Tell Me You're Mine

by Elisabeth Norebäck

  More cars go by on the main road. No one sees me, no one notices my frail attempts to wave my arms. I scream for help, but my voice is too weak. I wipe away the sweat running down my face with my sleeve. I look down and see that I have no shoes on. The grass where I stand is wet, my purple socks are soaked.

  I look to the right, then to the left. We could be anywhere in Sweden. Red and white flags with the name of the gas station chain. A playground to the right, the highway to the left, and on the other side of that are fields and meadows. A few houses and a barn just past them, and then forest. I turn around and see a sign with bright green letters across a red extension. I peer, trying to see. Ringarum Restaurant, it says.

  I have to find someone who can help me. Before Mom comes out and sees me. I go back to the bus. A fat man in a driver’s uniform is lighting a cigarette. I ask if he can help me. He looks at me and wrinkles his forehead. He calls me a junkie and tells me to get lost.

  “I need help,” I say and go closer. “Please, can I hide on the bus?”

  The man shoves me and leaves. I sink down onto the asphalt. My thigh spasms with pain. My head is pounding from when Mom threw me against the wall. I try to get up but my body is completely exhausted.

  “Hi there,” says a voice. A young man with long hair and a beard squats down next to me. “Are you okay? Did he hurt you?” He puts his hand on my shoulder.

  “Help me.”

  “Are you alone?” He stands, looks around, and glances at the gas station.

  I grab his hand and pull him down toward me. I whisper: “Have to get out of here.”

  He helps me up. “My car is over there,” he says, pointing toward a silver Volvo.

  I link my arm with his as fast as I can; he puts his other arm around my shoulders as support. It’s way too far to the car. Mom can’t see me.

  He opens the door and I climb into the backseat. A girl with a buzz cut and Asian features is sitting in the front seat; she turns around and looks at me.

  “What happened to you? You look like you got beat up.”

  “She needs to go to a hospital,” the man says. “She’s been beaten.”

  “Do you want us to take you to the hospital?” the woman says.

  I shake my head. They start to discuss it with each other. I beg them to start driving.

  “We’re going to Västervik,” he says. “Do you want to come with us?”

  I nod.

  Finally, he starts the car and drives toward the exit.

  I close my eyes and lean my head against the window.

  Stella

  Hällsjö Home is a large brick building with a green roof and three rounded annexes in the same color. I go through two sets of doors to enter. Once inside there’s a glass case with some crafts displayed, probably made during art therapy. Pot holders, wooden butter knives, a wall hanging with text embroidered on it.

  One long corridor extends down the entire length of the first floor. Gaby’s Hair Salon is located to the right, next to a place where you can get pedicures. A café and a pharmacy are located on the left. Straight ahead I see the elevators and beyond that a meeting room with tables and chairs in light wood. Outside the large windows there’s a valley and a subdivision of small houses.

  According to the bulletin board next to the elevator, the nursing home wards are on floors two, three, and four. I step in and ride up to the fourth floor. As I leave the elevator, a woman in white pants and blue scrubs comes running toward me. She hurries past and doesn’t seem to notice me.

  I take the corridor to the right and wonder why I’m even here. Kerstin surely wouldn’t have brought Alice here.

  “Can I help you?” A sturdy woman with a Finnish accent steps out of a storage room.

  “I’m looking for an acquaintance of mine who works here,” I say.

  “Who’s that?”

  “Kerstin Karlsson.”

  The woman’s expression darkens.

  “Kerstin?” she says. “She doesn’t work here anymore.”

  The nametag on her scrubs says Ritva. She shuffles back into the storage room. I follow and stand in the doorway.

  Ritva is unpacking disinfectant from a box and says, “She missed several shifts and didn’t even notify us. And even when she was here she was getting complaints.”

  “Complaints?”

  “She’s always been a bit off, but lately she’s been mean to the old people. Rough and angry. And medicines have gone missing.” Ritva straightens up and looks at me. “Are you a friend of Kerstin’s?”

