Tell Me You're Mine

by Elisabeth Norebäck

  “Curly? And blond?” I wrinkle my forehead. Look down at the hair hanging over my shoulder.

  Mom slams the binder shut with a bang and stands up.

  “Yes, it’s not uncommon.”

  Now she’s gotten sad. Sad because of my questions. I’ve ruined our moment.

  “This accursed headache. Now I have to go to bed,” she says. “That psycho bitch. She’s twisted your mind completely. You should have listened to me. Instead, you think you need to question everything. Destroy things between us. I hope you’re satisfied.”

  Mom stands up, locks away the folder, and puts the key in the bookshelf. She forgets to tell me to close my eyes. She leaves the library and goes out to the hall.

  “I’m sorry,” I cry after her.

  She waves it off and continues up the stairs with heavy steps and a self-conscious huff. How many times has this scene played out?

  I wish I hadn’t destroyed our moment. But there’s so much I don’t understand. So many answers I want. But Mom keeps everything to herself.

  Maybe I’ve been more affected by Stella than I realized. Mom has had it hard, I know that. It’s wrong of me to push her this way. I put my cup in the kitchen. Go up to my room.

  As usual, I have a big lump in my throat. As usual, I lie in bed, weeping into my pillow. I wish Fredrik was here to take care of me.

  Isabelle

  The house should be quiet, but it’s not. It creaks and scrapes in the stairs and the walls. The wind makes the roof howl and the gutters shake, and in the cellar the boiler rumbles to life.

  I’ve never liked the atmosphere here, but now it feels like a direct threat: the house is alive; it sees me. It’s waiting for me to stumble and then it will strike, slice me open with a knife or make me seriously ill. There is some invisible essence here, an evil shadow that wishes me ill.

  I tell myself I’m being childish, ridiculous. But the feeling won’t pass. I open the door to my room. Stand there listening. I tiptoe out into the hall, stop outside Mom’s bedroom, put my ear close to the door. Not a sound comes from inside.

  I hurry down the stairs, head outside, grab my bike, and head in the direction of Ornäs. Traffic noise roars above me as I bike through the viaduct under the highway.

  I keep biking. After a while I see the Ornäs kiosk and pizzeria. I wonder how many times I convinced Grandma to take me there for a pizza instead of eating real food. Like Mom wanted. I bike on past the railroad crossing. Fortunately, there’s no train, or I’d end up waiting here for several minutes. I cycle over the train tracks and turn left, roll down the hill toward the village where Grandma lives.

  The river is flowing at full force next to the brick mill. The sun breaks through the clouds, and fields spread out on either side of me. In the distance, Lake Ösjön glitters, and to my right the Ornäs House sits on the cape. Every time I pass by, I wonder if it’s true that King Gustav Vasa fled from the Danes through the latrine, or if it’s just a legend. It’s a good story anyway. And every year the tourists come here to drink super-expensive coffee and take selfies in front of the ramshackle old outhouse.

  The ride uphill is long and I have to stand on the pedals and push hard when I pass the tennis court at Haganäs. There’s a beach down there, but I’ve never been. Only employees at the steelworks have access to it, which is quite strange considering Sweden’s freedom to roam law. What would happen if you went swimming there anyway? Do guards check to make sure you’re entitled to be there?

  The big red house on the right side is an old village school. It’s been closed and abandoned for what seems like forever. After that it’s not far left to the village sign. Kyna. When I was young I thought it sounded so exotic. As if Grandma lived in China.

  I know every twist and turn of the road between Ornäs and Kyna, the curves between the fields, how the landscape changes with the seasons. This is my home, more than Barkargärdet ever was. When I’m homesick for Dalarna, this is what I’m longing for.

