Never again. I let my child out of my sight. Never never never. I shouldn’t even have gone to Skansen with him. There are way too many people. And it’s easier to disappear in crowds.
Never again.
* * *
• • •
Daniel helped me. He came as fast as he could. I cried and he called the police.
All those questions. Where did you see her? When? What did she look like? What was she wearing?
I tell them. In line to buy ice cream, around three o’clock. Thick, dark hair, a dimple, and an elf ear. She has on a blue dress and is about this height. Like Milo. She was with a man.
They look at me strangely. Their eyes are blank, hard. Their voices cold as they tell me it wasn’t Alice. She’s not one year old anymore. She must be bigger than Milo, they say. You saw someone else; Alice would be almost ten years old.
But they don’t know. They don’t understand anything. They can’t feel her inside like I do. They try to comfort me and be kind, but they whisper to Daniel behind my back that I’m sick, that I’m having a nervous breakdown. They’re lying.
This is no breakdown. I saw my child. I saw her. I saw Alice.
* * *
• • •
I’m cold. Ice cold. I’m so cold I’m shaking even though I have a blanket around me. My back and head are burning. My hands tremble. It must be the medicine they gave me. I want to go home. I don’t want to be here.
Henrik brought me here. Left me here.
I fell asleep in a bed in a cold white room. Alone.
I woke up. Drowsy. Empty. They said I had a visitor. They helped me out of bed. Took me to a visitor’s room.
Daniel sat there. He didn’t want to hug me. He was worried. He was angry. He said he never wanted to be part of this again. I screamed at him: Do you think I want to? Do I want to be without my little girl? Do you think I want to miss her so much, wonder about her all the time, never find any answers?
He said, That’s why we buried her.
So we can move on.
And then I saw Henrik. He was in the corner. His face pale.
He looked at me as if he didn’t know who I was.
Daniel said, You could have lost your son, too.
He was sorry for what happened. He wished me a good life.
And then he left.
Henrik went, too. I didn’t know if he’d ever come back. I didn’t even know if I’d ever get to go home again.
And after he left, I screamed at him, too.
I screamed and screamed and screamed, and I didn’t stop until they made me sleep.
Isabelle
I’m alone in my apartment. Johanna is staying at Axel’s tonight.
I’m in bed, staring out the window. The sky is blue, the sun shining. I find it exhausting. I have no desire to go out.
I should study. There are always things to study, and I usually find that fun. Not now. I don’t want to. I don’t have the energy. My room is homey, as Grandma would say. Only the bed, the sheets, and the ceiling lamp were purchased new. Everything else is secondhand. A large abstract painting in shades of blue, a gray shag carpet, the table lamps. Both the teak desk and the nightstand. The desk chair is a beat-up old kitchen chair. Plus my various knickknacks. A simple blue valance hangs at the top of the window. Johanna helped me and Dad lug it all up from his trailer.
I pull down the blinds and pick up my new MacBook Air.
I bought it with money I earned working this past summer. I check Facebook. Close it. Power down my computer. Check Instagram and Snapchat on my phone. Then I throw off my blanket and go out to the kitchen. I put on the kettle, take out a mug and a tea bag.
The apartment is bright. Large windows in every room, white walls. I got the bedroom, and Johanna made the living room hers; its glass doors are covered with batik drapes in purple and green. In the kitchen we’ve hung an old poster with illustrations of spices on it that we bought together. The chairs around the white kitchen table are mismatched, and the rug on the floor was woven by my grandma.
I sit down at the window with my tea. Thinking about the call I got from my mother, and what I said about her at group therapy. I feel guilty. I hate myself for how I behaved.
I was unfair. What I did was wrong. Talking badly about my mother like that, talking about her when she wasn’t there. The others didn’t get a fair picture. I was angry and disappointed and sad. I exaggerated.
Mom often says I’m sensitive. Impressionable. Maybe I am. At the moment, I feel totally confused. I’m still furious, still feel anger and hatred. My rage at my mother has taken on a life of its own, I can’t control it. At the same time, I feel suffocated by guilt for feeling that way.
I’m still in shock because Dad is dead. Because he wasn’t my real father. Right now, I question everything about Mom. Are my feelings valid? Am I allowed to feel like this? I do wonder how many of my memories reflect what really happened.
I’ll ask Stella what she thinks about all this. I know I can discuss that sort of thing with her. When she asked how it was for me when I was little, she truly seemed to care. She was genuinely worried about me, I noticed that. It felt like she wanted to fix it somehow.
But how can I give her a true picture without being misunderstood? When I do say what I think, it usually doesn’t go well. When will I learn? How do I make other people understand?
Clara wondered why it feels so dangerous to quarrel with Mom. I don’t know. I just know I hate having any conflicts with her and do everything I can to avoid them. I don’t want to make Mom sad. Dad was the same. My dad, who wasn’t my dad.
Mom says I think too much. Ask too many questions. Maybe she’s right. All this brooding isn’t making me any wiser. But I can’t stop thinking. Or feeling.
