“I want to take a long, hot bath.”
* * *
• • •
I go into the bathroom, fill the tub with hot water. Put my hand in; it’s scalding hot. I take off my clothes. I open the window, let in autumn air that makes my naked skin turn to gooseflesh. I take out all the medicines Henrik picked up for me. I throw them in the trash under the sink.
I climb into the steamy water. The heat stings my skin; I hold my breath. I put my hands on either edge of the bathtub, close my eyes, and sink down. I breathe in short, panting breaths.
I lean back, stare up at the ceiling, and inhale the cold streaming in through the open window. All my thoughts scatter into that steam. All my questions. All my guilt and shame. My foolish choices, my desperate attempts. All my failures and all my lies.
Everything fades and drains away.
The water is ice cold by the time I get out of the bathtub. I look in the mirror. The woman I see there looks at me curiously.
I know her, know her well. I know her better than anyone else. I know everything about that woman. She has no secrets, can’t hide anything from me.
And I’m tired of her.
Tired of her delusions. Tired of all the problems she creates for herself, her limitations, the consequences of what she does, I’m tired of all of it. She knows that. And I look at her, and she understands.
I hold my hands in front of me. Steady, strong. They’re not shaking anymore. I close the window, wrap a towel around my chest. I brush my hair out with long, powerful strokes. Open the medicine cabinet, find the scissors. I pull my index finger along the edge and manage to cut myself. A drop of blood drips out of the wound.
The scissors are sharp. They’re perfect.
Kerstin
I’ve taken care of her for days. And now she’s gotten sick. Good thing she wasn’t sitting on a train to Stockholm when it hit her. She’ll have to stay home until she’s well again.
I’ve been cleaning. Dusting, vacuuming, polishing, putting everything in its place. I even watered the flowers. Isabelle helped a bit.
The house is coming back to life again. There’s no other way to describe it. I’ve come back to life. Despite all my misfortunes and my grief after Hans. Despite the fact that I’ve lain sleepless with worry lately.
It’s me and Isabelle. It always has been. And it’s good for her to slow down for a while. She’s been encouraged to search for “the truth.” If only she knew who her real father was, why he wasn’t in her life, then that would solve things. How can she believe that? She doesn’t know what she’s talking about. But I do. Isabelle has no idea how vicious the truth is. If she were ever told, she’d regret asking. She wouldn’t want to meet the man she calls her real father. And it’s just as well that it will never happen.
How could it help her to dissect my life, my choices, my decisions? The truth is never as liberating as you think. On the contrary. The truth hurts. The truth demolishes and destroys. The truth wounds.
Anyone can bring a child into this world. Raising them, giving them character and strength, loving them, that’s something else.
Hans was not Isabelle’s biological father. But he was more father to her than her real father could ever be. I made a mistake with him. A mistake I had to correct. Rummaging around in the past makes no sense. It won’t fix anything.
Isabelle and Hans were very close. I am grateful for that. He was a good father to her. She should be content with that. I just wish she appreciated me a little more. That she showed more love, like when she was little. We love each other. She loves me, I know that. But I’d like to see her show it. I’d like to feel it. We are flesh and blood after all.
Those eyes. The jibes. The questions. The suspicions.
She didn’t used to be like this. And those days together in Stockholm were different. Now her questions wash over me in torrents. Suddenly there’s an awful lot she just has to know. I answer them as best I can, but still she’s not satisfied. She’s changed. She’s been poisoned. The lies that were planted inside her, those lies have set this in motion.
I could spend my time fretting over the choices I’ve made. I choose not to. It is what it is. Should Isabelle have known earlier that Hans adopted her? I’m far from sure.
I try to be patient. It’s difficult. Life is no bed of roses. Kids these days are spoiled, they’ve got it so good. But their opinions are inflexible, obvious, and not based on experience. They pretend to be tolerant and open-minded, but as soon as somebody disagrees with them, then you’re the hater. They feel insulted, embattled. Kids these days blame everything on their parents, and they want to judge and sentence them.
Grow up, I say. Stop whining. You don’t know anything about real suffering.
My own mother was worthless. An evil person, a drunk. I’ve done pretty well anyway. I would never have gone to a therapist crying about how mean she was. I would never openly question her choices. You don’t do that. It’s wrong. Allowing some stranger to root around inside you. Letting a stranger give you all the answers. Of course that’s wrong. It’s unnatural.
But I swallow my vexation. That’s what you do when you’re a mother.
I know Isabelle thinks I’m being silly when I comment on her clothing. But it’s shocking to see how different she is from the girl who left home.
If it were just a question of fashion, I might have understood. Maybe. But she’s been angry, critical, unpleasant, totally unlike herself. Like she wants to act in another way. As if she wants to be someone else.
I’m just waiting for a tattoo or piercing to show up next. But even there I try to hold my tongue. Instead of arguing, I serve her tea and tuck her in. She’ll be well soon. She’ll be herself again.
She’ll come back to me. Everything will work out in the end. Of course she misses Stockholm, but I live in the present. I’m trying to teach her to do the same.