  If I kept riding straight a few hundred feet, I’d end up at the maypole. They leave it standing there most of the year, until just before midsummer, when it’s taken and covered with new leaves. I’ve celebrated midsummer here many times, picked buttercups, wild chervil, and clover out on the meadows and in the dikes. I’ve run around while Grandma worked with the others to get the pole ready, wrapping the flowers we picked around the rings and heart of the pole. She taught me how to make flower wreaths and put seven different wildflowers under my pillow at night. I’ve listened to the fiddlers fiddling in their folk costumes, bought raffle tickets and hoped I’d win. When the celebrations were over, our tradition was to walk home hand in hand and get a good night’s sleep, just Grandma and me.

  Just past the maypole, there’s a path down to the spot where I’ve gone swimming every summer of my life. Except this year.

  I consider going down there, just touching the water, but slow as I near Grandma’s place. I look over my shoulder and turn left onto the gravel road. I speed up on the downhill and see Grandma’s house on the other side of the railroad tracks. The smell at that railroad crossing is special. When the sun has been on it all summer, it smells like tarred crossties. I roll through the gate, throw the bike on the gravel path, and bounce up the stairs.

  Grandma doesn’t usually hear when I knock. The door is unlocked, so I go in. I find her in her armchair in front of the TV. She jumps when I shout hello, happy to see me. She gets up without help, waddles over to me, and gives me a warm hug.

  She brews some coffee and pours milk for me. She puts out some cinnamon buns and several kinds of cookies. I wonder how many times I’ve sat like this: huddled on a stool at the kitchen table, with a glass of milk and a pile of cookies in front of me.

  Grandma says it’s so cozy to finally have me home again. I ask how she is; she tells about her ailments and the volunteer work she’s doing with newly arrived refugee children. She wonders how I like Stockholm, and I tell her all I miss is her. We talk until it’s starting to get dark outside.

  “So how is Mom doing these days?” I say.

  “Why? Did something happen?”

  “Have you seen her house lately? She’s been acting strange. More than usual.”

  Grandma hesitates. “We haven’t talked much lately,” she says, wiping crumbs off the kitchen counter.

  “She’s very demanding, needs a lot of love all the time,” I say. “If she doesn’t get exactly what she expected, she has fits of rage. But when she’s happy, she’s very sweet and easy. I’ve never understood what makes her moods change. It just happens.”

  Grandma sits down at the table. She hesitates again, seems to be thinking how to formulate something.

  “We probably should have got her some help. We wondered if she had some kind of diagnosis. But when she met Hans, she seemed more stable; we thought she was better. And you were her world. You were often sick, and Kerstin was so good at taking care of you.”

  “No one told me this. It feels like I don’t know anything about my own mother.”

  Grandma looks at me. “Don’t judge her too harshly, Isabelle. She came to us as a foster child when she was twelve, you know. Then she moved away from home far too young. She didn’t want anything to do with us for several years. Then one day she came home again. With you. You’re the best thing that ever happened to her.”

  I try to smile. “What about her parents? I don’t know anything about them, either.”

  “Kerstin’s mother had very serious problems. She drank while she was pregnant, drank and took drugs when Kerstin was with her. She was brutally mean. I think she might have been a prostitute, but I’m not sure. We never knew the whole of it.”

  “What about her father? My grandfather?”

  “He wasn’t in the picture at all. Kerstin looked him up one time, I think. I don’t know what came of that meeting. She never wanted to talk about i
t.”

  “And my father, then? Do you know anything about him?”

  “All I know is that Kerstin was afraid of him.”

  “Why?”

  Grandma looks at me. She seems sad.

  “I don’t know, Isabelle. I don’t know anything about your biological father. Your mother refused to talk about him.”

  She asks if I want more cookies and holds out a jar. I feel nauseous and put a hand over my mouth.

  “Sweetie, how are you? You look so pale.”

  “Maybe I ate too many,” I say.

  “Do you want to lay down for a while?”

  “I have to go home and pack. I’m headed back to Stockholm early tomorrow.”

  Grandma smiles. “I’ll drive you. I won’t have you wheeling around on those roads at night.”

