Johanna puts her arm around me. “Because you’re adopted and didn’t know about it?”
“Not just that. Like, we never met other people. Only Grandma. We lived like in a bubble, very isolated. And Mom always wanted me to be her little doll, who she could command and rearrange.”
I take a drink, my brain whirring.
“My parents never did the things other parents do. They were so different from everyone else. I was ashamed of them. Mostly of Mom. She was strange in some way. Neither of them went to the parent-teacher conferences, they found excuses whenever our class and the other parents planned to do something together, and I was never allowed to go on class trips. I could help Dad in the garage and bake with Mom. But it’s just all so weird.”
“All parents are crazy. Sick in the head in some way. All of them, I promise.”
“Not like my mom. She watched me all the time. As soon as a boy was interested in me she’d find out. Then she’d call his parents, threaten to report him to the police, and all sorts of things. My mom is crazy, everyone knew it. And eventually everyone avoided me because of her.”
“You have me now.” Johanna leans against my shoulder. “And Fredde, too? You’ve been texting a lot lately, right?”
“Yes.”
“Do you like him?”
“A little.”
“Just a little?”
“Stop it, Johanna.”
“Okay.”
Silence.
“Do you think he likes me?” I say after a while.
Johanna rolls her eyes. “He’s so into you, you could make him do anything.”
“Even though I’m weird?”
“You know what? You are not as weird as you think. It’s in your head.”
“Stella said something similar in group therapy once. But still. I feel like I have terrible things inside me.”
“Do you think you’re the only one? I feel so fucking furious sometimes. At my parents, at my life, everything. It’s not wrong, the question is just what you do about it.”
“Maybe. I don’t know.”
“But I do know. And now I want to hear what you’re going to do about Fredde.”
We continue to talk about boys, or men, how best to flirt via text and Snapchat, I get tips on what to say and what not to say. She makes me blush, we laugh, giggle. After a while, Johanna stands up to go buy a sandwich as well. Talking about guys and sex takes a lot of energy. I say it’s my turn to buy, but she waves me away. Going out with Johanna is the best thing I could have done, even though I didn’t feel like it at all. When she’s gone, my phone rings. I don’t recognize the number; for once, it’s not Mom.
Stella
I’m on my way back to Stockholm, driving faster than I should. I feel disappointed. Angry. It was stupid to go to Borlänge. I should have stayed home and slept instead. It was completely useless. I don’t know any more now than I did driving up. On the contrary, I’ve found even more questions that need answers. Answers that don’t exist.
I pull off at a gas station in Enköping, fill up, and buy a cup of coffee. I sit down at a picnic table at the edge of the parking lot. My shoulders are tense, the skin around my eyes tight. I take a few deep breaths, fill up my lungs, and then stretch my body.
I take out my phone, make a call.
“Hello, this is Isabelle.”
“Hi, Isabelle, this is Stella Widstrand.”
Silence.
“Hello?” I say.
“Oh, hi!”
“Hello, I’m sorry to bother you on a Friday afternoon.”
“No problem at all.”
Loud music is thumping in the background. Maybe she’s at some student party.
“Can you talk,” I ask, “or are you still at school?”
“I’m free today. I’m out with a friend.”
“Nice,” I say. “Do you like studying?”
A short pause before answering.
“Yes, I do. It’s a lot of work, but it’s fun.”
This is how easy it could be. I could just call up my daughter, ask her how she is, how her day has been. Who is she? What are her dreams? What does she want to be? I want to know everything about her.
“I’ll keep it short. I have a suggestion,” I hear myself saying. “Group therapy is only once a week. There’s not a lot of individual time for each of you. I have an opening on Monday. You can have your own hour to talk. At eleven?”
“Okay.” Isabelle sounds doubtful. “That might be good.”
“Only if you want to,” I say. “If you think you’d get something out of it. In the future we could meet with your mother as well. It could help the two of you form a closer bond.”
“Maybe later,” she says. “Can I think about it?”
“Of course. It’s just an offer. You do whatever feels right.”
“But Monday sounds good. Eleven o’clock?”
“I’ll see you then.”
I finish the call and sit down in the car. I grab my purse and pull out my calendar, write Isabelle, Monday at eleven. What I’m doing is unethical. But Alice is my child. I’m prepared to do what I have to to get her back.
I flip through this past week. See that I should have sent a number of e-mails, made some calls, updated some records by today. It’s afternoon, and I haven’t done a thing. I’m not planning on doing anything now, either.
I see a note from Wednesday, from my conversation with Per Gunnarsson. Sven Nilsson, Norrköping.
I haven’t called him yet. The misunderstanding about picking up Milo, the argument with Henrik, the scene at the restaurant yesterday. I totally forgot to contact him.
I google and find a phone number and an address. I call, wait impatiently while the phone rings.
“Yes, hello?” A young woman’s voice.
I introduce myself, say I’m calling for Sven Nilsson. I hear the woman mumble. It sounds like she’s passing the phone.
“Sven Nilsson.” His voice is hoarse; I don’t recognize it.
“Hi, my name is Stella Widstrand,” I say. “We met in the summer of 1994. My name was Stella Johansson back then.”
