Tell Me You're Mine

by Elisabeth Norebäck

“I brought buns,” I say, holding up the bag.

  “How lovely. Come in. Sit, sit.” He’s taking down some coffee cups when a short, dark-haired woman enters the kitchen. She looks at me.

  “Sven?” she says with a slight foreign accent. She takes him by the elbow and speaks more loudly. “Sven, are you having coffee with someone?”

  He looks at her, smiles distractedly.

  “Are you having coffee? C-o-f-f-e-e?”

  “Coffee?” Sven Nilsson says. “Yes, coffee, that’s right.”

  She takes the coffee cups from him and puts them on the counter. Sven takes the buns to the kitchen table and sits down next to me. The woman serves us coffee and leaves the room. I wonder who she is.

  “Well, so you’ve driven all the way here from . . .”

  “Stockholm.”

  “Yes, Stockholm, that’s right. Goes pretty quick on the E4. When there’s no traffic.”

  “Yes, it was no problem at all.”

  We continue to chat about the road, about my drive from Stockholm, about how rainy the autumn has been. Aren’t they all rainy? But that means there’ll be plenty of wild mushrooms to pick. The pride of our Swedish forests. And berries, there’s sure to be a good crop this year. And how was the road? You drove in from Stockholm? Have you been out to the woods yet, found any mushrooms there, the pride of our forests?

  He repeats himself a number of times. Seems like he wants to drag out our visit. Maybe he’s lonely and just wants to talk awhile. I want to cut to the chase, but hide my impatience. We spend a little more time talking about the sights of Stockholm and the traffic. In the end, I can’t wait any longer.

  “Sven?”

  “Yes?”

  “You said there was a tip? I’d really like to know what it was.”

  He looks at me as if he has no idea what I’m saying, and it gives me the sudden urge to express my frustrations physically. I want to slap the old man until he wakes up. I take a deep breath instead.

  “Strandgården, 1994,” I say. “A tip that you didn’t follow up? You said you had information. You saved all the files.”

  “The investigation, yes.” Sven Nilsson lights up. “The files, absolutely. Come with me.”

  He stands up and stumbles a few steps to the side before he gets going. He leads me down a corridor, into an office. Inside there are stacks and stacks of boxes. The desk is covered with paper and an ancient computer with an enormous screen.

  “Now, let’s see. Johansson, Strandgården, 1994.” His voice sounds sharper, more alert. “What you’re looking for should be in one of these three boxes.” He points to them. They are at the far back, close to the closet.

  “Unfortunately, this old man isn’t as spry as he used to be; I need to sit down for a bit. Make sure to look in the red binder. And don’t hesitate to ask for help.”

  I squeeze his fragile, veined hand.

  “Thank you, Sven.” It makes him happy.

  After he leaves the room, I move box after box to reach the three he pointed to. The boxes are heavy, and I’m sweaty and out of breath by the time I get to the ones I want.

  I squat down and open the first box. It’s full. I take away the top layer of newspapers to reveal more of the same below.

  Newspapers, lots of newspapers.

  Local newspapers from 2010, some from 2012, and some saved since 2002. I flip through them, trying to make sense of it. The pages are full of red marks. Seemingly random circled headlines, sometimes just a single word, arrows drawn between different articles. It’s impossible to discern the pattern. If there even is one.

  Does this have something to do with the investigation surrounding my daughter? I lift out the newspapers and sort them on the floor. I have to ask Sven Nilsson about it.

  At the very bottom I find two overflowing binders. I open the red one. Old bills from 2006. I scroll through each page, but find only junk. This must be the wrong box.

  I look at the top again, Strandgården, Johansson, 1994. Odd. I open the next box, same thing. Newspapers, bills, bank statements, and old tissue paper. Same thing in the third box. I don’t understand. I look at the clock. Two hours have slipped by.

  I stand up, intending to go ask Sven Nilsson where the boxes I’m looking for might be, but a woman is standing in the doorway. She’s tall and slim and her face resembles Sven’s. She seems angry.