Rest.
Drink your tea.
Keep your feet warm.
The rest will take care of itself.
Everything will be good again. I’ll make sure of that.
It will be just like it was before.
Stella
A long curly lock of hair falls to the floor.
One by one they fall.
When I’m done, I contemplate the results in the mirror.
Then I put on the clothes Henrik brought for me. Black stretch jeans, a white tank top, and a gray hoodie.
The kitchen smells delicious. Pasta, garlic, shrimp, fresh cheese, tomatoes, spices. My stomach grumbles, I’m hungry.
Pernilla sees me. She stops in her tracks with her mouth wide open.
“Stella, what have you done?”
“Made a change,” I say, popping a shrimp into my mouth.
Pernilla touches my hair.
“You haven’t had it this short for years. Not since junior high,” she says. “Do you remember your school pictures?”
“All too well.”
She laughs. “Daring or foolish, I don’t know which. But this time it looks good. You look different.”
“I feel different.”
After we’ve eaten, I grab my bag. Take out my MacBook Air and my calendar, a reminder that I once had a job. I browse through it. It’s been forever since I used it every day. Made appointments, notes, had a life. A paper lies folded inside it. I take it out and unfold it. My death notice. I have no idea who the man in the raincoat is or why he wants me dead, but I refuse to be afraid anymore.
“Don’t forget to call Henrik,” Pernilla says. “If you don’t call him, I’ll have to. I promised we’d call.”
I put the laptop, my calendar, and the death threat into the bag. Then I call the clinic and talk to Renate. She tells me Henrik has already been in contact with them, and they know I’m on sick leave. The conversation is short.
I ca
ll Henrik, who picks up on the second ring.
“Hello,” I say.
“Hello,” he says.
It’s loud wherever he’s at. Soon the sound is muted, he’s gone into his office.
“How are you?” I ask.
“Well, you know,” he replies. “How are you?”
“I’m good. And Milo?”
“He’s been asking for you.”
“What have you told him?”
“That you’ve been under a lot of stress lately. That you’re at Pernilla’s resting up.”
“I miss him.”
“What happens now?”
“I’m coming home.”
A long silence.
“I know what you’re thinking,” I say. “But I feel much better now. And I want to talk to Milo about Alice.”
“Why?”
“What do you mean?”
“I’m just thinking about what’s best for him.”
“He’s my son, too, Henrik,” I say. “And Alice is his sister. Milo is entitled to an explanation.”
“What are you going to say?”
“That I believe she’s alive.”
“Do you have to? It’ll be one more burden to bear for him.”
“Whether I’m right or not, it’s the reason that all this happened.”
Henrik clears his throat. Says that we shouldn’t discuss this over the phone. Milo is going to Jonathan’s tonight. He’ll pick me up around five-thirty so we can talk before Milo gets home.
I say no to the ride. “I’ll go directly home instead.”
“After Milo has left.”
“Yes,” I say. “After Milo has left.”
We finish the call. It gives me time. Time to take control.
Time to get answers.
Stella
I turn onto Paternostervägen in the suburb of Hammarbyhöjden. I park on the other side of the street, opposite the apartment building. I grab my bag, climb out of the car, and look up toward the apartment where Lina Niemi lives.
The building is a dull gray. Three floors, small balconies with white rails except for the farthest ones to each side, which for some reason are painted green. Small satellite dishes, forgotten flower boxes, lowered blinds. I’m taking a big risk just by coming here.
I look around before crossing the road. A man is exiting through the door I want to enter. I run the last bit, grab the door before it closes. Go up to the second floor.
Börje Niemi opens the door.
His eyes narrow when he sees who it is.
He yells, “Get away from here” and tries to close the door. His wife, Agneta, comes out in the hall.
“Who is it?” she wonders.
I put my foot in and push the door open. I pass by Börje and go into the hall. Both of them look terrified.
“Is Lina home?” I ask. “We need to talk.”
Neither answers. They stare at each other, stare at me. A door opens and Lina comes out. She leans against the doorframe, chomping on gum, trying to look cocky. She looks more like a lost and sulky child.
“Hello, Lina,” I say. I go inside and sit down at the kitchen table. I gesture to her parents to sit down, too. They do so, albeit reluctantly.
“I apologize for this,” I say. “But there are some things I need to figure out.”
Agneta avoids my eyes. Lina chomps on gum disinterestedly. Börje crosses his arms over his chest.
I take the calendar out of my bag, pull out the death notice, and put it in front of Lina.
“Is this from you?” I ask.
She reads it. She looks up at me with fear in her eyes. Not so confident anymore.
“What is it?” Börje asks and grabs the paper.
“My death notice,” I answer. “It was put into my mailbox a few weeks ago. I thought Lina might have been at my house again.”
She starts. Her eyes dart back and forth between her parents.
“We saw you outside our house this spring,” I continue. “On a few occasions.”
“What the hell . . .” Börje starts. I raise a hand to stop him.
