Tell Me You're Mine

by Elisabeth Norebäck

  So what’s real? What is true? The answer is Alice.

  Alice is real.

  And the fact that she is my daughter is true.

  Everything begins and ends with her. My problems began when I started my investigation. When I started asking Isabelle questions about her background. That’s when the threatening letter arrived, that’s when the man in the raincoat first stood outside on the street. It’s not my imagination, these aren’t fantasies. This is real.

  Or am I wrong? Is it just another way for me to hold on to a delusion?

  No, everyone else is wrong. I am right.

  I just can’t prove it.

  The phone rings; I wasn’t even sure it worked anymore. It must be Henrik. I can’t bring myself to check. Stay at work. If you came home and found me like this, you’d commit me. And I don’t want to go there again.

  It rings again and again. In the end, I grab the fucking phone. Look at the cracked screen. Unknown number.

  I answer.

  “Is this Stella Widstrand?” The voice sounds distant.

  “Yes.”

  “I’m calling about your son. Milo Widstrand.”

  I sit up.

  “Yes?”

  “He was on a class trip today. They couldn’t find him when they were supposed to head back. Now he’s absent from school. He’s gone.”

  “Gone? What do you mean, gone? Who are you?”

  “Unfortunately, I don’t know any more than that. I was just supposed to call you.”

  The voice sounds even more distant now; it’s scratchy. My phone must have been damaged by the blows; I can barely hear anything.

  “Who is this? Were you on this excursion? What happened? What have you done to my son?” The call cuts off.

  * * *

  • • •

  I’m running down the hallway toward the school office. I beat on the door. A woman I don’t recognize opens it. I scream at her.

  “My son has been abducted. Who’s responsible? Have you called the police?”

  “Abducted? I don’t know anything about that. What’s your son’s name?”

  “Milo Widstrand, 7B. They were on a class trip. Don’t you have any fucking idea of what’s going on?”

  The woman fetches a binder. She fumbles with some schedules. It takes way too long.

  “Where are they? Where is his class?”

  “In their classroom,” she answers and looks at me with fear in her eyes.

  I storm down another hallway. Pass a kid who is absorbed in his phone. I push him away. He flies into the wall, falls onto the floor, and drops his phone. He screams after me, “Fucking bitch.” I keep running.

  I throw open the door to the classroom. Everything stops, everyone’s eyes turn toward me. I stride over to the teacher. He’s younger than me, has a hipster beard and glasses. I push him up against the whiteboard. Pound on his chest.

  I don’t scream. I howl, “Where is my son? Who took him? Where is Milo?”

  “Mom?”

  I swing around. Milo is standing by his desk looking at me. His face has lost all color. His eyes are wide with shock and shame.

  The whole class is frozen. It’s dead quiet.

  I sob and rush over to Milo. I drag him into my arms, squeeze him, tell him I love him and I never want to let him go again.

  The principal, Jens Lilja, enters the classroom followed by the woman from the office.

  “What’s going on here?” he says. “Peter?”

  The teacher nods and readjusts his glasses.

  “Everything’s fine,” he says.

  “Stella.” Jens lays his hand gently on my shoulder. “What is this about?” I turn to the principal. Still holding Milo tight, pressing him against me.

  “I got a call,” I say. “You were on a class trip. My son was abducted.” I point accusingly at the principal, at the teacher, at the woman from the teachers’ room. “You owe me an explanation.”

  Jens Lilja turns to Peter; they speak quietly to each other. After a while, the principal nods to Peter and says, “Stella, no one from this school called you.”

  “I got a call,” I say. “Somebody called me. Someone from here.”

  “We didn’t take a class trip today,” Peter says. “That was in September.”

  “And as you can see, Milo is here,” Jens Lilja continues. He takes a firm grip on my arm. I cling to Milo.

  “Somebody called,” I say. “Somebody from this school called me and told me he was gone.”

  “Is that your mom, Milo?” someone whispers.

  “Great mom,” someone else says.

  “What a psycho.”

  A wave of giggles and scornful laughter passes through the classroom. Milo twists out of my arms. He runs out and slams the door behind him.

  “Come on, Stella,” Jens Lilja says in a quiet and friendly voice. I allow him to lead me out of the classroom. Their eyes burn into my back.

  I want to die.

  Stella

  Henrik and I are sitting in his car in the parking lot outside Milo’s school. He took my car keys, made sure someone would drive it home. Who, I don’t know.

  He’s calm. But more cold and distant than ever. He asks me over and over again. I try to reproduce the phone call verbatim. Do a worse job of it every time he asks.

  “Who called?”

  “I don’t know. It was a woman, I think, but she didn’t say . . .”

  “What time did she call?”

  “Just before I drove here.”

  “Did she say that Milo was abducted?”

  I push my fingers to my eyes and think.

  “No, but . . . No. He, let’s see now . . . he disappeared on his way back from a class trip, but I think . . .”

  “A class trip that didn’t exist.” Henrik is dogged.

  “I didn’t know that then.”

  “Are you sure that’s what you heard?”