I don’t know why I am who I am or why I’ve always felt like an outsider. Different. Weird. Odd. Something must be wrong with me. With my emotions.
I don’t want to cry. But I do anyway. And I despise myself even more for it.
Stella
I’m curled up in an armchair in my office. I’ve kicked my shoes onto the rug and tucked my feet under me. I had to force myself to come here today, and I’m just sitting around waiting for time to pass. I haven’t done one minute of work. I’ve stopped doing my job. The whole morning was spent thinking through all that’s happened.
I received a call that no one made. I saw threatening men wearing hoods drawn low.
Was there someone in the street behind the house?
Yes, there was. I don’t hallucinate. It’s happened twice. Someone is watching my home. Someone is watching me. Someone is following me. The death notice makes it even scarier. I struggle to understand. Struggle to think it through. Try to figure who could be behind this. But if I go on like this, I’ll lose myself. End up sick again.
This has to stop.
I’m going to tell Henrik. I’m going to tell him everything. Today. I would rather have some concrete evidence before saying anything. But it can’t wait any longer. And I have to move Isabelle to another group so she can continue her therapy. I should have sent her to another therapist immediately, after the first meeting. What I’m doing now is unprofessional. Unethical.
And dangerous.
My phone vibrates. It’s Henrik. I pick up, and he asks when I’m done today. He wants us to have dinner at Trattorian near Norr Mälarstrand. Just the two of us. Milo has basketball practice. I tell him that sounds lovely.
Is that how I feel? Yes. No. Not really. Maybe yes and no.
I used to like going out to eat with my husband. And I want that to be the case now, too. But it’s not. The thought of talking about Alice over a dinner out feels wrong. Just as wrong as waiting any longer to tell him.
* * *
• • •
A few hours later I park the Audi on a cross street from Norr Mälarstrand. I
head down toward the water and the Mälar Pavilion and see Henrik waiting there. Stubble on his face, hair ruffled, sunglasses on. He takes them off and looks at me.
“What?” he says.
“You’re handsome.” I hesitate before I rise up on my tiptoes and give him a kiss. He returns it.
“Just you and me,” he says. “It’s been a long time.”
We walk hand in hand down the promenade. Watching other people and making jokes at their expense. Amateur photographers with two-foot lenses and old ladies struggling with their little yapping dogs. Parents with strollers who absolutely have to walk abreast of each other, joggers in tights ruthlessly darting between pedestrians, middle-aged ladies with walking poles in their hands.
We need this. We should take that weekend Pernilla talked about. It’s been forever since my husband and I made time for each other.
We get to the dock and enter Trattorian. Henrik booked us a table at the window. While we’re ordering and waiting for our food, he tells me his parents are going to France over the weekend. He says Marcus and Jelena have been to this restaurant recently. He comments on the decor and the menu, making small talk.
“It’s going to be sunny this weekend,” he says.
“Nice,” I say.
“I thought I’d take Milo out to the golf course for one final round for the season. Does he have a basketball game on Saturday?”
“No clue. Perhaps. Probably.”
I wonder why we’re really here. As our food arrives, I take a drink of my wine. Try to relax. I look out over the Riddarfjärden bay. I’m sitting in a nice restaurant with the man I’m married to.
“Is it good?” Henrik asks and takes a bite from my plate.
“Quite good,” I answer.
“How’s work these days?”
I spin my wineglass. “It’s fine. And yours?”
“There’s a lot on my plate right now, as you know, but it’ll get better soon,” he says. Silence. We behave like two bad copies of ourselves. “Have you heard anything lately from the Health and Social Care Inspectorate?”
Here it comes. He invited me here for a serious conversation. He thinks my behavior has something to do with the inspection. I poke at my food. I wish he’d waited.
“No, not yet,” I answer, letting go of my fork and pulling my cardigan up onto my shoulders.
“No need to be defensive,” he says. “Since you don’t talk to me anymore, I have to ask. But it was stupid for me to bring it up now. Forget it.”
Forget it? A cloud will hang over the table for the rest of the dinner if I don’t say anything.
“Why does this feel so tense?” I wonder.
“You’re the tense one,” he replies. “You’ve been both tense and annoyed for a while.”
“I know I may have been preoccupied and absentminded,” I say.
“Absentminded? You’ve been completely absent. You don’t respond when Milo or I talk to you. You forget things, you have outbursts. And yesterday? What was that about?”
“It’s been a strange few weeks, I know,” I say. “But this has nothing to do with Lina. I’ve seen that man twice. I’ve received a disguised death threat. But that’s not all. There’s something I have to tell you.”
Henrik shakes his head. “We’ll talk about it later, okay? Do you want some coffee?”
I don’t. I want to leave. Before I can answer, he gestures to the waiter. I look out over the dock outside while Henrik asks for two coffees, no dessert, please. The sun is reflecting on the water. It’s a beautiful evening. And the distance between Henrik and me is only growing.
There is no turning back. I have to tell him. When we’re alone again, I look him in the eye.
“Henrik,” I say, putting a hand on his arm. He stares at me, waiting for me to continue. “I’ve found Alice.”
