Tell Me You're Mine

by Elisabeth Norebäck

  I stop in a parking lot and get out of the car. The sun is about to go down; the air is cool. I wrap my shawl around my neck and stuff my hands into my pockets.

  She lives in one of the high-rise apartment buildings next to the mall. Maybe I was on my way here the whole time.

  I see lights turn on and off, the blue glow of TV screens. The shadows of people move behind curtains, walking through rooms and looking through the windows. One of them could be Alice. Perhaps she’s standing there right now, looking down at me. Perhaps she feels like I do, that something binds us together. Something that can never be destroyed. A connection. Maybe she’s thinking about it, about me, right now.

  Stella

  The next morning Henrik and Milo have eaten breakfast and gone by the time I go down to the kitchen. Henrik left a plate out for me, but the coffee is cold and the juice in my glass is lukewarm. I pour them both out, throw away the sandwich, and brew new coffee.

  I’m wearing makeup, my Malene Birger pants, the black ones that are slightly looser at the top and taper down the leg. A green blouse from Filippa K.

  I look out the window. Everything is gray, the street, the trees, the houses, the sky. I look at the time. Half past eight. It’s Friday, I have no patients today and don’t need to go in to the clinic.

  Henrik and I didn’t speak to each other after I got home last night. When I arrived he was watching a movie with Milo. I took a bath and went to bed. I pretended to be asleep when he got into bed next to me. I could tell he lay there awake, studying me. We are living in different worlds now. All communication has broken down.

  But it’s not weird he would fear that I’m having a breakdown again. I have been acting strangely, as he says. I have been tense and irritated. But this is not like last time. This is real.

  And if I had been able to tell him about Alice before Kerstin Karlsson scared him, maybe it would have turned out different. Maybe. Or it might not have mattered; he still might not have trusted me.

  I take my coffee and head toward my office. I turn on my computer and log into Facebook. I’ve been planning to delete my account for a long time. I don’t get anything out of it. It just wastes my time and energy. My “friends” are comprised of Henrik and Pernilla, plus some family members and relatives, or people I’ve met through work or Milo, old classmates. Or acquaintances who get in touch when our friendship is confirmed, and that’s all. It’s mostly for Helena’s sake that I keep my account. She’s on Facebook all the time and usually uses it to contact me and Mom.

  I write Kerstin Karlsson in the search field. The number of hits is depressing. Some I can rule out immediately. They’re too young, live in the wrong part of the country or abroad. I inspect three profiles of women a bit older than me. But I have no clue what she looks like at all. Or if she’s even on Facebook. It’s useless.

  I search for Isabelle Karlsson, but there are too many with that name as well. Instead I google Isabelle Karlsson, KTH.

  An article about a project she and a few others have been working on comes up. I click on it. In the group picture she’s standing at the front, her arms crossed, with her hair down and her dimple prominently displayed.

  She is beautiful. Radiant. I take a screenshot of the image and save it to the cloud.

  Additional searches yield nothing more. I continue with Kerstin Karlsson, Borlänge.

  Not nearly as many hits as on Facebook. But which of them is the Kerstin I’m looking for?

  A thought occurs to me, and I search for Hans Karlsson death.

  Hans Gunnar Karlsson passed away from a stroke at age fifty-nine. He’s survived by his wife, Kerstin, and their daughter, Isabelle.

  The notice is on the Dala-Demokraten website. I search for Hans Gunnar Karlsson, Borlänge.

  An address in Barkargärdet. The same address as Isabelle Karlsson, twenty-two years old.

  And Kerstin Karlsson, forty-seven years old.

  Kerstin

  Putting towels and sheets in the storage room is not my responsibility. But I do it anyway. As usual. Otherwise the laundry cart will just stand there in the corridor. People don’t want to take responsibility for anything; they’d rather shirk their duties and have somebody else clean up after them.