  He leans back in his car seat, looks out over the parking lot. “Did anyone even call?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Or could you have been mistaken?”

  “Mistaken?”

  I take out my phone. Hand it to Henrik. “Look at the call history. Check and you’ll see I’m not hallucinating.”

  He takes the phone and sees that the screen is cracked. “What happened?”

  “I dropped it on the floor this morning.”

  I can tell he doesn’t believe me. He puts in my code, my birth year. “And when did you get the call?”

  “I already said that. Just before I drove here.”

  “That’s strange. Your phone is dead.” He holds it up and shows me. It can’t be unlocked.

  “In other words, you don’t believe me?” I say.

  “I’ve heard this from you before. Supposedly, I asked Erica to call you and tell you not to pick up Milo. Which I didn’t do. Which Erica herself says she hasn’t done.” He looks at me. “Are you really sure someone called?”

  I know exactly what he’s worried about. I know. He doesn’t say it, but all his thoughts and feelings are clear on his face. And I can see what he’s most afraid of. And I realize he’s right.

  “Damn it, Stella. Don’t you see what’s happening?”

  “You think I’m imagining things. That I’ve lost my mind?” I say.

  He points to the school building. “What do you think?”

  I don’t respond.

  “You need help,” he says, starts the engine, and drives out of the parking lot. “You need to be in a hospital.”

  * * *

  • • •

  We’re at St. Görans Hospital’s center for affective disorders. Dr. Janet Savic is a small and energetic woman. She’s direct, tells it like it is. Compassionate and sharp, you can’t bullshi
t her. She’s been my doctor since I was a teenager. We’ve met when I’ve been feeling good, and when I’ve been depressed and anxious. She knows more about my life than anyone.

  I wonder when Henrik called her. Before he got to his car, I suppose. After calming Milo, after calming Peter and the school administrators, Henrik Widstrand takes care of his wife. She has a psychosis and suffers from total mental confusion.

  Dr. Savic examines me. Listening to my heart and lungs, shining lights in my eyes, checking my blood pressure. A routine checkup. Completely unnecessary, but I let her carry on. Resisting would not be helpful in this situation.

  We talk over the last few weeks. I’m honest, tell her everything. I hide nothing.

  I tell her about Isabelle. About Alice. I tell her about what happened at the clinic. My outbursts. The panic attacks. How I followed Isabelle. How I went to Borlänge.

  Dr. Savic listens with her head leaning on her hand. She’s crossed one leg over the other, her foot bobs.

  “Everything I’ve done is because of Alice,” I say. “Because she’s alive, she’s come back. That’s the only reason.”

  My voice sounds weak. Pleading for understanding. Pleading not to be committed.

  “I’m sure you understand why I would like to keep you here for a couple of days,” Dr. Savic says.

  I look at her without answering. She observes me; the wrinkle between her eyes means she is still uncertain.

  “I don’t want that,” I say. “If you would allow me to go home, I’d be grateful.”

  “Are you sure you can handle that? That it wouldn’t just make things worse?”

  “Yes.”

  Dr. Savic studies me. I stare down at the floor, overcome with shame, powerlessness, and regret. Knowing that she can see my every weakness, every justification I’ve used to protect myself, it’s too much. I don’t want to be committed. Won’t.

  She rises; she opens the door and calls for Henrik. He comes in and sits down next to me. She turns to him now. I already know what he will say.

  “Is Stella eating like she should?” she asks.

  He throws me a quick glance. “No, I can’t say that she is. She eats very little.”

  “Is she sleeping properly?”

  “She gets up at night. Sleeps fitfully. Drinks too much.”

  Dr. Savic lowers her glasses and looks first at Henrik, then at me. She tells us to listen. She’s made a decision.

  Her assessment is that I have been under tremendous stress. It was good that Henrik brought me here. I’ve lost weight. My blood pressure is way too high. I have gastritis. My hands tremble sometimes. I’ve had several panic attacks.

  “We’ll beat this before you become manic,” she says. “You’re on sick leave from now on. I’m prescribing you sleeping pills and some antianxiety meds as well. And from this point on you need to stop drinking. Completely. The chemical cocktail in your brain reacts poorly to alcohol. I’m not going to commit you. Even though that might be for the best. But you have to stay home from now on, Stella. You are to do nothing but rest. Okay?”

  “Yes,” I say. “I’m just going to rest.”

  “And it would be good if you started therapy again. Birgitta Alving has retired, but I’m referring you to another therapist I know.”

  Henrik nods. “That’s a very good idea,” he says.

  Dr. Savic types away at a furious pace. She sends my prescriptions to the pharmacy, prints out my certificate of illness.

  “In two weeks, I expect to see you again, Stella,” she says. Henrik takes the paper with my next appointment time and the certificate. I’m no longer trusted to handle such important documents.

  “Home and rest. Let your husband take care of you. And promise me you’ll take it easy now.”

  Henrik stands, shakes Dr. Savic’s hand.

  “Thank you,” he says.

  I say nothing, just leave.

  Maybe I should be happy. He didn’t take me straight to the emergency room. I’m not committed.

