Tell Me You're Mine

by Elisabeth Norebäck

  “Strawberry Cheesecake is my favorite. But girls are suckers for chocolate, so I brought some Chocolate Fudge Brownie, too.”

  He takes off his shoes. His chinos sit low on his hips and tight around his legs. He’s got on a floral-patterned T-shirt in pink and blue. I can feel the goofy smile on my face. He looks up at me and smiles back. I put the ice cream on the hallway table and take a step closer to him. I don’t know how it happens, but suddenly we’re standing with our arms wrapped around each other.

  “Hey,” I whisper.

  “Hey,” he answers and draws me even closer. I stand on my tiptoes, lay my face against his neck.

  “I may infect you,” I say.

  “I’ll take the risk,” he replies and caresses my cheek. “You’re so damn cute when you smile. Those dimples.”

  “You think so?”

  “All of you is cute.”

  This is the best day of my life.

  I go into the kitchen with the ice cream and grab two spoons, while Fredrik looks around the apartment. I put the ice cream and spoons on the desk in my room, grab some clothes out of a drawer, and shout that I’m going to the bathroom. I pull off the hoodie, spray on some perfume, and change into a lacy black bra. Then I put on the new shirt I bought on Friday with Johanna. My leggings look good; I keep those. Before I go out I put on some mascara and look at myself in the mirror. I turn around and study my backside, squeeze my breasts and rearrange them.

  When I get back to the room, Fredrik is sitting on my bed. He’s leaning against the wall eating ice cream. He sucks on his spoon slowly and looks me over. The change of clothes was a good move.

  “Are you gonna share?” I say and sit down next to him. He holds out the spoon, and I have a taste. “Didn’t you go to the lecture today?”

  “I left early,” he says. “I missed you too much.”

  “Are you going back after lunch?”

  He gives me a long look. “You need somebody to take care of you.”

  Yes, yes, yes, I need a lot of care.

  We eat the ice cream, he feeds me, we discuss which kind is better and why. He was right, I like the chocolate best. He puts the ice-cold spoon against my bare stomach and laughs out loud when I howl. I slide down so I’m almost lying down, and he does the same. I’m enjoying the tension between us, and his gaze, and how he teases me.

  He asks if I want to watch a movie, and I tell him to choose one. He starts my computer, and I put the ice cream in the freezer. Do a little happy dance while I’m in the kitchen.

  “I think I’m getting sick, too,” he says when I get back into the room.

  “Oh no, is that my fault?”

  “Probably. As punishment, I’ll expect you to take care of me.”

  He grins at me, and I throw a pillow at him. He grabs my hand, drags me into bed, and tickles me. I gaze into his eyes, hoping he’ll kiss me. But he just looks at me. For a long time. Then he pulls away. He puts the computer on the tray next to him in the bed. I find a comfortable position while he starts the movie. He asks if I can see, and I say I can.

  A romantic comedy. I wasn’t expecting that. We lie next to each other in silence. I can only think of how close he is. I want to touch him everywhere. Feel his body against mine.

  At one point in the story the characters do exactly what we’re doing, sit down and watch a movie. I wonder what Fredrik is thinking. I scoot closer and lay my head on his arm.

  The movie goes on; the main characters have sex.

  I snuggle closer to Fredrik and put my leg over his legs, bend my knee and rub my foot up and down his shin. He mumbles and puts his hand on my leg, keeping it still.

  “You don’t seem particularly sick,” I whisper. I draw my knees upward, higher and higher, feeling what I sensed when I looked down just now. A hard bump under his pants. He moves and looks at me.

  “So you think I’m cute?” I tease.

  “You make me crazy,” says Fredrik quietly. “Every second next to you without touching you is torture.”

  “Do it then.” I lick my lips, watch his eyes narrow.

  “Aren’t you sick?”

  “Not that sick,” I answer and climb halfway onto him.

  I tuck my hair behind my ear. Feel his hands slide around my waist. I slowly run my tongue over his lips, testing. Then I kiss him. And he kisses me.