  I can feel it in my knees as I bend forward and grab the sheet at the bottom. It wouldn’t hurt me to lose a few pounds. But you can’t do everything at once. I have too much to think about right now. The leak in the bathroom, the car acting up again, all those bills piling up. I really need to go to the dentist. And how is a normal person supposed to afford all that? The salary of an assistant nurse isn’t enough. Especially now that I’m on my own. All Hans left me were debts. The funeral took the last of our savings.

  I hear a howl coming from one of the rooms; it sounds like an injured animal. I know it’s Hedvig. She’s on so many tranquilizers that it’s a wonder she can stand at all. If she doesn’t get her meds on time, she has panic attacks.

  I leave the laundry and go to her room.

  “Have you been hiding in the storage room again, Kerstin?” Ritva says when she sees me. “Why didn’t you respond to the alarm?” She shakes her head and goes into the kitchen.

  Why don’t you answer it yourself? I think and head toward Hedvig’s room. A young employee is standing in the doorway, obviously unsure. I pat her arm and tell her I’ll take care of this.

  “How are things in here, Hedvig?”

  “Help me,” she cries. “Heeeelp!”

  “I’m here now, take a deep breath.” I unlock the medicine cabinet. Very likely, someone forgot to give her the dose she should have gotten two hours ago. So typical. Now I have to write a report as well. I rip open the bag of pills, pour them into a red plastic cup, and hand them to Hedvig. She swallows them all at once and then throws herself onto the bed with loud cries and whimpers.

  I sit down next to her, pat her hand, and whisper to her that everything will be fine. Then I put a blanket over her and tuck in her cold feet. I hush and hum in a quiet voice. After a while she settles down.

  “Do you want some coffee, Hedvig? Maybe a cookie?”

  “Don’t leave me. Don’t go away.”

  “I’m not going anywhere. I promise.”

  Hedvig is eighty-five and rarely has any visitors. She lies in bed, day after day, week after week, year after year. She munches on her tranquilizers, has her outbursts, gets a little extra attention. I feel for her. Ending your days this way is shameful. It’s a shame for our welfare society. Our so-called welfare society. It doesn’t exist anymore.

  I stay there, stroking her bony arms, thinking about life. It rarely turns out the way you imagine. Even a conversation with my daughter goes off the rails. I don’t understand why that happens every time we talk. I’ve gone over it many times, wondering what I’m doing wrong.

  Hi, Mom.

  Hi, honey. Are you on your way to therapy?

  Already she’s closed herself off from me. Maybe I should have hung up immediately and called back later, but I wanted so badly to hear her voice, remind her that I’m here and that I love her. Deep inside she must know that, even if she sounds angry. Deep inside she knows she needs me. She’s not strong enough to break away. She’s not ready.

  How are things at home?

  Quiet. It’s always quiet when you’re not here.

  A halfhearted joke. I should have figured Isabelle would misinterpret it. She does most things these days.

  Maybe you should try to meet someone. Have you been to Grandma’s lately?

  The fact that my daughter thinks she needs to worry about my relationships annoys me.

  Your grandmother is busy. Sewing circles or whatever it is she does now.

  It’ll be all right, don’t worry.

  But don’t you know anyone else you could visit? You haven’t always lived in Dalarna.

  What is this? Wher
e did these comments come from? And with that tone? It’s not like Isabelle. Not at all. And before I can gather my thoughts it continues.

  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.

  Maybe I handled it all wrong. But Isabelle’s tone didn’t make it easy. So accusatory and angry and disagreeable. Impertinent. Ungrateful. I wasn’t prepared for my own reaction.

  Hans, you mean?

  It just tumbled out of me. I guess I wanted to put little miss in her place. It hurts when Isabelle attacks me. Of course I want to talk about it. That’s obvious. But like this? On the phone?

  This should have made us closer, being just the two of us. But things seem to be getting worse. If she only knew how sad it makes me. She still doesn’t know what I’ve been through. Doesn’t it matter that I’m her mother? That I carried her, gave birth to her over the slowest, most painful and awful forty-six hours of my life? That I nearly died in the process? Doesn’t it matter how I held her and rocked her in the rocking chair those first few months? That I patched up her wounds and sat with her at night when she was ill. That I brought her here to Dalarna to make a safe home for her, found a father for her, the best one imaginable.