Henrik puts down his napkin, but continues looking at me.
I continue. “This time I’m right. I know I’m right.”
I notice that I’m too loud. The couple closest to us has fallen silent, and they’re looking our way.
Henrik glances to the side. Then out over the water.
“I didn’t intend to say anything,” he says. “Not here. I wanted to talk about it later.”
“Say what?” I ask.
“I had a visitor at work today.”
Henrik’s gaze is steady. My stomach aches. I have no idea what to expect, but I can see in his face it’s something serious.
He says, “A woman visited me at the office this morning. She’s worried about her daughter.”
“Her daughter?”
“She’s in therapy with you.”
“What do you mean?”
“The girl has changed since she met you. You seem, and I’m just quoting”—Henrik holds up his fingers—“‘inappropriately interested in her.’”
“Are you serious?” I raise my voice, and the couple looks at us again. I continue more quietly. “Who is this concerning?”
He doesn’t answer my question. Instead he says, “This woman feels you’re turning the girl against her. Asking leading questions about her upbringing.”
“Isabelle,” I whisper.
Henrik leans forward, tapping his finger on the table. “Please tell me you don’t think this girl Isabelle is Alice.”
“The woman who visited you, what was her name?” I ask.
“Kerstin Karlsson. She begged me to talk to you. Her daughter doesn’t want to listen; she’s obviously captivated by you. According to her mother.”
“Why did she contact you?” I ask. “She could have talked to me directly.”
He shrugs. “Does it matter? She was worried,” he says.
“Guess why,” I say. “Guess why, Henrik. She’s trying to bury this. She’s trying to hide what she’s done.”
Henrik looks questioningly at me. “So Kerstin Karlsson kidnapped your daughter? Then manipulated me so you wouldn’t find out the truth? Doesn’t make sense. You are completely wrong.”
“How do you know that? How do you know?”
“Because it’s not believable. Because no one can just steal someone else’s child in this country. Records are kept on everything. You can’t just show up with a child without someone noticing. And I’ve been to Alice’s grave. She’s dead, Stella. What you went through must have been harder than anyone can imagine. But Alice is gone. It’s horrible, unbearable. But you have to live with it.”
“I’ve never thought she was dead, you know that very well. But you think I’ve gone crazy? That’s what you mean? That in my insane state I’ve made this up?” I slam the glass on the table too hard. The couple next to us has started whispering.
“Settle down, Stella. Settle down.”
“You trust someone you’ve never met more than me. You totally dismiss everything I have to say.”
“Don’t try to put all this on me. You have been acting strange lately. And the woman I talked to was genuinely worried about her child. She was desperate. She didn’t know who to turn to.”
“And you just buy what she has to say straightaway?” My voice wavers. The anger I feel is about to boil over. “You think I’m brainwashing a patient because I’m delusional? You have no confidence in me whatsoever?”
Henrik leans over the table. “You yourself told me you think you’ve found Alice. Again. What the hell am I supposed to think, Stella?” He stretches out for my hand. I pull it away. Cross my arms and look past him.
“This time is different. This time I know I’m right.”
“It’s been more than twenty years,” he says.
“Isabelle is Alice! Should I ignore that?”
Henrik leans backward. He folds his napkin and unfolds it again.
“Stop playing with that fucking napkin,” I hiss.
He throws it down.
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“You want me to believe that you’ve found your missing daughter,” he says. “A girl you haven’t seen since she was a year old. You see her in one of your patients. Whose mother is worried about how her therapy is progressing. This is serious, Stella. Say you understand that. Say at least that you understand how it sounds.”
“I’m not making this up,” I say. “This is not in my imagination.” But I hear how shrill and pleading my voice is. I don’t sound the least bit believable. Not even to myself. More diners are looking at us.
“You can’t continue to be her therapist,” Henrik says. “Not if you think she’s your daughter.”
“I already know that.”
“Why haven’t you talked to me? You know how this turned out last time. How you felt. I don’t want you to have to go through that again.”
“You mean that this is a ‘relapse’?”
“I worry about you.”
“You think I’m sick. I need to be committed.”
Henrik runs his hands over his face. “We should go now.”
He looks around for the waiter. It feels like he’s stuck a knife in my back. He’s sitting opposite me. But he’s light-years away. We have never been so far apart.
“And you wonder why I didn’t say anything?” I say. “Because I knew it would turn out like this.”
I stand so quickly that the chair falls backward. Stumble between the tables as I run through the restaurant. Hear a thud, followed by the sound of breaking glass. The waiter I crashed into has dropped his tray. Everyone in the room is staring at me. I run toward the exit, rip open the front door, and rush back toward the car.
I drive across the Traneberg Bridge. I continue on toward Ulvsunda Road. I pass the airport and Bromma Blocks mall, pass by the Solvalla racetrack, and turn off toward Rissne. I’m thinking about Alice the whole time. I feel her inside me, an inextinguishable flame.
I drive through the suburbs of Bromsten, Spånga, and Solhem, and arrive at Hässelby. I turn left on Lövstavägen, heading home. But when I get to Vällingby, I turn off.
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