Tell Me You're Mine

by Elisabeth Norebäck

  I stop at St. Eriksgatan outside the front door to the clinic. I sit in the car and watch the traffic. People passing by on the sidewalk. I stare out the window.

  A hard knock on the windshield startles me.

  A traffic cop.

  He says there’s no parking here and gestures toward a sign down the street. I start the car and speed away.

  I sit with a latte in the window of a Wayne’s Coffee looking out over the square at Hötorget. Watching all those fruit and flower stalls and their customers.

  Then I drive around the city for a while, wander into stores, look at shoes and clothes but tire of it.

  Drive around on the southern side of the city.

  Drive to Skogskyrkogården, the Woodland Cemetery. Park. Stay in the car for a long time before climbing out.

  I walk to Alice’s grave. I squat down and look at the stone with the white dove and text below.

  Alice Maud Johansson, Forever in Our Hearts

  I don’t even remember the last time I was here. Maybe I should have brought flowers, but then it strikes me how stupid that thought is.

  Alice isn’t here.

  My daughter has never been here.

  * * *

  • • •

  Henrik and I are eating dinner at the kitchen table. I picked up some baked potatoes with Swedish shrimp salad from Erssons Deli on my way home so I wouldn’t have to cook.

  “Can you hand me the butter?” Henrik says.

  “Of course.”

  “Did you have time to wash my jeans?”

  “Yes,” I answer, “they’re hanging in the laundry room.”

  “The shirts, too?”

  “In the closet.”

  “Thank you.”

  “You’re welcome.”

  It feels silly that I even bothered to light the candles. The mood between us is far from romantic. He gets a text message. He apologizes and picks up his phone. He writes back, puts it down again. We eat in silence. I don’t have the energy to care if it’s Jennie or someone else. At the moment, I’m thinking mostly about my son. Milo is at a friend’s house doing homework. I wish he were home. I want to talk to him about what happened. I want to ask his forgiveness.

  “How are you?” Henrik asks.

  “I’m tired,” I admit and put down my silverware. The food is tasteless.

  “Did you go to work?”

  “Yes.”

  “Was that wise?”

  The question annoys me. Doesn’t he think I’m capable of working? Does he think I’m unfit?

  He can see what I’m thinking. “Just wondering,” he says. “Did you have any contact with Isabelle?”

  “No,” I say. “No, I haven’t.”

  He nods. Gives me something that resembles a smile.

  “Will you be able to let go of this, Stella?”

  I wish he wouldn’t ask so many questions. I’m not in the mood for a cross-examination.

  “I think so,” I say.

  “Maybe you want to talk to somebody. Maybe the woman you used to meet, Birgitta? Is she still working?”

  “I don’t know.”

  I stretch my hand over the table. I have to try, even if it’s already too late.

  Henrik takes my hand. He looks at me and seems to be thinking through what he should say. He’s going to tell me about Jennie.

  The doorbell rings. He lets go of my hand, gets up, and goes out to the hall. I hear him open the door, talk to someone. He comes back.

  “Stella.” His tone of voice makes it clear this is something serious. I stand and go around the table. I see a black woman and a short white man standing behind her in the hall.

  “Stella Widstrand?” the woman says. She seems to be around my age. Tall and slender, not a single wrinkle on her face. We shake hands. Her fingers are a little cold. Her handshake is firm.

  “Yes, that’s me,” I say.

  “My name is Olivia Lundkvist. I’m a detective. This is my colleague, Mats Hedin.”

  He doesn’t seem friendly. He’s shorter than Olivia Lundkvist, with a thick neck and square body. Strong upper arms and a scarred face. His eyes are suspicious. He looks at me the way Per Gunnarsson did.

  I don’t say anything, just wait for them to explain why they’re here.

  “Can we sit down somewhere?” Mats Hedin says.

  Henrik shows them to the living room. They settle down in a corner of the sofa. Detective Olivia Lundkvist looks around.