  Hans meant everything to Isabelle. And Aina, Isabelle’s grandmother, has a very special place in her heart. But me, I’m basically worthless. No one understands how it feels. How much it hurts. Despised and rejected, even though I built my life around her. Children can be so unbelievably cruel.

  Hedvig moves anxiously, and I readjust her blanket. Poor woman, what a fate. Is this how I’ll end up? Caring for my daughter only seems to push her away.

  The shame I feel for the way I told Isabelle about Hans strikes me more often than I’d like. I understand she’s hurt and sad, I truly do. But she’s changed lately, more than she knows. She’s almost always angry or annoyed. It’s more than just being disappointed with me. She’s totally different than she used to be.

  What we need is to meet. Ideally, I’d like to take Isabelle home again, have some time to fuss over her. We need to belong to each other again. If we’re together and have the chance to really talk, we’ll find our way back to each other. Everything will be all right.

  That’s why I took care of things.

  It might seem impulsive, but I thought it through carefully before I went to Stockholm. It’s a long drive to do in just one day, but it was worth it. I had to do something. I can’t just passively stand by while my daughter is led astray.

  I chose to talk to her husband first. Henrik Widstrand. Surely he’ll be able to influence her. I didn’t want to storm into her clinic and confront her unnecessarily. For Isabelle’s sake, I’ll give her a chance. She has to understand that my daughter is vulnerable and at a very sensitive stage.

  Henrik Widstrand was pleasant. He took time, showed me in, and offered me coffee. He listened, I wasn’t interrupted, he let me finish what I had to say. And not once did he look at his expensive watch or show any impatience. Obviously, he was loyal to his wife. Said she maintains her patients’ confidentiality, he doesn’t know anything about them. He was sure she’s good at her job. But he took me seriously, I could see that. I worried him. I hope I don’t cause any problems between them. I wouldn’t want that. But what else could I do? What alternative did I have? All I want is to protect my child. That’s most important. Keeping my daughter safe.

  Henrik Widstrand thanked me, took my hand and looked into my eyes. He was quite tall, handsome, in good shape. He could have been snobby, but he was warm and friendly. She should be happy to have such a good husband. I feel much better after talking to him. I actually think everything will turn out okay.

  I hum and sing, stroking Hedvig’s hand until she falls asleep. Then I sit with her until it’s time to go home for the day.

  Stella

  The sky is overcast as I pass by Avesta and drive over the Dal River. I don’t remember the last time I visited Dalarna.

  Just before I reach Borlänge, the landscape opens up. Wide meadows and fields. The tree-covered mountains in the distance are blue. I’ve forgotten how beautiful this part of Sweden is, even on a gray day like today.

  I turn right and drive across the Dal River again. I drive past the steelworks. Lead-colored smoke disappears into a cloudy sky.

  Barkargärdet lies northwest of Borlänge, and it takes me a while to find the right address on Faluvägen. Leafy trees and firs grow high and thick. The area is dark, murky, and I wonder if the sun ever reaches here.

  Most of the houses in Barkargärdet are well cared for, with neat gardens. But some houses are more like shacks: decaying and abandoned, overgrown gardens, garbage and old cars on their lawns. Hans and Kerstin Karlsson’s house is one of these. I park on the shoulder, but stay in the car. I contemplate the house my daughter grew up in.

  The paint is peeling and needs to be redone. It was probably a nice house once upon a time, but it gives the impression of neglect now. A pile of trash sits next to the driveway and an old dishwasher stands below the kitchen window. The garden is overgrown, the grass high, and the flower beds untended for a long time. The mailbox looks like something from a fairy tale, light yellow with intricate details. It doesn’t fit its surroundings.

