Tell Me You're Mine

by Elisabeth Norebäck

  It’s still dark. I crawl in next to Henrik, lay my head against his shoulder. He opens his arms, pulls the blanket over the two of us.

  I slept badly the whole night. I couldn’t stop thinking about what Henrik and I said to each other. And what we didn’t say. It worries me that Henrik is worried. I’m afraid he’s angry with me, afraid my past will destroy the life we’ve built together. I whisper that I want to stop fighting. I tell him about the diary. Tell him I reread all the entries I wrote when I was pregnant with Alice, when she was a baby. And the day she disappeared and afterward.

  The morning light filters in across the bedroom rug. The world has stopped. We are beyond time and space, in our own strange parallel world. It resembles the one we lived in four weeks ago, but it’s not the same. My voice sounds distant, and it feels like I’m telling a story. Henrik is quiet, listens.

  I want him to understand how painful it is to look back. How it’s been like reliving it. All those memories, all that self-loathing. Grief and agony. But I don’t mention the panic attacks, nor do I tell him about my visits to Kerstin’s house or to Daniel.

  Henrik says I should have said something earlier. Surely I know he understands? That he cares about me?

  I say I was afraid. Terrified.

  He doesn’t want me to be sick again.

  I know that.

  He asks me to promise never to see Isabelle again.

  He caresses my cheek. Wipes away the tears I can’t stop. And then we make love slowly, gently. I lie on my side, and he enters me from behind. I close my eyes in his embrace and take pleasure from this familiar ritual. His hard body behind me, his gentle movements becoming more and more intense. When I come, he whispers that he loves me. He plunges deep into me. I tell him I love how he fucks me. He groans as he comes, his hands grip onto my hips tightly.

  We fall asleep in each other’s arms.

  * * *

  • • •

  Later, we’re strolling through the aisles of Coop Forum. It’s an ordinary Sunday afternoon. I ask Henrik if he wants apple juice or orange juice. I forget the bread, head back. We fill up our shopping cart. We line up at the checkout counter, holding each other’s hand. I pay, Henrik packs up the grocery bags. It’s normal, boring, wonderfully domestic. I can finally stop thinking; it feels easier to push down the guilt that gnaws at me. We head out to the Range Rover, load it together. Henrik returns the shopping cart; I start the car. We drive home.

  There’s a dog in our driveway. Johan Lindberg’s little pooch. It has on its leash and collar, but our neighbor is nowhere to be seen. I stop the car; Henrik throws me an amused smile. This is not the first time this has happened, and I doubt it will be the last. He steps out of the car and walks slowly toward the tiny dog. It backs up and barks its shrill, persistent little bark. After another attempt, Henrik turns to me. He laughs and shrugs. I get out of the car and scan the street for the dog’s master.

  Johan Lindberg is headed our way, jogging and puffing in neon yellow workout clothes, which sit a little too tight on his round body. He reaches us, puts his hands on his knees. His nose running, he clears his throat loudly and lobs a spitball on the street.

  “Therese wants me to lose some weight.” He groans. “She says I’m too fat to fuck.”

  I nod at his hydration belt and smile. “You plan on running a marathon?”

  “Marathon? Isn’t a few miles enough? I’m not ready to sacrifice my life for a little sex.”

  Henrik says uh-huh sympathetically. He squeezes me around the waist. I don’t dare look at him, or we won’t be able to hold back our laughter. We tell our neighbor good luck, I drive the car into the driveway and we carry in the groceries.

  Henrik unpacks the bags, and I put the food into the pantry, fridge, and freezer. Milo hangs out by the kitchen table, laughing at us while we make fun of the investor and his dog. When Henrik’s phone rings, I ask him not to answer.

  “Why?” he asks, of course.

  “Because,” I answer. I don’t want us to be disturbed. And something always does these days. Someone always wants his attention. Right now I want my husband for myself.

  “It could be important,” he continues.

  “It’s Sunday,” I complain. “Surely it can wait?”

  “I don’t recognize the number.”