  “Isabelle’s.”

  “Kerstin’s daughter?” Ritva says. “She used to come here sometimes when she was little. Very cute and sweet girl.”

  “I haven’t been able to reach her for several days,” I say. “Thought I’d ask if Kerstin knows where she is.”

  Ritva closes the storage room door and walks down the corridor. “It’s been a long time since I saw Isabelle. She lives in Stockholm now. She was always a good kid.” She stops outside the staff room. “Hope you get ahold of her.”

  “I hope so, too,” I say, staring at a framed picture on the wall. A tree with photographs stuck at the end of each of its branches.

  “That’s the staff here,” Ritva says, pointing. “Here’s me. And here’s Kerstin.”

  She taps her finger on a photo at the top right. The pictures are bleached and faded; Ritva and Kerstin have been working here a long time.

  “Sad to see a person change like that.” Ritva leaves me and goes into the staff room.

  I study the photo again. Her face is round, eyes small. Her hair is thin and appears dyed. Underneath the photo is taped a handwritten label. Kerstin Karlsson.

  I’ve met her before.

  But she was using another name.

  Isabelle

  We’re getting closer to Västervik. I feel free. With every mile we put behind us, my worries feel lighter.

  I stare out the passenger window through half-closed eyes. Behind the tops of trees, the white-gray clouds look like they’re just about to break open and release the sun. A haze hangs over the fields. We pass by farm after farm. Horses and cows grazing. Forests that go on for miles.

  Hanne and Ola are discussing which grocery store to go to. They seem to bicker quite a bit. But they also laugh often and touch each other. I miss Fredrik so damn much.

  “Could I borrow a phone?” I ask.

  Hanne turns around and hands me her phone. After a few rings, he answers.

  “Fredrik, it’s me.”

  “Isabelle? Where are you? I called you like a million times. Do you know you’ve been reported missing?”

  “Mom went insane,” I say.

  “Oh my God,” he says. “How are you? Are you hurt?”

  “I’m okay,” I say. “I got help. I’m on my way to Västervik now. But I don’t know how to get home.”

  “I’ll help you,” he says without hesitation. “I’ll borrow my mom’s car and pick you up. Can I reach you at this number?”

  “For a while,” I answer.

  “I’ll call back in ten minutes.”

  “Okay.”

  We hang up. I dry my tears and hand the phone back to Hanne.

  “Who were you talking to?” she says.

  “A friend. He’s driving down from Stockholm to pick me up. Can I stay with you until he comes?”

  “Of course,” Ola replies. “Right, Hanne?”

  “Absolutely,” she says. “We won’t let you go until we know you’re safe.”

  She smiles at me and I smile, too. I realize how lucky I am to have run into Hanne and Ola. Without them I never would have been able to escape. I have no idea what Mom had planned for me. But I have a feeling that trip would have ended badly.

  After a while, Hanne says she needs to pee. Ola asks why she didn’t do i
t at Ringarum.

  “Because I didn’t have to back then,” she says.

  “We can’t stop here,” he says.

  “Yes, we can.”

  “No, we can’t.”

  “Yeeeees.”

  “Nooooo.”

  “Stop at the Hjorten Inn.”

  “I hate that place. Mom and Dad always stopped there for coffee when I was a kid.”

  “Stop being silly, Ola.”

  “You can’t just go in and pee. You have to buy something.”

  “Buy an ice cream at the kiosk.”

  “It’s not summer now, Hanne.”

  “A coffee then.” She turns to me. “Do you want coffee, Isabelle?”

  “Yes, please,” I answer.

  “There, you hear that?” she says, giving Ola a teasing pat on the back of his head.

  “Ooowoo,” he bursts out and pretends it hurts. Both laugh loudly, and I laugh, too.

  We drive with a lake on our right and pass by a sign: Hjorten Inn. After five hundred feet Ola turns off, and I see a low red building that overlooks the water. He doesn’t even have time to park properly before Hanne opens the door, jumps out, and runs toward the restaurant.