“Yes?”
“My daughter, Alice, disappeared at Strandgården in August of that year. She was only one year old. You were the detective who investigated her disappearance.”
Silence.
Sven Nilsson is old. Does he remember?
“Yes, I remember,” he says. “May I ask why you’re calling now?”
“I’m convinced Alice is alive. Maybe that sounds a little crazy. But I just know. I know she’s alive.”
“I always believed your daughter was still alive,” Sven Nilsson says. “Unfortunately, I could never prove it. I’m sorry for that. It was the worst case I had in all my years on the force.”
My eyes fill with tears. I wipe them away with my shirtsleeve and clear my throat.
“Do you have anything left from the investigation that I could look at?” I ask.
“Absolutely, absolutely,” he says. “I have every scrap of paper here. All of it. In fact, I know there was a tip we overlooked. Can you come here and we’ll go through it together? Let me see, maybe on Tuesday? Tuesday morning? Does that work?”
I laugh out loud. Tuesday feels like an eternity from now, but finally I’ll get the evidence I need to prove I’m right.
I turn the music up loud and drive home.
Stella
Henrik baked bread this morning, and the kitchen smells delicious. It’s Saturday, and we eat breakfast together. Henrik and I haven’t talked yet, but for Milo’s sake we pretend nothing is wrong. I eat a slice of bread, even though I’m not hungry, and praise how good it tastes. Then I ask Milo about today’s basketball game. That’s all it takes to get him started, and Henrik and I are able to continue avoiding each other.
/> I’m not going to the game. Henrik seems relieved I’m staying home. I say I need to rest. I’m just going to lie on the sofa and take it easy. I stand at the door waving as they leave and remember I said exactly the same thing two weeks ago. Of course, I haven’t told my husband about my trip to Strandgården. Nor about the trip to Kerstin’s house in Dalarna. Or about the phone calls with Isabelle and Sven Nilsson. Being the unreliable and secretive person I am.
He surely senses as much. I can’t blame him for finding it hard to believe me. But I don’t feel guilty.
Someone who’s never lost a child can’t understand. If I told him everything, what I feel, what I’m up to, Henrik would try to stop me. He’d work against me. I don’t have time for his doubts or his distrust. All of his good intentions are just an expression of his fears. Henrik is afraid I’ll make trouble. The only thing he wants to protect is himself. That’s human. We’re all like that. And that’s why I haven’t said anything about who I’m going to meet today.
I exit the E18 freeway. According to the GPS, it’s not much farther. I couldn’t help checking his profile on Facebook yesterday. Though I could only see his profile picture, places he’s been, and what music he likes. The rest was private, for friends only.
At first, I didn’t plan on going here. But in the end I felt I had to. I just want to see him. See how things are going for him.
There is nobody else I can talk to. No one else understands.
He’s her father.
And he has the right to know that Alice is alive. That I’ve met her and know where she is.
Daniel lives in a charming white house in Bro, twenty miles outside Stockholm. There’s a large yard with thick, well-trimmed hedges. A garage sits next to the property; inside it a man is bent over an open car hood. A sign that reads Sundkvist’s Garage hangs on the wall. I check how I look in the rearview mirror. Readjust my white blouse. I have painted my nails wine red. I fixed my hair this morning, and it curls on my shoulders. I smile at my own image in the mirror. It smiles back, but she seems nervous and insecure.
I park outside the garage door. Daniel shades his eyes with his hand and peers at me. I take a deep breath and get out of the car.
“Stella?” Daniel smiles and comes closer. “I thought that was you,” he says.
He wipes his hands on a cloth. Then he sweeps me up in his arms, squeezes me tight, and spins me around. Just like he used to. I hide my face in his neck, breathe in his scent. I’ve forgotten the effect he has on me. I wasn’t at all prepared for the desire his touch awakens in me. Or am I? Haven’t I longed to feel this again?
“What are you up to?” he says and puts me down. “All the way out here in Bro?”
“Just passing by?”
“Sure.” He smiles, but I get the feeling he’s on his guard. We examine each other. Daniel looks the same, but not quite. He’s no longer wiry and thin. He probably works out, his shoulders are strong, his chest and arms muscular. His hair is longer than I’ve seen it before, and he’s got it up in a man bun. It’s still coal black, but starting to gray at the temples. There are more tattoos on his arms than twelve years ago. His jeans are worn and sit low on his hips. He’s wearing a red flannel shirt and a black tank top underneath. He looks dangerous. Sexy.
“Your very own garage.” I gesture to the sign. “You did it in the end.”
He looks up at it. “It feels good,” he says, turning his eyes to me. “And you? Still a shrink?”
I go over to the car he’s working on.
“What a beauty,” I say, running my hand along the side.
“Yep, isn’t she nice?”
Daniel walks behind me and happens to graze my ass. He stands beside me. Close. He smells like engine oil and aftershave. I hear him breathing.
“I remember that red, shiny thing you drove us around in,” I say, looking up at him.
“Shiny thing?” He pretends to be disappointed. “That was a 1974 Chevy Impala.”
“I have some very good memories from that car.”