  We make out. His tongue in my mouth, mine in his. Passionately, then slowly, then impatiently again. His hands are in my hair, on my body, around my butt. I draw back; my cheeks are on fire. He is so sexy lying there looking at me. Happy, pleased with himself. I want him. I want.

  I lie on his arm, braid my hand with his, and sigh. Happily. He laughs. I pick up my phone, take a bunch of selfies of us. Some where we lie side by side, one where he bites my ear and I laugh, one where we kiss each other, and then a few where we make silly faces.

  “Do I get extra credit for showing up with ice cream?” he mumbles with his lips against my hair while I look through the pictures.

  “Of course. Hashtag ‘world’s best boyfriend.’ Maybe.” I hold my breath waiting for his response.

  “Too bad my girlfriend ate all the ice cream on her own.”

  “No, I didn’t!”

  He laughs when I pinch him and brushes my hair aside before kissing me.

  We make out again. Our tongues, our lips, we enjoy ourselves for a long time. Knowing more is coming makes me almost explode with horniness. Happiness.

  And my heart pounds harder. Blood pulses into my genitals. I put my hand over his stomach, put it on his hard-on. I feel it getting even bigger. I rub it with my fingers, squeeze it. He swallows, breathes my name.

  My phone rings. I look up, and Fredrik grimaces. I giggle and kiss him. Ignore the phone when it rings again. Whisper that it’s not important. He pulls me on top of him. His hands on my rump. I press myself against him, rub against him, and enjoy feeling how hard he is. I whisper in his ear that I want him.

  He puts his legs around me and rolls me over. Laughs when we hit the tray. He sits up, closes the computer and lifts the entire tray onto the floor. I look at his body as he sits astride me. He grins, pulls off his T-shirt, and lies down on top of me again. Kisses me more passionately now, caresses my breasts. His thigh is between mine; we rub against each other.

  It starts ringing again.

  I look up and swear out loud. I rarely do that, and it sounds a little stupid when I do. Fredrik tries to pull me back into bed. I turn off the sound on my phone before landing in his arms again.

  “Where were we?” he murmurs and caresses my breasts beneath my shirt.

  I unbutton his pants, put my hand into his underwear and feel it. It’s hard, but also quite smooth. My fingers just fit around him, he’s warm and nice, and I wonder how he tastes. I want to lick him, but don’t dare. I touch him, rub up and down. Fredrik breathes faster, I feel him growing even more. How big is he?

  He pulls off my shirt. I straddle him. My breasts show through my bra, and I drag my hands over them, can see him staring at my stiff nipples. He pulls down the waistband of my pants and puts his hand against me, strokes. I move a little so he’ll have better access, feel his fingers under my panties. I moan out loud, wiggle my hips to get out of my pants. Fredrik tries to help and when one of us knocks the phone onto the floor we hear it vibrating.

  “Who the hell is calling all the time?” His voice hoarse and impatient.

  “I’ll turn it off.” I lean over the bedside and see a lot of missed calls and the first lines of a text on the screen.

  All the heat in my body is extinguished. I sit on Fredrik, the phone in my hand, and enter the code. He sits up halfway. I can feel him kissing my neck, his fingers are on my nipples.

  “Fuck,” I whisper as I read the messages.

  “What is it?” Fredrik says. He kisses me on the shoulder, p
ulls down the straps of my bra. I close my eyes hard and let him continue for a moment. I’m close to weeping from frustration. And disappointment.

  “Fredrik, you have to go,” I say, pushing him away. “You have to go now.”

  Stella

  She never showed up. And these are the most meaningless ninety minutes of my life. A total waste.

  What is the conversation about today? No idea.

  Is she avoiding me? Why?

  After group therapy, I have a session with Ulf.

  “I know I shouldn’t, but I couldn’t help it. It just happened.”

  Ulf keeps talking. I hear him, but I’m not listening in the way I should. I wonder how many times I’ve heard the same thing from him over the last two years.

  “Couldn’t or didn’t want to?” I ask.