  “Who are you, and what are you doing here?” she says.

  “Oh, hello,” I manage to get out. “Sven invited me to—”

  “When did you talk to my dad?”

  “I called on Friday and—”

  “Did you talk on the phone?” She looks up at the ceiling and sighs. “I told them that he shouldn’t be talking on the phone with anyone other than the family.” She looks around at the mess in the room. “What are you doing here? Why are you rooting around in this junk?”

  I feel like I’ve been caught trying to steal something.

  “Your father was in charge of an investigation many years ago that involved my daughter. He invited me here to take a look at his files. But there must be some kind of mistake.” I point to the newspapers behind me. “I was just going to ask him about it.”

  The woman stretches out her hand.

  “Excuse me, I should probably introduce myself. My name is Petra Nilsson. Let’s go have a talk in the kitchen.”

  I follow her. As we pass by the living room, I see Sven Nilsson sitting in an armchair. He’s sleeping with his mouth half open.

  What’s going on?

  “Please have a seat.” Petra Nilsson points to the same kitchen chair and I take a seat there again. Waiting. She pours more coffee for us and sits opposite me. “I suppose Dad promised you you could take a look at an old investigation?”

  I nod, don’t trust my voice.

  “Unfortunately, he suffers from Alzheimer’s. He has his good days, but most of the time he’s just not there. Maybe that sounds harsh, but sadly it’s true.”

  I’m not sure if I groan audibly, but Petra Nilsson looks worriedly at me.

  “We put him into a facility for a while, but he got so depressed. Lost his appetite, wouldn’t eat. He does much better here at home, but he needs twenty-four-hour care. We can’t be here all the time. And you know how it is with home-help service.”

  I feel punctured. I just want to get up and leave. Or collapse on the floor and cry.

  “There are no files left,” Petra Nilsson continues. “We threw all that out a long time ago. As you can see, he’s filled those boxes up with trash instead. We let him, because it seems to calm him. I’m sorry you came here unnecessarily.”

  I put my head in my hands and press my fingers hard against my eyes. A headache drums behind my forehead. If Daniel were here, his reaction would have destroyed me. Or if Henrik had come with me. I would have been incapacitated.

  “He sounded so lucid on the phone,” I say. My hands are shaking. I clench them tightly a few times.

  “As I said, he has better days. I’m sorry.” Petra Nilsson makes a resigned gesture in the direction of her father.

  “Please, let me talk to him. He said there was a tip they never followed up.” I can’t let it go. Can’t give up without being totally sure.

  “It’s not a good idea.”

  “Just a few minutes.”

  “He shouldn’t be upset. It’s not good.”

  “My life depends on this,” I say.

  Silence hangs heavy between us.

  I feel Petra Nilsson’s hesitation, her dislike. She looks like she’d rather throw me out. I prepare myself to keep arguing.

  “Of course,” she says.

  “Thank you,” I say. “You have no idea what this means.”

  “But I warn you, he’ll say what you want to hear. It could be just about anything. You’ll see.”


  We go into the living room. Sven Nilsson is awake and sitting up again.

  “Dad.” She gently touches his arm. “What’s your theory about Olof Palme’s murder? They say he was assassinated, but that’s not the whole truth, is it?” Sven Nilsson lights up and bangs his fist on the armrest.

  “Prime Minister Palme? It never should have been a murder investigation in the first place.” He waves his forefinger in the air and looks at me. “Prime Minister Olof Palme faked his own death. Assumed a new name. He’s probably living in Rio by now. With his mistress. But nobody knows exactly where he resides. Those idiots couldn’t even manage a little simple police work. Hi, honey, who are you?” He peers at me. Sven Nilsson has never seen me before. I’m a complete stranger.

  Petra Nilsson studies my reaction. Almost triumphant, but regretful, too. There, you see, I was right.

  I go forward and crouch down next to her confused father.

  “My name is Stella; we met many years ago. You led an investigation into the disappearance of my daughter. Alice.” I take his hand and stroke it gently. Willing him to remember. To help me. To have just one moment of clarity.