  When we stop outside the gate, she pats my arm. “I’m glad you’ve found your place in life. Have you met someone?” She winks at me.

  “Yes, actually,” I say, pushing a hand against my queasy stomach. “Fredrik is his name. He’s so cute. I have pictures, but I couldn’t find my phone before I left.”

  “Could you send me a picture later?” Grandma says. “I’ll see if I can get it open on my phone.”

  “You’re the best, Grandma,” I say, laughing.

  “My little sweetheart,” she says, stroking my cheek.

  Stella

  Voices. I recognize them. A woman and a man arguing in the hall.

  “Where is she? Surely she’s still here?”

  “Lower your voice.”

  “Why did she come here? Why didn’t you let me in yesterday?”

  “You were hungover. You were angry. That was the last thing Stella needed.”

  “Where is she?”

  “Calm down. Or you’ll have to leave.”

  “I am calm. But I was worried when she just disappeared. She was asleep when I got home.”

  “When did you get home? Early Saturday morning? And where were you? Who were you with?”

  “Who? I haven’t been anywhere with anyone.”

  “You’re just like Hampus’s dad. I can see you’re lying. It’s obvious.”

  “We had an office party, if you must know.”

  “Ah, an office party.”

  “Pernilla, I . . .”

  “What happened when you got home?”

  “Nothing. Stella was sleeping.”

  “Then why did she come here? There must have been something.”

  “Nothing happened, Pernilla.”

  “I found her on the street, frozen and confused. I heard someone screaming, looked out, and there she was. She’d fallen on the ground, and she was lying there sobbing. It was terrible. I dragged her up here and tucked her in on the sofa. She rambled on about Alice and Milo. And about you and Jennie.”

  “Jennie?”

  “Who is she, Henrik? And what the hell did you do?”

  He doesn’t answer.

  “How could you leave Stella alone and go out to party? With Jennie? You’re a fucking idiot. What the hell have you done?”

  “Nothing, Pernilla. I haven’t done anything at all. It was just an office party, for the staff. Can I talk to my wife now, please?”

  “Not until you’ve calmed down.”

  “I am calm. I’m super fucking calm.”

  “You’d never know.”

  “I’m worried about my wife, Pernilla.”

  Silence.

  “Okay, but not for long. Then you have to leave.”

  * * *

  • • •

  Henrik sits down next to me. He holds my hand and says he wants to help me. He just doesn’t know how. I look at him. He’s transparent. I see straight through him. He’s all thinned out, disappearing. I tell him so. He says he doesn’t know what to do. He kisses my forehead. Rises.

  He tells Pernilla that they should take me to the psychiatric emergency room. She tells him that she’s taking care of me. He’s no help in this situation. It’s better if he goes home. Yes, she’ll make sure I take my medicines.

  He bends over me. Is he crying? Or is that me? I watch as he walks out of the room.

  He’s no longer there.

  He’s gone.

  Stella

  Sandy eyes, dry throat.

  My head feels full of clay.

  Pernilla is lying on a mattress beside the sofa. I pick up her phone and look at the screen. Morning, Tuesday, October 20. I’ve been lying here for three days.

  I sit up in the sofa. See that I’m wearing a pair of leggings that aren’t mine and a sleeveless gray T-shirt. I rush to the bathroom. Pee, wipe. My reflection in the mirror above the sink scares me. I have dark rings under my eyes, and I’m deathly pale. My hair is a tangled mess; I put it up in a knot in the middle of my head. I rinse off my face and drink water from the faucet.

  I search for the cigarette pack Pernilla hides in a cookie jar in the kitchen. I take a glass of juice out onto the balcony and sit down on the small wooden bench. I light a cigarette and take a deep drag. The air is cold on my bare arms, but the sun warms my face.

  Even though my life has gone to hell, the world outside is still out there. Karlberg Palace still stands on the other side of the water. Joggers and parents with strollers walk by on the street below. I watch the smoke float away and scatter. I have no idea how I got here.