  I want to find out who Kerstin is. What she does, what kind of background she has, how much she knows. I want to know why she tracked down Henrik, instead of talking to me directly. I want to know why she took the time to look up his business, the address of his office, then wriggled time to see him between all the meetings he has. The more I think about it, the stranger it seems.

  The driveway is empty and the windows dark; no one seems to be home. A car approaches. I hunch down, it passes by, and I exhale. My armpits are sweaty. My heart is pounding. I feel ridiculous. But if it’s Kerstin, she absolutely cannot see me.

  I swing out onto the road and follow Faluvägen until I get to an exit. But instead of heading onto the E16, back toward Borlänge, I turn around.

  I drive by the house again. Stop, turn off the engine, and leave the car. I have to try to get in. Maybe there’s an unlocked door or a cellar window I can force open.

  The door to the neighboring house opens when I’m almost at the gate. A woman and a man come out, wearing matching exercise clothes. They go down the stairs, and the man looks in my direction. He seems suspicious, as if he thinks I’m here to break in. On their gate hangs a sign: Neighborhood Watch. A red triangle with a broken crowbar in the middle, and beneath it the police logo.

  I turn around and walk back quickly.

  “Hello? Can we help you with something?” the man calls after me. I jog toward the car, jump into it, and drive away from there.

  In the rearview mirror, I see him still watching me go.

  I park farther away and wait. Then I turn and drive back toward Kerstin’s house again. The neighbors are still outside; they’ve taken out some gardening tools. They’re keeping an eye on the area; there’s no way to get to the house without them noticing.

  I came all the way here. I’ve looked at the house; I know where Alice lived. Where Kerstin Karlsson lived with my child. It’s so frustrating not to be able to do more. At the same time, I’m relieved. I can’t make any mistakes now. If it came out that I was snooping around like this, my career would be over for good.

  I look at the house one last time. Alice grew up here. I can’t take it in. It’s unimaginable. Did she stand at those windows looking out? Did she run around that garden and play? Was she loved or was she mistreated? I don’t know anything about the life of my lost daughter.

  Isabelle

  What do you think of this?” Johanna holds up a short, sequined dress. “You’d look so hot in it.”

  I shrug my shoulders. “It’s okay.”

  “Cheer up, Isabelle!” She hangs the dress up again and puts a
n arm around my shoulders. “Shopping is the best medicine for depression.”

  “Is it? Mom says you end up more depressed once your money is gone.”

  “She’s wrong. You’ll see.”

  I’m not at all as sure that this is helping. “Can’t we go home instead?”

  “If you lie in that bed for one more minute, you’ll go crazy for real. Believe me.” Johanna takes me under the arm and pulls me along to the next clothing rack.

  She came home after the lecture, pulled up my blinds, and asked me what I was doing. At first she thought I was sick. Then she realized what was wrong. She crawled into my bed and gave me a big hug. Said she thought life was shitty, too. Then she ordered me up and into the shower. Now the two of us and about a thousand other people are at H&M on Drottninggatan in the middle of the city.

  Johanna holds up a tiny silver crop top that’s both silky and gorgeous. I reluctantly agree to try it on. That, the dress, and a pair of slim, black super-stretchy pants. Johanna takes the lead and heads to the changing rooms, commandeers the largest one. She sits down on the bench inside and gestures for me to get going. I take off my sweater and jeans. Try on the clothes and twirl around obediently.

  I end up buying both the shirt and the pants. And maybe I do feel a tiny bit better. But probably it’s more that someone cares about me than that I went shopping.

  Johanna doesn’t ask me until we’re sitting at Joe & the Juice at Åhléns. Everyone here is so cool. The music is way too loud. She buys a juice for each of us and then sits down close to me.

  “I bought you a Sex Me Up juice, I thought you might need it.”

  I taste it. “Thank you. It’s good.”

  “It’s been a while since you were this depressed. Is it your dad?”

  “It’s my whole sad life.”

  “Oh, Isabelle, you’re so dramatic. What is it now?”

  “My childhood was just so weird.”