to the window. I’m about to pick up one of the candles when I see him. He’s standing in the street behind our house. He’s staring at me.

  It’s impossible to make out the face under that hood. The same shapeless coat as last time. The same tense posture. The same menacing figure.

  I throw open the door to the patio.

  I scream: “What do you want? Get lost, leave me alone. LEAVE!”

  I try to run out to the backyard, but trip on the threshold. I grab hold of the curtains; the rod gives way and tumbles down. I fall headfirst out the door.

  “What’s wrong, Mom?” Milo says as he comes running in. Henrik is right behind him. They find me lying on the patio.

  “Someone was watching our house,” I say, pointing. “Look. There. With a hood covering their face. He
’s been here before. Same coat, same hood.”

  Henrik goes out and stares down the street; Milo follows him. They look in both directions before returning. Henrik squats down next to me; he rubs my shoulder.

  “Come in now, honey. There’s nobody there.”

  I look at him. “There was someone there just now.”

  Henrik looks away.

  “Don’t you believe me?” I say.

  He takes my hand in both of his, and Milo helps me up without a word.

  “Henrik? Don’t you believe me?”

  “There’s no one there now anyway,” he says and smiles.

  I recognize that smile. He uses it when he thinks I’m wrong. When he wishes I weren’t so emotional, so hysterical.

  I look out the window. Henrik and Milo do, too. Someone is walking down the street. Someone in a raincoat with a hood pulled up. I grab hold of Henrik’s arm.

  “That’s him,” I whisper.

  “Oh, come on now, don’t you recognize Johan?” Henrik points. “He’s out with his dog like usual.”

  And he’s right. It’s the investor. Out with his tiny dog again. The color of his raincoat is lighter, I see that now. Johan Lindberg sees us standing by the window staring at him. He grins and waves. Henrik smiles and waves back.

  Then Henrik looks at me. He’s not smiling anymore.

  JUNE 22, 2003

  I’ve found her. I’ve found Alice.

  Two weeks ago, when we were at Skansen. Milo and I were standing in line to buy ice cream.

  And there she was.

  I recognized her. She looked just as she would have looked if I’d never lost her. One breath later and she disappeared into the crowd again.

  Not again. It can’t happen again.

  I left Milo in his stroller and ran after her. Pushing people aside who were in my way, screaming at them to move. Shouting her name.

  She was gone. Vanished again.

  Then I remembered Milo. I ran back to him.

  He was crying and alone. He could have been taken from me, too.