Daniel smiles. He remembers, too. And he doesn’t mind thinking about what we did in that backseat. I can see it on him. I feel it in the pit of my stomach. He walks farther into the garage. “You want a beer or something?” he calls over his shoulder.
“Some mineral water if you have any.”
“Still haven’t learned how to drink beer?” He returns and throws a seltzer to me. I catch it and laugh.
“No, I’m a hopeless case.”
He asks about Gudrun, my mother. He heard Henrik and I bought an apartment for her a few years ago. He tells me he misses her meatballs, I have to tell her hello from him. I ask about his mother, Maud. She retired at the beginning of the summer, now she spends her days smoking cigarettes under the kitchen fan.
None of what we say matters. It’s just small talk. What I feel in every part of me right now. I can see it in Daniel’s gaze, how it glides over my body, he feels the same. And it’s ridiculously flattering to know he still desires me.
“What a man cave you have here,” I say, looking around. “Fridge with beer, jukebox. The whole package.”
“Pretty sweet, right?” he replies.
I sit down on the sofa next to the fridge.
“I can’t guarantee your fancy clothes will leave here in the same condition if you sit down there.” He points at the couch with his beer.
“Come sit here,” I say, patting the cushion next to me invitingly. He comes over and sits down. He puts an arm behind me and I scoot closer. I can’t help but wonder what our life would have been like if we’d never left each other. Would we have lived this far out of town? Would we have had more children?
I’m devastated by everything that’s happened to us. Everything we lost. I miss him. I miss the warmth we had between us. Miss the heat. And I want to experience it again.
“Isn’t it tragic when a person who meant everything to you, who was a huge part of your life, is no longer in it?” I say. “Don’t you think?”
Daniel squeezes my shoulder. “You always spent more time pondering that sort of thing than me.” He’s quiet for a while. “Do you still keep a diary?” he says.
“Not anymore.”
“Are you happy?” Daniel looks into my eyes.
I look away. “We have a good life,” I say, signaling that I’d rather not talk about it.
“Henrik’s a construction engineer, or something like that?”
“Something like that.”
“You’ve done well for yourself,” he says. “Drive an Audi. Expensive and classy. Where’s that girl who was too scared to learn to drive?”
“Same girl.” I didn’t come here to talk about my life these days. I don’t want to hear any more about it. I just want to be in the here and now with Daniel.
“He seems good for you,” he says. “You and I were too hotheaded.”
“Maybe.”
“And your son, Milo? He must be getting big now.”
“Thirteen.”
“Time flies.” Daniel takes a gulp of his beer.
“Alice would have been twenty-two,” I say.
Daniel looks at me. He takes away his arm and straightens up. He considers what to say for a long time. I’d forgotten how he used to do that. His tactics for avoiding talking used to drive me mad. They still annoy me.
“Do you think about her, too?” I ask.
Daniel twists the can in his hands. “Sometimes,” he answers after a while. “Now and then. On her birthday. Life goes on.” He falls silent again.
“I’ve been thinking a lot about her. About us.” I put my hand on his thigh. “We had it good, Daniel.”
“I remember the fights,” he says. “How we got on each other’s nerves in that tiny apartment in Jordbro. It wasn’t always so romantic.” He takes the elastic band off and pushes his fingers
through his hair. I take my hand off his thigh.
“If Alice hadn’t disappeared . . .”
“Then we would have lived happily ever after?” He shakes his head slowly and looks at me. “Do you believe that? We were so young, Stella. And you got knocked up so quick. I think you remember it differently than I do.”
He dismisses our life together. So easily. Throws it all away as if it isn’t worth anything. I get up and go to the door of the garage. Look out onto the street. Maybe it was a mistake to come here. I turn around and look at him.
“So what, my memories are just fantasies?”
“You wear rose-colored glasses, you always have.” Daniel leaves the couch, walks over to the car, and bends over it again. He picks up a wrench and continues working. I recognize this behavior as well. He’s uncertain, confused. Am I having an effect him? Is he afraid of what might happen? Yes, he is. Terrified. I awaken something in him. It’s as strong now as it was then. And it terrifies him.
“I remember that you loved us,” I say. “You were happy with Alice, overjoyed. Is my memory wrong? Were we just a hindrance to you? To all those plans you had? Say it, I can take it.” I go over to him. I feel like an emotionally unstable character in a soap opera.
He turns around and grabs my arms. Bends over and studies me closely. “Why are you thinking about this right now? Why did you come here? It’s not to talk about old memories, that much I know.”
I look down at the floor before daring to meet his gaze. Then I tell him I found Alice. Or Alice found me, but she doesn’t know that yet. I tell him everything. I hear myself rambling, wish I was more calm and collected. But I spill it all. From beginning to end.
When I’m done, I notice that Daniel’s expression seems faraway. He stands with his legs wide apart and his back straight, his hands pushed deep in his pockets.
“Does she have thick, black hair? An elf ear?” He moves his hand to his own.
“Yes, she does. That’s what made me sure.” I hold his face between my hands. Our eyes meet. Everything stands still.
“And she looks like Maria?” he says. “Just like when she was a baby?” Daniel’s voice is soft and understanding. Finally. I knew he would believe me.
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