My colleagues? When?
No, I took today off.
No, I forgot to inform anyone about it.
That’s right. Isabelle Karlsson is my patient.
She participates in group therapy at my clinic.
I haven’t cut off contact with her. Not yet. No, I know she’s my daughter. Listen, I . . . Can’t you at least listen to me?
* * *
• • •
I try to catch Henrik’s eyes. He gets up and stands looking out the window toward the garden. I close my eyes.
Inhale. Exhale.
Yes, I have been to Vällingby.
Outside the building where she lives, yes.
I don’t understand. What do you mean?
I have been to Borlänge, too.
No, I did not go onto the property. The neighbors are lying. It’s a lie. No, no, I sat outside in the car.
I know she is studying at the Royal Institute of Technology. Only once.
I’ve called Isabelle a few times. Yes, I left messages.
Don’t remember what I said.
I did not act unprofessionally in our therapy sessions. No, I didn’t.
Meet me outside of group therapy? It was just a suggestion. Completely within the bounds of therapy.
Henrik turns to Detective Lundkvist. He still hasn’t looked at me once.
“Does this concern a current patient who is accusing my wife of harassment and God knows what else?” he says.
“Yes, it does,” Olivia Lundkvist replies. “Along with Lina’s parents. There’s a fairly high risk that Stella will lose her license. She’s already been reported to Health and Social Care. And now there’s a police complaint on top of that. It really does not look good for her.”
Olivia Lundkvist looks urgently at me, with a kind of seriousness that says the guilty need to be reminded just how bad their situation is.
I’ve been judged in advance.
“What happens now?” Henrik wonders.
Olivia Lundkvist talks about a formal interrogation, a preliminary investigation; the decision of whether or not to prosecute will be made by the prosecutors.
* * *
• • •
It’s quiet at home. Henrik left a while ago, not long after the police.
He asked me questions, too.
Why in the hell did I continue to keep things from him? How can I lie straight to his face time and time again? What makes me do it? What is driving me?
I told him that it was all a big misunderstanding. I said I would never intentionally subject someone to this. Least of all him.
Henrik wondered how it could be a misunderstanding. I admitted I’ve been following Isabelle, calling her and continuing to meet her. Contrary to what I told him. And apparently I still think she’s Alice? I wasn’t at work today, contrary to what I said. What did I do all day?
I was at Alice’s headstone.
And Borlänge? What made me go there? Is there more he doesn’t know? I tell him that I wasn’t home that weekend he and Milo were in Nyköping. I was at Strandgården.
More lies.
Henrik pulled on his coat and slammed the door. I heard him start the Range Rover and drive off.
* * *
• • •
I’m lying on the sofa. I sit up and look out. Someone is in the garden. Somebody in a shapeless coat with their hood obscuring their face. I can’t move. Can hardly breathe.
We stare at each other.
I close my eyes.
When I look again nobody’s there.
A broken tarp has blown in and been caught by the tree. I stand up slowly and go to the window. I look out into the garden, inspecting every corner of it.
Have I started seeing things? Things that aren’t there, which only exist in my own disturbed consciousness? What more did I imagine?
Alice?
The thought is unbearable.
I go out to the kitchen.
I open a bottle of wine. I drink straight out of it.
Stella
I wake up on the sofa with a headache. The wine bottle is gone. Henrik must have cleaned up after me. Probably so Milo wouldn’t see how bad it was. My phone shows it’s a quarter past nine. I see that Henrik texted me shortly after eight.
Text me when you wake up.
A moment later:
Stay home, promise me. I have to take care of something at work. I’ll come home as soon as I can, we’ll talk then.
No I love you or xo or hugs. No it’ll work out.
Most of all, I want him to tell me everything will be fine. If he thinks that, maybe I can, too.
In my mind, I go over yesterday and the last few weeks. There’s a lot I could have done differently. All of it, really.
That I continued to be Isabelle’s therapist was a terrible lapse in judgment. It was wrong. My colleagues, my patients, they’ve all lost faith in me. I lack the ability to maintain professional distance.
I am no longer a psychotherapist.
I should be under the care of one.
I should be a patient.
Isabelle has canceled our last few meetings, and I understand why.
I followed her; I stalked my patient.
Daniel doesn’t want anything to do with me ever again.
And my husband. The way he looked at me yesterday, as if I were a stranger. But I don’t blame him. I’ve become a stranger, even to myself.
Henrik keeps his distance, he’s cold and unreachable. And it is entirely my own fault. He thinks I’ve gone mad. That I’m mentally ill.
Why didn’t I talk to him? Why couldn’t I be honest?
Because I’m terrified.
This fear has been with me for more than twenty years, and it has ruined my life.
I’m afraid of myself, afraid I’m sick.
I’m afraid Henrik is better off without me, Milo, too. I’m terrified. And it is alienating. My fear is a self-fulfilling prophecy. I will never find out what happened to Alice. We will never see each other again, never have the chance to get to know each other.