  “Nice place you have,” she says. “Very nice.”

  “Thank you,” I say and remain standing.

  “Do you know why we’re here?”

  Am I supposed to say something? And if so, what? I glance at Henrik; his brow is furrowed.

  “Not a clue,” I answer. “Does this have something to do with Alice? I mean, Isabelle? Did something happen?”

  I can feel Henrik staring at me.

  “Maybe you should sit down,” Olivia Lundkvist says.

  I try to swallow, but my throat is dry. Henrik pulls me down on the other end of the sofa and puts a hand on my leg. Settle down.

  The rest of the conversation is like an out-of-body experience. I hear the questions. I answer them. But it’s like I’m somewhere else. When Henrik puts his head in his hands, I realize that everything is in ruins.

  Isabelle

  There’s a knock on the door to my room. Mom is up, but I’m still in bed. The door opens and a shock of purple hair comes into view. Johanna looks in and grimaces. At herself, for yesterday, I suppose.

  “Your mother made breakfast, Bella,” she says.

  “Okay, I’m coming.”

  “I’m gonna do this first.”

  Johanna jumps down beside me in bed. She hugs me and kisses me on the cheek.

  “Thank you,” she says.

  “For what?” I say and wipe my cheek off with my sleeve. Johanna laughs and says, “Isabelle Karlsson.”

  “Yes?”

  “Do you know that you’re completely out of it sometimes?”

  At first I feel a bit hurt. But her huge smile tells me what she means.

  “You’re right,” I say, laughing, too. Mom comes in and sits down on the side of the bed. She looks at Johanna; she looks at me. She puts her hand on Johanna’s cheek and then on mine.

  “Crazy kids,” she says. “You are lovely. But off your rockers.”

  I know she doesn’t think Johanna is a good influence on me. The nose ring, the purple hair, the tight clothes, and the boys and the parties, and everything, everything, everything. But then I think of what happened yesterday. I take my mother’s hand and squeeze it. Our eyes meet.

  Everything is good again.

  That rarely happens. If I’m being honest, basically never. But right now I feel proud of my mom. She’s usually so worried and strict, full of contempt for anyone who isn’t. And when Johanna came home after the policemen left, I thought Mom might explode. Johanna’s boyfriend, Axel, had dumped her, and afterward she got drunk. She drank a ton of shots, a bunch of beers, and a bottle of wine. As soon as she came through the door she threw up on the rug in the hall.

  And Mom saw it all.

  I felt so sorry for Johanna. But it was embarrassing as well. I closed my eyes, waiting for Mom to start chewing both of us out. I knew exactly what she was going to say. This is what happens when you aren’t careful, this is what comes from running around with boys who only have one thing on their minds, this is what happens when you break away from your parents, when you think you’re more grown up than you are.

  Mom didn’t say anything.

  Not a word.

  Instead, she picked up a bucket and helped me hold Johanna while she continued to vomit. Mom wiped off Johanna’s face with paper towels (she was very careful with the nose ring) and whisper
ed comforting words to her. Like she used to when I was little and hurt myself or felt ill.

  Then Mom and I helped Johanna into the bathroom. She draped herself over the toilet and vomited again. And as she did, she started to cry. She lay on the floor and sobbed. Tears flowed, and she screamed that nobody loved her, she didn’t want to live in this shitty fucking world anymore. Where everyone treats each other like pigs, especially all the fucking men who are worse than pigs.

  Mom stroked her hair and said that everything would be fine now, that she didn’t need to be sad. Mom had me grab a towel and clean clothes. I did as she said while Mom undressed Johanna, put her in the bathtub, and showered her. Then she dried her off, helped her get on some sweatpants and a long-sleeved T-shirt. We took her under each arm and dragged Johanna into her room. Mom tucked her in and sat by her until she was asleep. I stared at them from my seat on the floor. And that’s when I felt it.