  Not yet.

  * * *

  • • •

  The rain starts to fall as I walk toward Henrik’s Range Rover. He catches up with me. We walk side by side but keep our distance. Henrik unlocks the car and opens the passenger-side door to me. His arm stops me before I step in.

  “Do you have something to say?” he asks.

  “What should I say?” I focus on a point in the distance.

  “That you’re pissed off at me?” he says.

  “Pissed off?”

  “Yes.”

  “Why would I be?”

  “For this?” He points toward the entrance to the hospital.

  “I’m not.”

  “No?”

  “I can’t blame you.”

  “Do you understand why I’m doing this?”

  I don’t answer. He apparently believes I’m completely out of it.

  “If it were you?” he says. “If I’d been acting like this. What would you have done? If I’d been reported to the police, not by one, but two of my clients. If people contacted you about me, asked how I was. If I freaked out at home, stood screaming at Milo’s school. Acted completely irrationally? What do you think you would have done? Please tell me. I really want to know.”

  He’s controlled, but desperate, fury and impotence still leaking out.

  I look at him. “I told you I don’t blame you.”

  Henrik drops his arm, walks around to the other side of the car, and opens his door. He climbs in and closes the door. I sit in the seat next to his. He waits until I close the door and put on my seatbelt, and then he starts driving.

  He puts on his sunglasses and drives in silence. He stops outside the pharmacy. Asks me to give him my driver’s license. I give it to him. I’m just a child who doesn’t know what’s good for her. I refuse to look at him.

  He comes back. Puts a bag on my lap. Medicines I don’t want. I hate them. Hate their blunt effect.

  “Mom and Dad picked up Milo from school,” he says. “He’s going to the country with them this weekend. Please, Stella, think about what you’re up to. This isn’t working. Not for Milo and not for me.”

  We drive on through afternoon traffic. Henrik in his sunglasses. Me in my cloud of misery.

  “You don’t trust me,” I say quietly.

  “What did you say?” Henrik sounds formal. His tone is excessively polite. Which he knows I hate.

  “I’m afraid of losing Milo,” I say, blinking and swallowing.

  I don’t want to cry. Don’t want to have an outburst. Can’t have another one.

  “I have already lost one child. Does that make me mentally ill? It’s easy for you to judge.”

  “You’re exaggerating,” Henrik says. “I don’t want to hear any more of that.”

  I throw the folder that was lying between us onto the floor. All the papers spill out.

  “Is it really so fucking weird that I’m afraid?” I scream.

  Henrik jerks the steering wheel to the side. Turns into a parking lot and slams on the brakes. He throws off his sunglasses.

  “I’ve always been here for you,” he shouts. “I’ve always trusted you. I’ve let you be protective of Milo for all these years. I understood why.”

  “And that means I’m sick?” I scream back.

  “Milo. Is. Not. Alice.”

  “I know, I know, I know. Stop making me feel like an idiot.”

  “Take a look at yourself. At how you’ve acted lately. How you sound. I don’t even fucking recognize you anymore.”

  The sunglasses go on again. He starts the car and turns back onto the road. I stare out the passenger-side window. We sit in silence all the way home.

  Henrik enters our driveway and parks next to my car. His phone rings. He picks it up and looks at the display. He liste
ns, laughs. I hear in his voice that he’s talking to a woman. They’re talking about a party.

  “I’ll see you later,” he says. He laughs again, pretending I’m not there. “Are you still in the office? No, no, everything is fine with Milo, thank you for asking. Good, see you soon.”

  Again, he looks at the screen, does something, writes something he doesn’t want me to see.

  I’m crushed.

  “I have to go,” he says. “I’ll ask your mother to come here and keep you company.”

  “I don’t need any fucking company,” I manage to get out. Henrik takes off his sunglasses and looks at me. My own husband doesn’t recognize me anymore.

  I don’t recognize him.

  We are total strangers now.

  “Whatever you want,” he says. “You decide, Stella. But take this opportunity. If this doesn’t help”—he makes a gesture to the bag in my lap—“I won’t hesitate for a second to have you committed.”

  He looks at his phone again, waiting for me to climb out. I leave the car and slam the door as hard as I can. Henrik speeds off. I stand there looking after him as he drives away.

  Everyone has decided that I’m nuts. And they’re right. I’m totally fucking crazy.

  Isabelle

  It’s evening. I’m sitting in an old garden chair looking up at the stars. Here in Barkargärdet, they are so clear. In Stockholm you rarely see them. It’s cold tonight. The air feels fresher and cleaner. But the best thing about being home is the silence. Listening to the wind whisper through the trees. It feels easier to think here. In Stockholm there’s always some noise coming from somewhere.

  I don’t regret going home. And it made Mom so happy. It feels good that we’re getting along so well. Mom has actually changed. She’s not as difficult as before. But I can’t stop thinking about Stella and our meeting this morning. It can’t be normal to seek out your therapy clients in your free time. Mom says therapists aren’t allowed to do that. All those questions about my childhood, about Mom. It feels so wrong.

  Still, I can’t help thinking about what she said.