Henrik calls around ten. I don’t answer. Just stare apathetically at the phone. He hangs up.
Calls again. I don’t answer. I realize I can’t avoid him forever. I sit up. Feel queasy and rush to the bathroom. I heave and sob over the toilet, but nothing comes out. I go back to the sofa.
He calls a third time. I don’t respond. Stare at the phone while it lights up and vibrates. His name, a picture of him smiling on the display. The phone slides across the table in my direction, as if it wants me to pick up. It stops glowing, stops vibrating.
I lean over it, see myself mirrored in the dark glass. That person is someone I don’t want anything to do with.
That woman is insane. Disturbed. Sick. Psychotic.
Her blank and shiny eyes flash at me. Her mouth moves as if trying to say something. I strike her with my fist. Again and again until she shatters and falls to the floor.
Stella
The apartment building on the other side of the street. Near the mall. I’m here again.
I’m not sick, I’m not insane. I’m healthier than I’ve ever been in my life. What I’m doing is right. Beyond any choice, beyond any option. Beyond a doubt. The only thing left is the truth.
Alice. I’m here now.
I know you understand. My beloved daughter. We will be intertwined forever. Our bloodstream binds us together. You live. You live in me.
I feel your breath in every beat of my heart.
No one can stop me. No one can impede me. What brings me here is larger and stronger than anything else. Larger and stronger than me.
And now I see you. If only you’ll listen to me. Listen for a few minutes. I know we have something special. I know I can reach you.
You’re coming toward me. I see that you see me. You freeze. You stop. You don’t look scared, but you are wary.
Why?
Trust me. Believe in me. Tell me you’re mine.
I stretch a hand toward you, to show you I’m not dangerous. I know you understand. I know you feel it, too. You live in me, you always have.
You are here inside me.
In my blood.
Isabelle
I’m on my way home from the store. The sky is overcast, the clouds heavy with rain. I feel much better, no fever anymore. It felt good to get outside a bit.
Johanna is in school, but not me. I feel stressed because I’ve been absent a lot lately, but it’s been cozy to be home with Mom, too. Still, I don’t plan to follow her when she goes home today. I need some time by myself. Need to absorb everything that’s happened. Maybe I’ll go down next weekend instead. Or after my exams.
Stella. I think of her more than I’d like. I wonder what the police want with her. Will it be weird to go to group therapy next Wednesday? It feels like I haven’t been honest with her. At the same time, it makes me uncomfortable that she followed me. Given what Mom told me. I don’t want to think about it. I push away thoughts of Stella Widstrand and think of Fredrik instead.
I was looking forward to calling him from the store. Now I’m remembering how he sounded, the words he said, and I’m so tired of waiting. I’m counting the seconds until I’m in his arms again. It may not have to be so long. I smile to myself and wonder what I should wear. I cross the square and then the street.
I see her standing outside the building staring up at our window.
In the same way as last time.
She usually has on something nice, her makeup perfect, her thick, curly hair arranged just so. She usually looks so healthy. But not today.
Her hair is in a messy bun; she has dark rings under her eyes. Her dress is wrinkled; it looks like she slept in it.
I wonder what she wants. Why she came here. But then I realize the police probably talked to her. She is angry with me, of course.
“What are you doing here?” I say.
She almost stammers, as if she were unprepared to see me.
“I-I had to meet you.”
“Why?”
She looks sad. Distressed.
She looks like she might break down.
“I just wanted to know what happened,” she says. “I thought you liked our conversations? I felt we had something in common.”
I look down at the ground. Don’t scrape your feet like that, Isabelle! I stop. Straighten up. I force myself to meet Stella’s gaze.
“I did,” I say.
“But why didn’t you come? Not on Monday or Wednesday? Why did you report me to the police?”
I don’t understand. I don’t know what she’s talking about. Then I get a hunch. I glance up at the apartment, but don’t see Mom behind the curtain, spying, keeping watch. What has she done?
I look at Stella again. She points to a nearby bench.
“Do you want to sit with me for a while?”
I don’t want to, but still I follow her to the bench. I sit at a distance from her.
“Maybe you didn’t know about that?” Stella says. She sounds understanding, but doesn’t wait for answers. “It doesn’t matter; I just want to clear up any misunderstandings.”
“I didn’t know,” I say. “I’m sorry, but I didn’t know.”
“It’s all right,” she says and strokes my back. “I’ve thought about what you told me. About your upbringing, about your thoughts. The relationship between you and your mother.”
“Okay?”
“I once had a daughter,” Stella says. “A long time ago.”
I recognize the look in her eyes. It was there when she told us about her grief. That tone was in her voice. As if she were desperate, as if she were driven by such powerful emotions that she lost control of them.
“She disappeared one day,” Stella continues. “I never found out what happened. Everyone said she drowned. Everyone thought she was dead. Not me. I knew she was alive. Knew someone had taken her.”