  Mom was sitting there so calm and safe, stroking Johanna’s hair and cheeks, humming quietly. I don’t remember ever loving Mom more than I did in that moment. I don’t think I’ve ever been so proud of her.

  And then, when Johanna fell asleep, we drank coffee in the kitchen. I told her I felt angry when she got here, but I didn’t feel that way anymore.

  “How do you feel now?” Mom said.

  “You’re the world’s best mom,” I said, hugging her. Mom cried, I think. She almost never does that. Her cheeks felt moist. We held each other for a long time. I asked forgiveness because I’d been so mean, and Mom said everything was fine now. Now that I’d asked for forgiveness.

  Then she talked about the things we used to do together when I was little. Some I had forgotten, some I remembered quite clearly. It was probably our sweetest moment together since Dad died. It’s a pity we couldn’t be like that more often. Maybe it’s my fault. Mom hasn’t had it easy.

  “If you want, you can come home with me for a few days,” she said. “I don’t want to force you, Isabelle. But I miss you, you know that.”

  I promised to sleep on it. Then we didn’t talk about it anymore. We didn’t talk about the visit from the police, either. It felt like that could wait, as if it were out of place in this moment. But Mom said she was open to discussing anything.

  “I know I’ve been tough on you,” she said. “But I will try to change.”

  I’ve been unfair to her. She isn’t at all as horrible as I imagine sometimes. Maybe we’ll end up with a better relationship? I think so. I want that for us. And I know Mom does, too.

  * * *

  • • •

  “Come on, girls,” Mom says. “Breakfast is ready.”

  She goes back to the kitchen and leaves us alone for a while.

  “Your mother is something else,” Johanna says. “If that had been my mom, I would have caught hell. She would have chewed me out. And then I would have had to take care of myself. No one’s ever taken care of me like your mom did.”

  “She does that,” I answer. “Mom likes to take care of people.”

  “Maybe that’s why she works in health care?”

  “I guess so.”

  Johanna wants to give me a kiss, but I push her away.

  “Your breath stinks.”

  I throw off the blanket and climb out of bed.

  “And you smell like farts.” Johanna laughs and slaps me on the butt.

  We go to the kitchen, sit down at the table. Mom has prepared a lavish breakfast for us. Coffee for me and Mom, green tea for Johanna. Juice and milk, yogurt, freshly baked rolls, and cheese and meats and spreads she’s brought with her.

  “Dig in,” Mom says and sits down.

  After breakfast, Johanna wants a smoke. We go out on the balcony while Mom clears the table and does the dishes.

  “Do you want a cig or not in front of Mommy?” Johanna says.

  “You know I hate smoking. It’s disgusting.”

  “It’s cool.”

  “I didn’t know you started again.”

  “I always smoke when I’m depressed. It makes me feel better.”

  Johanna takes a deep drag and blows the smoke in my face. She glances in at Mom, who’s bustling around the kitchen.

  “Did you get rid of your virginity yet? I heard Fredde was here.”

  I wave away the smoke.

  “How do you know that?” I say.

  “That you’re a virgin?”

  “Oh, Johanna, you are so annoying. No, that Fredrik was here, of course.”

  “Your mother thought you had somebody here. I knew it had to be Fredde. Calm down, I didn’t say anything. Not because I don’t think your mom can handle it. She’s a lot nicer than you made her sound.”

  “Yes,” I say. “I guess she is.”

  “Well?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Stop.” Johanna pulls her jacket tighter around her. She squints her eyes at me and holds her cigarette in the corner of her mouth. She looks cool, in a way I never will. “Your secrets are safe with me. You know that.”

  “About what?” I say and still don’t understand what Johanna means. She blows out a blue cloud of smoke against the sky. Looks down at the crotch of my sweatpants.

  “Your virginity?”