  Pernilla comes out.

  “It’s not exactly warm,” she says.

  “Well, at least it’s sunny,” I say.

  “How are you?”

  “I’m alive,” I answer and pull on the cardigan she’s offering me, take the cup of coffee. She sits down next to me, pulls a blanket over our knees, and takes the cigarette. She has a drag and hands it back.

  “I won’t nag you about taking your medicines.”

  “Good.”

  Pernilla puts a phone on the table.

  “Henrik wants to know when you wake up.”

  I look down. It’s my phone case, but the screen is whole.

  “Did he bring me a new phone?”

  At the moment, I feel so broken that even the smallest kindness makes me cry. Though I don’t want to, Henrik’s thoughtfulness makes my tears flow.

  “You scared us, Stella,” Pernilla says. “He came here on Saturday, crazy with worry. Hungover and angry. I drove him away, said you needed some peace and quiet. He came back on Sunday and sat with you. Do you remember?”

  “A bit.”

  “Do you remember how you got here?”

  “Not really.”

  “Shall I tell you?”

  “Please don’t.”

  “Okay, we don’t have to.”

  “Thank you.”

  “Henrik left you the phone and a bag of clean clothes.”

  I put out the cigarette. Pernilla puts an arm around my shoulders. We sit like that a long time.

  “What happened last Saturday?” she asks. “You told me about Alice. Said she was gone forever. Dead. Milo is gone forever. Henrik, too. And you were gonna kill someone named Jennie.”

  “Did I say that?”

  “Yes.”

  “That I was going to kill her?”

  “You hate her, you said. You were going to murder her.”

  “Did I say that?”

  “Yep. Bash her head in.”

  I laugh. “Sure, sure.”

  “Who is she?”

  I light a new cigarette. Then I explain what made me so suspicious and jealous. Admit that I was snooping around online. I tell her about jennie_89.

  Pernilla takes up her phone and searches for the images on Instagram. Looks closely at them.

  “Damn you, Henrik,” she says. “What a pig.”

  I laugh out loud. It sounds hoarse. Miserable.
/>   “Do you really think he’s cheating?” Pernilla asks. “With her?”

  “What do you think?”

  “You’ve barely had sex since last summer, you say. Then here comes this hot, blond thing.” Pernilla looks at the picture again. “She is a cutie. And obviously she’s into him. It can be hard to resist. He is a man, after all.”

  “Thanks, now I feel better.”

  “Middle-aged wife in crisis, a hot blonde who’s fifteen years her junior.”

  I look out over the water. “Not a hard choice,” I say.

  “Or maybe there’s an explanation,” Pernilla says. “He’s only ever had eyes for you. Do you really think he’s sleeping with her?”

  I light a third cigarette, feel Pernilla’s gaze. I hold up the cigarette, stare at it.

  “Smoking clearly offers some relief from anxiety,” I say. “Do you know how common it is to start smoking at the psych ward? We had a smoking room. In ward five. Or we’d go out onto a balcony with a high fence. It was like being in a chicken coop. There to protect us from the temptation to jump down four floors. I don’t know which Helena thought was worse. Seeing me drugged and anxious, or smoking a cig to calm my nerves.”

  “She cares about you, Stella.”

  “I haven’t made it easy for any of you lately.”

  “No, you haven’t.”

  “Henrik told you everything?”

  “You should have told me a long time ago.”

  I take one last drag, stub it out.

  “Sorry.”

  “And Alice. When you came here, you said she was dead. Do you still think that?”

  On a whim, I pick up my phone. Look through the pictures and find the screenshot I took. Pernilla takes the phone and looks.

  “What is this? Is this her?” Her expression changes. She zooms in and gasps. “She is a copy of Maria.” Pernilla looks at me. “What are you gonna do?” she asks. “What do you want to do? Do you know?”

  “Yes,” I answer. “I know what I want.”

  “Tell me.”