Stella looks into my eyes. I look down, can’t endure her wild, intense stare.
“Have you ever wondered if Kerstin is your biological mother? Your real mother?”
I stand up from the bench. “I have to go now.”
“Please, Isabelle, listen. Please let me finish before you go.”
Stella roots around in her handbag and takes out a photograph. Her hand is shaking.
“Just look. This is Maria. I haven’t told you about her. But you reminded me of her from the moment I met you. More than that, you’re like copies of each other.”
I look at the photo. It could be my sister.
“Maria is your aunt,” Stella says and takes out another picture. “And here, this is a photo of you. Of my little girl, when she was ten months old. Look at her black hair? The ear? The dimple?”
She waits. Lets me look before going on. “Do you have any photos of yourself as a baby? I don’t think so. I think you have a lot of questions about that time.”
I’ve had enough. I don’t want to see or hear more. Stella takes a toy out of her purse. A cloth spider.
“This spider was your favorite. You loved it,” she says with tears in her eyes. “I believe you’re my missing daughter.” She stretches out a hand toward me.
“You’re wrong,” I say, taking a step back. “You are wrong. You are totally fucking crazy.”
“I understand this comes as a shock.”
“Stop!” I scream. “Stop following me. She was right; she said you would say this.”
The buzzing in my head is getting louder and louder. I press my hands over my ears.
Stella stands and goes over to me. Hugs me.
“Who was right? Kerstin? You know, I want to meet her. I want to know what she has to say about all this.”
“Why?” I hear I’m sobbing. “Why are you doing this? I thought you were good; I thought you cared about me. It felt like you were the only one I could talk to. But you’ve just been pretending. This whole time. You’re sick in the head.” I push her away. She falls back and sinks down onto the bench.
“Isabelle, if only you’d give me a chance,” she pleads. “Think about it. You’ve wondered why you’re so different, why she doesn’t feel like a mother.”
“I’ve already lost my dad. She’s all I have left. And right now things are better between us than ever. What makes you think you can do this to me? Spread these lies?” I’m screaming again.
Stella reaches out her hand.
I slap it away.
“Go to hell! You’re worse than Mom when she’s crazy. She’s not perfect but at least she’s honest. You’re a fake. You lie, you manipulate. Get lost and leave us alone.”
Stella stares at me with pleading eyes and an imploring expression.
“I’m your mother,” she says. “Your name is Alice. You are my daughter. I knew you would come back to me. I’ve been waiting for you ever since you disappeared.”
I run as fast as I can. Reach the door, push in the code, tear open the door, and slam it behind me. I forgot the groceries. I look toward the bench. A shrunken woman sits there. Alone with her photos and a toy she says was mine.
Kerstin
I saw them. Couldn’t hear a word, of course, but I didn’t need to, I saw them. I’m so angry I’m shaking.
Is it strange a mother would want to defend her child at any cost? Is it wrong? Is it unnatural for a mother to react with rage when her child is threatened?
No. It’s not wrong. It’s natural. That’s the way it should be.
Isabelle opens the door and enters the hall. I continue folding the laundry. She enters the room. I look up at her. She’s crying. Standing there on the thresh
old not daring to go in or out. And she looks just like she did when she was little. She’s my little girl again.
I drop the sheets I’m holding. I go to Isabelle and take her in my arms. She’s sobbing. Her tears stream down her face, she sniffs and sniffs, she sobs and tries to catch her breath.
There, there, my little darling. Mommy is here now, and nothing can hurt you. That’s what I should say.
That’s what I usually say.
I usually stroke her hair and whisper comforting words. Show her I understand, that I’m here to help and support her, to talk.
Not this time.
I hold my little girl, I do. But I’m silent, don’t say a single word.
I want Isabelle to know how dangerous that woman is, how sick and crazy she is. I offer no words of comfort, let fear work on her for a while. Now finally she has the chance to really understand. To toughen up and find the strength within. She’s still weak. She needs me. Her mother. And I’m here. I will always be here for my baby.
Still, Isabelle doesn’t understand much about life. But she will.
Stella
I lie on the floor in the hall. Lie on my back with my coat on, staring up at the ceiling. Defeated. Crushed. I cried through the whole of my drive home. At one point I even had to turn off the road so I could calm down enough to make it the rest of the way.
I can’t stop going over my meeting with Alice. What I said.
What she said.
How I said it.
How she reacted.
I scared her; I made her despise me. I made her feel angry and disgusted. All I wanted was to talk to my child, to my own daughter.
My humiliation is total.
My instinct, was it wrong? My intuition, my emotions?
I’m aware I’m not doing well, that I’m far from stable. I understand that I’m entering a manic state. But so long as I have the ability to reflect on what I feel and think, I’m not completely out of my mind. If I were, I wouldn’t be able to lie here thinking through my situation. And right now I’m prepared to see the truth as it is, I’m ready to bow to reality.
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