  “Live dangerously, Dad,” Milo says.

  I try to take the phone. Henrik laughs, pretends to wrestle with me for a few seconds before he answers. I turn around and continue putting away the groceries.

  “This is Henrik. Oh, hello, it’s been a long time.” Almost immediately he seems on guard. I glance at him over my shoulder. Milo says he’s going to call a friend and heads up to his room.

  “Yes, thank you, we’re fine. How are you?”

  Henrik is using his proper, polite voice. It can’t be someone he knows well. He moves a bit farther away from me. Flips through the mail. Listens before saying, “She’s changed her number.” He throws me a look. I wonder what this is about.

  “Do you want to talk to her? She’s right here.”

  I silently mouth, Who is it? Henrik ignores me, listening to the person on the other end. He’s quiet, goes out to the living room. Then he comes back, the phone still to his ear. I knew it. He never should have picked up. This isn’t good.

  Henrik leans toward the kitchen counter and laughs, but it’s not his usual, jolly, warm laugh.

  “Thank you for calling, I appreciate it.” His eyes are impossible to read. “I’ll tell her you said so.”

  I wipe off the kitchen counter. Rubbing away imaginary spots.

  He hangs up.

  I wait.

  He says nothing.

  “Who was it?” I say at last. Trying to sound casual.

  “It was Daniel,” he says. “He wondered if you made it home all right yesterday.”

  * * *

  • • •

  Regret is a waste of time and energy. It’s not something I usually feel. Instead, we’re supposed to learn from our mistakes, try to do better in the future. That’s the advice I give my patients. I’m not capable of following it.

  I’m more filled with regret than ever. I regret driving out to see Daniel. Regret everything. I should have told Henrik. I should have been open and honest. I never thought Daniel would call.

  Henrik leans over the bar counter, looking toward Milo’s room. Probably checking to make sure he’s out of earshot.

  “Daniel was worried about you,” he says. “You were upset when you left him yesterday.” He looks at me like he doesn’t know me. “And he told me you can call him if you want.”

  I know what Henrik thinks. See it in his hard look. And he can tell I’m feeling guilty about what flamed up inside me when I met Daniel. But it’s not a good idea to try to explain. Whatever I say now will just make me seem even guiltier.

  “It’s not what you think,” I say simply.

  “You say you’re going to stay home and rest, but you’re gone when we come home. Then you suddenly show up, royally pissed off. You tear off your clothes, and we have sex.”

  “I know what you’re thinking. But you’re wrong.”

  “What do I think? What are you imagining I’m thinking? You seem to find it easier to tell me what I’m thinking than to tell me what you’re doing.”

  “I don’t know what to say.”

  “No, I’ve noticed that,” he says. “Why were you so angry with me when you came back? You can start there.”

  “You’re all so afraid I’m going to have a breakdown. You think if I just realize I’m wrong, drop Alice, I’ll feel better. But you’re the ones who will feel better.”

  “The ones! Do you mean me and Daniel? Pernilla, Gudrun? Who are you talking about?”

  I shrug my shoulders. “You’re closest at hand. You took those hits for everyone. Unfo
rtunately.”

  “I can take your shit if it makes you feel better. But you don’t have to slap me the next time you want to fuck.”

  He immediately regrets what he said. I see that. Even though I know I should just take a deep breath, I get angry again.

  “And why are you so angry? I wanted to meet the father of my daughter, is that so weird?”

  “You can meet him whenever the hell you want to. But why hide it? You could have told me. Do you know how embarrassing it was for me to have your ex call asking me if you’re okay?”

  Henrik shakes his head and walks away.

  * * *

  • • •

  I’ve always been a dreamer. Felt things intensely. Just because I’m a psychotherapist doesn’t mean that’s changed. But I like to believe I’ve matured. A little. But maybe I’m wrong about that, too.

  Life is easier at thirty-nine than at nineteen. I feel more secure. More sure of myself. Care less what others think of me. I’ve learned not to follow through on every impulse, to think before I act. I try to analyze the consequences of my choices. And then take responsibility for my actions.