“It should not come as a surprise,” I say. “I’ve already told you as much. But you didn’t want to listen.”
“It wasn’t me this time,” Lina says.
“I’m not angry,” I say. “I just want the truth.” I pause, looking at Lina again. She looks down at the table. I lean forward, look her in the eye.
“I know about the blog,” I continue, “and I know your parents reported me. And they also talked to a woman and told her your story. That woman reported me to the police for unlawful threats and harassment. These are serious things you started, Lina.”
“I didn’t write that,” she says, nodding to the paper.
“No?”
“I never wanted you dead. Never. I just wanted to be part of your family.”
“So you went to my husband’s job?” I ask. “You followed us when we were out?”
“Yes,” she says quietly.
Börje swears, Agneta gasps.
“Why did you want to be a part of our family?”
“Because you seemed so happy. Because you were always so understanding. And kind. And your husband also seemed kind.”
“Do you still think I behaved inappropriately? That I made you dependent on me?”
Lina looks through the window. She shakes her head slowly.
“I got angry,” she says. “And scared. I didn’t want another therapist.”
“There’s been someone standing outside my house again. The last time was two weeks ago. Was it you, Börje?” I say and look at him.
His face turns red. He glares at me but says nothing.
“Did you write the death notice? You’ve made no secret of what you think of me.”
“No,” he answers. “I would never.”
I don’t even ask Agneta. She’s too timid to do something like that. I look at them, one at a time. Then I apologize for disturbing them. I stand and walk toward the door. Lina catches up with me in the hall.
“Stella, wait.” She pulls down on her T-shirt, stares at the floor. “Forgive me.”
“I already have, Lina,” I say.
“I’ll cancel the complaint. It was wrong. I never should have done it. I felt really shitty about it.”
“I hope everything works out for you,” I say as friendly I can, and I mean it.
I exit the apartment building and stand on the sidewalk outside the front door for a while. Lina didn’t write the death notice, neither did her parents. Her dad wasn’t standing outside in a raincoat, and I’m sure they’re not lying. The man hiding his face under that hood could be anyone.
* * *
• • •
The sun and heat of the morning have been replaced by lead-gray clouds. It’s dark, and thunder hangs heavy in the air. The rain pours down as I drive across Traneberg Bridge.
I pull into our driveway and park behind Henrik’s Range Rover. I throw open the car door and run into the house. When I get inside, I see Henrik standing in the kitchen. He has his back to me.
“Hello,” I say. “Has Milo left?”
Henrik looks at his wristwatch.
“Yes, he took off maybe thirty-five, forty minutes ago.”
“Took off?”
“He’s walking to Jonathan’s. He usually does.”
“I didn’t mean it like that. I was just thinking about the weather; it’s raining cats and dogs.”
“I told him to wear a raincoat and take an umbrella.”
Henrik is loading the dishwasher, then he turns around. He stares at me. “What did you do to your hair?”
“What do you think?”
“It’s unexpected.”
He’s cautious. I understand that. After my b
reakdown he has every right to be careful. I put the phone on the bureau in the hall, take off my coat.
“You feel better?” he says.
“I do.”
My phone rings. I pick it up again, look at the display.
“Unknown number,” I say and answer.
Once again a call from an unknown person. Once again it’s about Milo.
Isabelle
It’s been a long time since I’ve felt this sick. I booked a ticket and was finally about to head home again. Home to Stockholm. How long have I been here? What’s wrong with me?
I hover between sleep and wakefulness. I think I might have been unconscious for a while. Mom fusses around me. She gives me tea to drink. Speaks encouragingly to me.
I don’t want any more tea. I don’t even want to be here. Mom doesn’t listen. She tucks me in and tells me to rest. Don’t fight it. You won’t get better faster by fighting it.
A few days ago, I felt more alert. Then I got worse. Today I feel better again, but my body is weak. I can sit up on the side of my bed for a minute or two, but no longer. It’s absurd.
I feel so alone. But I have friends waiting for me in Stockholm. People in my life who care about me. It makes me happy. I wonder what Mom has told Johanna. I asked her to call and tell her I’m here, that I’m sick. And Fredrik must be wondering why he hasn’t heard from me. My phone is gone, don’t know where I put it. I’m not strong enough to search for it, and Mom can’t find it anywhere. She’s turned the house upside down looking for it, and she says I’m careless. I’m sure I didn’t lose it. It’s too important. But I’m too tired to argue with her.
The flowery sofa next to my corner window. Dad bought it for me secondhand, even though Mom freaked out and thought it was ugly. I’ve sat there so many times, looking out and dreaming.
I crawl over the floor, drag myself onto the couch, panting from exertion. I want to enjoy the daylight before it disappears.
I see Gunilla on the other side of the hedge. I try to lift my hand and wave. Can’t. I look down toward the front side of the property. Remember how I used to play there when I was little. The mailbox. Just looking at it upsets me. I don’t know why, but memories and emotions from my childhood are coming back to me. Images float to the surface and then disappear again.
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