  Ulf seems shocked. He can hear from my tone that I am annoyed. Once again he’s been out too late, drunk too much, and come home wasted. Once again, he started a terrible fight with his wife. And everything is his mother’s fault, because she wasn’t there for him when he was little. Boohoo, boohoo, poor little Ulf, such a poor misunderstood sad little boy.

  He’s a pig. An immature self-absorbed male pig.

  What he needs most is a kick in the ass. Or a punch to the jaw. I’ve suggested he try another form of therapy or even get a hobby. Maybe try AA. He doesn’t take the hint. And then he goes on and on, week after week. I can’t stand to listen to this anymore. And for the first time ever I regret my choice of career.

  I throw away the notebook I’ve had on my knee. “Ulf, what the hell are you doing here?” I hiss. “Really? What is the point of this?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Why do you keep coming here? What do you get out of it? You’re wasting my time.”

  He gapes at me, as if he has no idea what I mean. I tell him that he’s been stuck in the same rut since I first met him. He’s rolling around in the same shit and making the same pathetic mistakes again and again. He uses the same transparent excuses every time. His contempt for himself is focused on his poor mother every week. I tell him if he doesn’t grow up and take responsibility for his own life, he’ll always be stuck with the same problems.

  “What the hell do you know about it?” he says.

  I stand up, march over to the door, and throw it open. I scream: “Do not come back. I never want to see you here again.”

  Ulf hurries out, his face red. John, a colleague of mine, is standing in the corridor; Renate is behind the reception desk. Both stare, whisper between themselves. I slam the door shut.

  Soon someone knocks.

  “Come in,” I say.

  Renate opens the door. She looks at me grimly.

  “Stella. I’ve always liked you. But it might be time to take a break.”

  I know she’s thinking about Lina. They’re all thinking about Lina. They believe that there are, in fact, grounds for the allegations. That the investigation is warranted. Especially now, after I’ve thrown out Ulf. Everyone sees it on me. Everyone knows.

  I have a serious problem.

  Alone in my office. Shrunk down into my chair, behind my desk. I turn off the computer, pick up the phone. I call her. Repeatedly. No answer. Again and again. Then I give up. I lean back and close my eyes. My phone dings, and I scramble for it. It’s a text from Henrik.

  What! You’re kidding me?! Jennie, you are amazing! Just pick the restaurant. I bet it’s going to cost me.

  I don’t understand. I read it several times. Why is my husband writing to someone named Jennie? I don’t know who Jennie is. And why is he taking her to a restaurant? What does it mean?

  Henrik has been busy with his phone quite a bit lately. More than usual. He says it’s work. Comes home late. Often. He gets texts and answers calls weekdays, weekends, daytime, and late at night. Was Jennie the one who called yesterday morning? Who he was picking up?

  Yes, I’m on my way, I can hear him saying, remembering the morning. Yes, I am. I’ll see you in ten minutes.

  Jealousy twists around inside me.

  Are you and Dad getting a divorce?

  My stomach aches. I write an answer. Erase it. Start over. Delete that, too. Have to think a long time before I can write something that’s not hysterical.

  Sorry, I’m not Jennie. Would gladly take you up on the dinner offer though? ;)

  My phone lies there dark, silent. The wait feels like an eternity. He should call me. I wonder what he’ll say. How his voice will sound. It takes a while before I get his text.

  Wrong person. :) I’ll be home after 7.

  I stand up and walk around the room. No explanation, no apology. He’s pretending as if nothing happened, as if I don’t know now that he’s got something going on with that Jennie. I grab hold of the large ceramic vase in the corner, the one I got from Henrik when the clinic first opened. I lift it over my head and throw it onto the floor.

  It shatters loudly.

  But I was hoping it would be even louder. Hoping the sound would drown out my anger, overcome it. But it’s not even close.

  Screaming at patients and throwing vases: it’s not enough. Nothing helps the powerlessness and fear I feel.

  Kerstin

  I’m sitting on a bench below her house, calling. Isabelle doesn’t answer. I call four times without reaching her. In the end, I send a text message. After a while, I get a text back. She says she didn’t hear the phone, she was resting. She’ll come down and open the door. Just has to get dressed. She was home anyway. But what is she up to?