  Now it’s as if all of that has disappeared.

  If Daniel hadn’t stopped me, would I have slept with him in that garage? Probably, though I don’t want to believe it. Because it’s Henrik I want. He’s the one I love, the one I want to share my life with. The last thing I want is to lose what we have together.

  I track him down in our garage, taking his golf clubs out of the car. He ignores me. I beg for forgiveness. Again. I should have told him I visited Daniel. I feel ashamed, stupid. I say it aloud and hear my voice shake. He stares at me in silence. Then he pulls out a stool for me.

  “Sit down,” he says. “Let’s start over. What happened?”

  “Daniel doesn’t believe me, either. He doesn’t want to know. He reacted like you. Like Pernilla. If you never heard Alice’s name again you’d all feel better. It doesn’t matter how I feel.” I don’t care that I sound bitter and accusatory.

  “You know that’s not true,” Henrik says. He lays his hand on mine.

  “I’m just so disappointed,” I say. “In myself, in you, in everyone. I’m sick and tired of begging for forgiveness. Tired of no one believing me.”

  “Okay, let’s say it is Alice. What do you do?”

  Henrik waits for a moment. Lets the question sink in.

  “And if it’s not her. If you’re wrong. What does that mean for her? For you?”

  He wants answers I don’t have yet. And the questions he’s asking are very close to what I myself am most afraid of.

  “It’s too late to think like that now,” I say. “Should I give up just because everyone else is afraid?”

  “That’s not what I’m saying,” Henrik answers. “But think about what you’re doing. That’s all I’m asking. Think about what kind of consequences it might entail. This is the second time I’ve had a visit or a call about you in a pretty short period of time. Take it easy. Use your logic, you’re an intelligent woman. Don’t forget that.”

  “I don’t know what I’m gonna do, Henrik.”

  “Maybe you shouldn’t do anything right now,” he says. “And please, talk to me about it. Promise me that.”

  I don’t say anything, just nod.

  I want to promise him anything he wants. I want to promise that everything is going to work out. But I’m not sure I believe that myself.

  Isabelle

  Someone pushes me to the side. I turn and apologize. I wind my way back between the tables at the café outside the KTH library. I put my jacket on a chair and sit down opposite Johanna.

  “Did it go okay?” she asks.

  “Yes, it did.”

  Nevertheless, I glance at my phone again. Actually, I want to call back, say I will come after all. It’s not like me to back out at the last second. Especially when I don’t know why. Especially when I lie about my reasons. I don’t do that. Lying always makes me feel awful.

  I’m not saying I’ve never lied. But I always follow through with my commitments. Once I make a promise. Even when I don’t want to. I’m terrified of disappointing people. Making them angry. That’s my biggest fear. But I’m working on it. Maybe it’s a positive sign that I’ve risked making someone angry?

  “Are you sure you don’t want to go?” Johanna asks. She probably notices my hesitation. “We can do this later.”

  “Nah, it wasn’t that important,” I say. “It’s gonna feel good to get this assignment done.”

  “Okay. It was kinda weird how she called you on Friday anyway.”

  Johanna pointed that out when we were still sitting at Joe & the Juice. She’s probably right. Still, I feel guilty about not meeting Stella. Part of me wants to. Have her to myself for an hour to just talk, get her help making sense of my thoughts. Another part of me doesn’t want to at all.

  I like Stella. I appreciate her blunt questions. She forces me to think, to reflect. To figure out what I truly think, not just what I should think. She radiates calm and kindness. She feels safe, seems like a warm and reliable person.

  But at the last group therapy her questions were very intense. She also demanded answers, inhaled every word I said. It felt off. She didn’t seem like herself.

  And last week I saw her in Vällingby. I thought. She was standing below our apartment building staring straight ahead, as if she was thinking about something sad.

  Maybe she was just headed to the mall for some shopping, maybe she lives nearby. Maybe it was just someone who looked like her.