  “Alice, Alice, Alice,” he exclaims. “And you I remember.”

  My hope returns. Sven Nilsson leans toward me. He gestures for me to lean closer. I ignore the smell of urine and bend forward.

  Sven Nilsson whispers, “Alice Babs, Alice Timander, Alice in Wonderland, who disappeared, but came back, got small, got big. Rabbit rabbit, he’s late, he’s late.”

  He continues babbling, louder and louder, and my hopes sink like stones. I stand up, apologize to his daughter for disturbing him. She follows me out into the hall and yells for the home-help assistant to check on her father.

  “Yes, he loves digging into ‘old cases,’” Petra says, making air quotes. “I’m really sorry, I wish he could help you.”

  We go to the door. Sven is talking in the background. I stop and listen.

  “Tiny little girl who disappeared, never to be found. Stones, stones, find calm, find peace. There was something, there was. The man who knew was drunk as a skunk, he just wanted to talk, oh blah blah blah.”

  The woman inside hushes him.

  I pull my sweater around me, and as I’m turning to go he cries out.

  “Stella. Stella Johansson. He wanted to tell me everything. But he died suddenly. Suddenly he died. Before he could say more.” I look at Petra Nilsson. She rolls her eyes, opens the front door, and ushers me out.

  Kerstin

  I’ll be in Stockholm soon. At Isabelle’s. Thank God. I detest taking the train. Hate it. You never know who you’re going to end up next to. It never fails, it’s always someone who loves to talk, who has a lot of opinions, who chews too loud or spreads out onto your seat. And why is the train so packed on this normal Wednesday? What an awful trip. But the car is undependable, and it would be even worse to end up stranded on the side of the road. I had to leave it at the garage. Just hope I won’t end up swindled out of the last of my savings.

  Does that boy on the seat opposite me have to be so freaking loud? Parents nowadays. They’re turning their children into little monsters. Letting them lash out, scream, disturb people, behave like animals. Good manners are a thing of the past. There’s no respect or even basic courtesy.

  I throw another angry look at his mother. She doesn’t notice. She doesn’t care. The boy kicks at my purse, but she pretends not to notice. In the end, I take matters into my own hands. I grab his legs and tell him to cut it out. The boy starts to cry, and the mother gets upset. She looks at me like this is my fault. Adults aren’t allowed to take part in society today, it seems. Just let everyone run amok.

  I take my bag and leave my seat. I find a free spot in the next car. Not too long left now.

  I haven’t told Isabelle I’m coming. She’d try to stop me. I wanted to leave yesterday, but I had to work. I have no idea if she’s at home or not. Worst-case scenario, I’ll have to wait in the mall until she gets home. I asked for a spare key to her apartment, but haven’t received it yet. We’ll take care of that now.

  If she’ll let me, I’d like to look over her schedule. Get some insight into her days. I’m not sure she can manage on her own. She needs all the help she can get from her old mom.

  The train rolls into the Stockholm Central Station. I wait until everyone leaves the car before standing up. That horrible boy and his equally dreadful mother are walking down the platform. Our eyes meet, and she gives me an angry look. I disembark, cross the platform, enter the station. There are always so many people here. A voice over the speaker is announcing train delays, a carpet of human laughter, human language, human shrieks. The smells strike me from every direction—coffee, pizza, freshly baked cinnamon buns, perfume, sweat.

  I ride the escalator down, headed for the subway. On this lower level it’s even worse. An inferno. People pour down the passageway in a single torrential stream. Everyone is in a hurry, everybody is in a rush, everyone is running. Hurry hurry hurry. It stresses me out to no end.

  At first I head in the wrong direction, toward the commuter trains. It’s a project just to get turned around and make my way back. I’m soaked with sweat by the time I make it to the subway entrance. I search through my purse for my train card. I’m a little afraid of these subway turnstiles. Large glass gates that open and close the very moment you pass through them. But I manage. Take another escalator. Wait for the green line that goes to Vällingby.