  The door opens, and I stand up. A young blond guy comes out. His pants look like they might fall off any moment. His hands are pushed deep into his pockets, and he doesn’t give me more than a quick glance. Today’s youth don’t even possess common courtesy. It’s enough to drive you mad.

  She comes soon after that. My big, wonderful daughter. I hug her hard and take a close look at her. She seems tired. And what is she wearing? I’ve already noticed some changes. Since I’ve surprised her, I see how she’s really dressing these days. The top and the jeans hug her every curve shamelessly. The young, firm breasts, the narrow waist, the buttocks and crotch. And her top is too short. It slides up when she moves, shows her stomach. It’s indecent. She looks like a whore. She might as well walk around naked.

  It’s that Johanna’s fault. She’s a bad influence. All of this is that little minx’s fault. With her dyed hair and her nose ring, a person like that shouldn’t be allowed anywhere near my Isabelle.

  I inspect her closely. Her eyes are glazed. Has she been drinking? Did she start doing drugs?

  “You’d best be careful dressing like that,” I warn her. “Boys only have one thing on their minds. You should know that by now.”

  I see her tense up. Apparently that was the wrong thing to say.

  “Are you getting enough to eat?” I ask instead. “Have you lost weight?”

  “Yes, Mom, I am. And no, Mom, I haven’t.” She holds the door open for me.

  We ride the elevator up in silence. Isabelle seems to be in a really bad mood. She unlocks the door and walks into the apartment. I look around. It’s quite nice, lots of light. I’ve only been here a few times, but wish I could visit more often. I wish I had been here to help her move in. Hang up her curtains and pictures, help her make it a little homey. The sort of thing a mother is supposed to do. But lately Isabelle needs to prove this newfound independence of hers. To me it looks more like a revolt. I’m trying not to show how much it upsets me. But it’s hard. I’m quite upset. It hurts me terribly when she distances herself from me.

  Isabelle puts on some coffee, and I go to the bathroom. After I relieve myself, I rummage through her medicine cabinet. I don’t find any drugs or contraceptives. Then I look into her room. The blanket has been thrown carelessly across the bed as if it were made in a hurry. It makes me very ap
prehensive.

  Is she sleeping with someone? With many people? My very own daughter, has she started with that sort of thing? The boy I saw come out of the front door, who was he? Was he visiting Isabelle? Was he in her bed? Does she offer herself to just anyone? Screw them like a hooker, twisting beneath them while they pant and moan and take what they want from her? The thought of Isabelle in that situation upsets me. Disgusts me beyond all limits. Doesn’t she understand how sad I am? But she is still weak. She still needs her mother. I have to straighten her out.

  I turn and go to the kitchen. I can’t let her see on my face that I know what she’s up to. I sit down at the dining table and watch her putter about.

  “That confounded train, all that sitting made me swell up, you see?” I pull off my sock and demonstrate by poking my swollen foot. My finger leaves a clear impression.

  “Wouldn’t you have been sitting at home anyway?” Isabelle says without even looking in my direction.

  These constant taunts. This total lack of respect. Who has she become? Why couldn’t she stay my sweet little girl forever? My daughter, who once thought I had all the answers, who thought I was irreplaceable, who I comforted and patched up. Now I’m just an embarrassment. Tiresome. Stupid. Annoying.

  I swallow my vexation. “How are your studies going?”

  “They’re fine. I’ve passed all my tests so far.” She sounds pleased.

  “I’m proud of you,” I say. “Dad would have been so proud, too.”

  I raised her, I remind myself. This change is only temporary. Everything will be fine.

  Isabelle pours us some coffee and sets out a carrot cake.

  “This tastes very good,” I say.

  “I made it yesterday.”

  “You’ve always loved baking. You got that from me. Do you remember how we used to bake together?”

  “Why are you here, Mom?”

  Only now do I realize that Isabelle is hoarse.

  “Do you have a cold?” I put my hand on her forehead. It’s a bit hot. Is she pregnant?