  Ola rolls his eyes at me in the rearview mirror. He adjusts the wheel and looks over his shoulder, about to start backing up. Suddenly there’s a violent bang, and the car is pushed aside. The seatbelt snaps into my chest, and I see Ola’s hair fly back and forward again in slow motion as his head is thrown against the wheel.

  Then silence.

  Quick steps over the asphalt. A shadow outside the window. At first I can’t see who it is. And by the time I understand it’s already too late.

  I fumble with my belt while the door is opened. Mom grabs hold of my hair and pulls. I scream and stumble out of the car.

  Ola throws himself out of the front seat and stands in her way. He’s holding his head and grimacing in pain.

  “What the hell are you doing?” he screams at her.

  Mom shoves him aside and pulls me toward her car. I summon every ounce of strength I have to struggle against her.

  “Stop it, goddamn it!” Ola roars and grabs Mom’s arm. She turns around with her arm in a wide bow and strikes him.

  A fountain of blood sprays out of his throat. Ola stares at her in surprise and sinks down next to the car door. His shirt is quickly soaked in blood. I feel it splash on my face, see my own shirt becoming stained. Only now do I see Mom is holding a screwdriver. She throws it away from her and drags me to the car.

  A long shriek pierces the air, and I wonder if it’s coming from me, until I see Hanne running toward us.

  She throws herself down on her knees next to Ola, presses her hands to his throat, trying to stop the bleeding.

  My eyes burn, and I can feel tears flow down my cheeks.

  Mom pulls my hair and hisses that I should know better.

  Mom’s hands are hard and indifferent, they pull and push and shove and hit. “Get in the car.”

  I ask her why she’s doing this, what does she want from me.

  Mom looks at me coldly. She tells me she’s my mother. I’m her child. She’d do anything to protect me. She’d kill for me, if that’s what it takes.

  She’s holding a black flashlight. She lifts it over her head, and I raise my arms to stop the blow.

  Kerstin

  A silver Volvo SUV pulled over near the exit. A long-haired, bearded man behind the wheel next to a girl or boy, impossible to tell which, with a buzz cut.

  But you, Isabelle, were sitting in the backseat.

  I waved and shouted at the driver not to go. I screamed at him to stop: My daughter is in his car. He didn’t hear, didn’t see. He was pretending, of course. There was no way he couldn’t see me.

  He took my child. Stole her from me.

  Why?

  Stupid question. I already know.

  And the idea of what he planned to do to her makes me ice cold with rage.

  He doesn’t know who I am. What I’m capable of. He doesn’t know I will follow him to the ends of the earth to get my daughter back.

  Why, Isabelle? Why? You deliberately deceived me, pretended to be asleep and then ran away and tried to escape. I should have known; I should have been more vigilant.

  * * *

  • • •

  But don’t be afraid. I’m here.

  It hurts now. But there’s a reason for this, too.

  Pain makes you strong. It won’t be long, this will be over soon. Afterward I’ll comfort you, take care of you, just like I always do. I’ll wash the blood from your forehead, I’ll wipe away your tears. We can do some baking, if you like? How about some chocolate muffins?

  You’re sleeping now. That’s good.

  You’ll soon be well again. When I make you well.

  And then we’ll start over again. We always do. Because this isn’t like you. This isn’t you. It’s the weakness in you. I will always be here to guide you onto the right path. I hope you know that. I think you know how important you are to me.

  I wanted you for so long before you came, you should know that. You are life’s gift to me.

  Why can’t you just love me? All I want is for us to love each other. For you to let me take care of you. When you’ve hurt yourself, I’ve comforted you. When you’ve injured yourself, I’ve bandaged your wounds. When you’ve been sick, I’ve tended to you.

  I’ve received a lot of praise for my care. Everyone has seen what a self-sacrificing mother I am. There’s nothing better than when I’m taking care of you. When you let me hold you, comfort you. Please, don’t look so scared. My funny little kid, it’s for your own good.