  I hop on the train and find a free seat. I’ll call Isabelle when I get there. Not a minute before. Then we’ll see how my daughter lives her life when she thinks I’m far away.

  Stella

  Wednesday morning creeps up. I meet my patients, they sit in my office and talk, telling me about all of their problems and difficulties.

  I don’t listen.

  I’m not present.

  I don’t care.

  I’m an unfit therapist.

  While my patients talk, I fantasize about quitting. Moving to another country. Changing my name. Starting over from scratch.

  Yesterday was disastrous. The setback at Sven Nilsson’s is impossible for me to handle. I thought I would get some answers. Find out what exactly they did to locate my daughter. I thought he’d have some sort of clue I could follow up. Something that proved I was right. All those files thrown away? Is that even legal? Probably not. What an insult. To just throw everything away. To throw away every document about Alice. About a life.

  About my child’s life.

  Maybe there never were any documents. Maybe Sven Nilsson just said what I wanted to hear, as his daughter claimed.

  Was there a tip? There must have been. The possibility that it was all just an old man’s delusion is too much to take. Sorrow washes over me like the tide over a deserted beach. It makes me sad that I’m even capable of such a cheap metaphor. I feel ashamed of how I indulge in self-pity.

  Henrik got home late yesterday. He asked how it went and I told him what happened. There was nothing there. It’s been too long, the person who gave the tip is dead by now. It wasn’t the whole truth. I couldn’t bring myself to tell him Sven Nilsson has Alzheimer’s. I’ll save that miserable detail for myself.

  Henrik said he was sorry and wondered how I felt.

  I said it wasn’t too much of a surprise. What can you expect after twenty-one years?

  Henrik helped me pull down the steps to the attic. I put the diaries back in the paisley handbag in the far corner, behind the boxes.

  Henrik was considerate toward me all evening. He made me coffee, he lit candles, massaged my back, and put a blanket over me when I was on the sofa. My previous mistakes were forgiven and forgotten. One of the things I love most about him is that he never holds a grudge.

  Besides, I think he was relieved there were no more straws for me to grasp at. And happy I didn’t seem to take it too
hard. Because he always knew that I wouldn’t find any new information after such a long time. I am deeply grateful that he didn’t come with me to visit Sven Nilsson.

  I know he wants me to find some closure. More than anyone else. Because he loves me. Because he wants the best for me, wants me to feel good.

  It’s just that he doesn’t believe she could still be alive.

  Henrik is considerate, he cares about me. But he is terrified of my reaction if, or when, I realize I’m wrong. As he said, what will it do to me?

  We both know.

  It’s almost noon. Lunch soon. Then group therapy.

  Finally, I’ll see Alice.

  Isabelle

  I’ve come down with a terrible cold. My head feels like it’s stuffed with wet cotton, I’m hoarse and have a fever. Not a high one, but enough to stay home. I don’t want to. But Mom has taught me that you don’t go out when you’re sick. You have to put on warm socks, lie down, and rest.

  So here I am. I compelled Johanna to take notes for me at the lectures I’m missing. She’s not as thorough as I am, but at least she’s better than Susie.

  The doorbell rings. I look at the time. Twenty past twelve. I wonder who it could be. I roll out of bed and glance in the mirror. I look a little pale. No makeup on. I push my hands through my hair and go into the hall. When I open the door, I’m glad I’m wearing my jean leggings and not my old pajama pants. I do regret my huge red hoodie and lack of makeup.

  Fredrik is leaning against the wall outside my front door with a big smile.

  “How did you get in the front door without the code?” Couldn’t I come up with something better to say than that?

  “Somebody went out, and I went in.” He walks past me into the hall and pulls off his jacket. “I heard you were bedridden. I’ve come here to wait on you hand and foot.” He hands me two cartons of Ben & Jerry’s.

  “Ice cream?” I say.

  “My mother always told me ice cream is the best medicine. Didn’t yours?” he says.

  “She’s more into disinfectant,” I say. “And tea.”