  I’m still not as comfortable as Johanna talking about these things. I’ve mostly listened to her long commentaries on the various boys and men she’s been with. But when I think of how Fredrik and I got dressed in a hurry, how he pushed me against the wall of the elevator, and how we made out all the way down, how I wrapped one leg around his body, I do really want to tell her. He mumbled that we should have done it as soon as he arrived. Then we would have had time. We giggled and kissed again. Before he left he stroked my hair and my cheek and asked me to call him. I had to get myself together for a moment after that, rearrange my hair, before meeting Mom. I feel warm inside just thinking about it.

  I look in through the window. Mom is busy sorting the dishes on the shelves above the sink. She turns around and looks at me as if she knows I’m looking. She seems happy. I wave to her and she waves back.

  I turn to Johanna, lean against her and whisper, “Almost. It was sooo close. He is so wonderful. But then Mom showed up.”

  “Is he big?”

  “What?”

  “Tell me, I want to know.”

  “What do you mean, big? Do you mean . . .”

  Johanna nods. I don’t understand how she can ask such a thing, and I have the urge to tell her to shut up. But then we look at each other and burst out laughing.

  It’s cold outside but we stay on the balcony for a little longer. Johanna talks about Axel, but meanwhile I think of Stella. And what Mom said about her.

  And about the police officers who were here.

  They asked me about my psychotherapist, and I told them I thought I saw her outside my apartment and near KTH. But I’m not scared of her. Not at all.

  However, I am afraid this has gone too far. Mom exaggerates her worries. She also talked to the police officers, a man and a woman. Mom didn’t really say anything that’s not true, but it didn’t sound good. Stella will surely catch hell for this. And I think what I said might have made it worse.

  I asked the police why they were asking questions, what they were planning to do. Why were they here, I hadn’t called them. They didn’t answer that. They said thank you and good-bye, we’ll look into this. Don’t worry. But they already made me really worried. I was supposed to tell them immediately if I heard from her again. I was planning on meeting her every Wednesday for a long time to come. But it didn’t feel like the right time to say that.

  Mom followed them out and continued talking to them in the hall. I couldn’t hear what they said. Don’t even know if I want to know.

  I’m trying to put the pieces together. They don’t fit. There’s something about it that b
others me, confuses me. But I don’t want to think about it. Not right now. I just can’t. It will have to wait.

  Johanna puts her cig out in a flowerpot, and we go inside again. Much to my surprise, Mom asks if Johanna and I want to play Scrabble. Johanna says she’d love to. And gives Mom a big hug.

  My phone dings. I pick it up and check. A text from Fredrik.

  Everything okay? Can’t you come over soon?! Miss you! XO

  I go into the bathroom and answer.

  All is well here, just been really busy. Miss you, too! Longing for you. Call you tonight. XO

  He answers immediately.

  Longing for you, too. Come here!

  As soon as Mom goes home, I’ll take the subway straight to him and forget everything about dead children and police interrogations.

  Stella

  I’ve been accused of threats and harassment. Maybe unlawful pursuit and stalking as well.

  Henrik’s eyes. I can’t stand to meet them. He looks at me as if I’m some madwoman he stumbled across on the street. He looks at me with disgust. A poisonous cloud of disappointment lies between us.

  Detective Olivia Lundkvist asks the questions. Mats Hedin studies me with a fixed expression. I’ve been tied to the pillory, and there is no escape.

  Yes, I know Lina Niemi.

  Yes, she’s been in therapy with me.

  Yes, it was alleged that she tried to commit suicide, but that’s not the whole truth.

  No, I saw no sign that she was suicidal.

  Yes, I know her parents think I crossed the line and was overly personal. That’s not true.

  Yes, I am aware that they reported me.

  To the Health and Social Care Inspectorate. You know that, too. It’s no secret.

  Yes, I know Ulf Rickardsson.

  Yes, he’s in therapy with me.

  Am I usually so personal with my patients? Everyone who works in this kind of profession is, to some extent. But not in the way you make it sound.

  Not at all. That’s not true at all. I never touched him.

  No, that’s not right, either.

  I didn’t scream at him. Maybe I raised my voice. He felt threatened? Physically?