  It’s a beautiful day, the sun is shining for us. Soon we’ll be there. Soon we’ll be back.

  Soon we’ll be home.

  Stella

  I stare at the photo of the smiling woman.

  I’ve met her, we talked to each other. We drank coffee together at Coffeehouse by George.

  The photo I’m looking at is of Eva.

  She was warm and sympathetic and she made me open up about everything. I told her about Alice, how I’d found her. That I was sure Isabelle was my daughter, my missing child. Eva encouraged me to keep searching for the truth, even though everyone thought I was crazy. I told her I went to Vällingby and to KTH hoping to see Alice. I told her about Henrik, and that I hadn’t told him anything. I revealed that he once took me to the psychiatric emergency room, and that I wasn’t sure he would believe me.

  I shared my life with her, I completely opened up. I told her about my fears of becoming a mother again. About my sorrow at not having more children. And I told her about Milo. My fear that something would happen to him, that he, too, would be taken from me.

  Eva listened. Eva understood. Eva comforted me and gave me good advice. Eva liked my red umbrella.

  I’m just about to leave the nursing home when I remember the photograph in my pocket. I stop and take it out. A younger Kerstin with a baby in her arms. Kerstin and Isabelle, Copenhagen, February 1994. The baby has curly blond hair. She’s laughing but she has no dimples. It’s not Alice. It’s another child.

  And if it’s not her, who is it?

  I go to the parking lot outside the entrance. I sit down in my car, lean back in my seat, and begin again from the beginning.

  That rainy September day when Isabelle first entered my clinic. She shook her long black hair and smiled at me. I knew at that moment she was Alice.

  My diary. All those memories.

  Daniel and our story.

  The mistake I made in not being honest with Henrik from the beginning. The fear of not being believed, the fear of being wrong. The fear of being committed again.

  Eva fooled me into telling her everything. Kerstin fooled me.

  Kerstin tracked
down Henrik and used what I’d confided in her against me. Her calls about Milo made me go to his school and make a scene. Which made Henrik take me to Dr. Savic.

  Eva’s duplicity, Kerstin’s lies.

  She ran over Milo believing he was me.

  My visit to Sven Nilsson. The tip he talked about. He was going to tell us everything. He died suddenly. Before he could say more.

  Strandgården closed shortly after we stayed there. Elle-Marja talked about a daughter who didn’t want to run things after Lundin died.

  He died suddenly.

  Kerstin must have been at Strandgården in August 1994, but I have no recollection of seeing her. What was she doing there? She wasn’t staying in any of the cottages, of that I’m sure. We talked to the other guests, we pushed the stroller around, or walked on the beach.

  Roger Lundin died unexpectedly.

  He was going to tell everything.

  Did he know something? And if so what?

  He had a daughter. She moved here for a bit that year and then she disappeared again. She had a baby . . . this place was too much to take care of on her own.

  The photograph I found. Kerstin and Isabelle, Copenhagen, February 1994.

  And I hear Alice’s voice: I was born in Denmark.

  I take out my phone, google for Elle-Marja’s number. I make the call.

  “Hello?”

  I recognize the voice, nasal and thin.

  “Hi, Elle-Marja, my name is Stella Widstrand. We met at Strandgården a few weeks ago.”

  I wait. Hear a dog barking in the background.

  “Yes, hello?” Elle-Marja says.

  I try again, say my name and remind her that we’ve met before.

  “Yes, yes, I remember you,” Elle-Marja says. “I remember you very well. Quiet, Buster, I’m on the phone.”

  “I need your help,” I say. “I need to know something about Roger Lundin of Strandgården, about his daughter.”

  “Yes?”

  “You told me he died in 1994.”

  “He died at home on his sofa, God bless his soul,” Elle-Marja says. “His daughter was the one who found him. She called an ambulance, but he was dead by the time they arrived.”