  Either way, I have a lot of homework today, that’s no lie. Maybe we can meet an extra time next week instead.

  “Is there room?” I’m pulled out of my thoughts and look up. Fredrik is smiling down at us, Victor and Mehdi right behind him.

  “Are you working on mechanics?” he continues.

  “Yes, we are,” Johanna replies. “Join us.”

  I’m glad I don’t have to go anywhere.

  We sit here often. At Stories café outside the library. It’s more comfortable than the group workrooms or classrooms.

  The café is full of students. It’s noisy, but that doesn’t bother me at all. Most of the tables look like ours, strewn with open textbooks, notebooks, calculators, pencil cases, napkins, old coffee mugs, and soda bottles. It’s wonderful. I love everything about college life. Even the stress of exams.

  “Do you want some coffee, Fredrik?” Mehdi asks. “Victor’s buying.”

  “Yes, please,” Fredrik replies.

  Johanna bounces up. “I need some coffee. Want some?” she asks me. I shake my head.

  “So, Einstein, have you come up with any good solutions to question three?” Fredrik says after they leave. He gives my hair a gentle tug.

  “Well, what do you think about page fifty-three?” I answer. The book is in front of him, so I bend over him to flip through it. He makes no effort to move. I feel his gaze on my neck, making it hard to concentrate. I can’t find the right page. He helps me and his hand grazes mine. I glance at him over my shoulder, laugh nervously, and toss my hair. He looks into my eyes.

  “They’re almost green,” he says.

  “What?” Do I sound as breathless as I feel?

  “Your eyes. They’re nice.”

  “Thanks.” My cheeks are burning. Embarrassing. Embarrassing. Embarrassing. I hate blushing.

  “And your hair is so beautiful. Is that black your real color?”

  He loops it around his finger.

  “Witch black, as my mother always says.”

  “Maybe you’ve bewitched me.”

  I’m the one who feels like I’m under a spell. When Johanna thuds down onto her chair, the spell is broken. I self-consciously back up again. Fredrik takes his coffee from Mehdi and smiles at me. I smile back.

  Whe
n I’m with him, life feels easier. He makes me forget. Forget that Dad is dead, that Mom is so demanding, that it’s really difficult sometimes to be social.

  Fredrik’s hands circle around his coffee cup. He says it’s cold in here. He’s right, I’m freezing, too. His hands are quite large. Big hands that feel so good when they’re touching my back, cupping my butt, caressing my thighs. I’m staring at them. His fingers are long. I blush again. Turn even redder when I look up and meet his eyes. I suspect he knows exactly what I was thinking. He chews on his pen, sweeps his hair to the side.

  He is absolutely perfect.

  Mom would despise him.

  We discuss things passionately, we laugh and spend at least as much time talking about other things as we do mechanics.

  “Are you from Falun?” Mehdi asks.

  “Borlänge,” I answer.

  “Maybe we’ve bumped into each other there,” Fredrik says. “But just didn’t know each other yet.”

  “Where would we have done that?”

  “At the Peace & Love festival. I was there in 2011.”

  I laugh. Do I sound hysterical?

  “Surely you were there?” he asks.

  “No, I was not.”

  “Why not? You lived there. It’s not exactly a big city.”

  “We could hear all of it from home.”

  “That’s not the same thing,” Victor says.

  “I’m not really a festival person,” I say.

  “Oh, come on,” Fredrik says.

  “It’s true,” Johanna says.

  Fredrik looks at me curiously.

  “We should do an experiment,” he says.

  “Am I gonna like this?” I wonder.

  “Come with us to Way Out West next summer. Maybe you’re a festival person and you just don’t know it.”

  “Yes, do it,” Johanna bursts out. “I’m going, too.”

  “Have you all considered the possibility that I might get lost?” I say. “You’ll end up spending your time searching for me instead of seeing any bands.”

  They roar with laughter at me. “I guess we’ll just have to make sure you stay close.” Fredrik balances on the back legs of his chair and won’t stop looking at me.