She lies quietly in bed, studying this other half of her. His name is Niklas. They’ve only been going out for five months but have already moved in together. She was planning to spend her newly acquired money on an apartment anyway, but she told Niklas that US citizens couldn’t buy property in Sweden. She has no idea if that’s true, but he agreed to sign the paperwork. That way, she could remain anonymous.
Niklas has arranged separate legal papers should it all go pear-shaped but she’s not too worried. He’s different from most men she has ever known, especially her late husband. For starters, he’s a modest school janitor as opposed to a gun-crazed redneck. He also has blond, unruly hair, which makes him resemble a young boy, not a burly man. Lying in bed, she strokes his bushy eyebrows and lets her fingers travel to the shallow fans surrounding his eyes, followed by the soft cheeks, so much smoother than Brandon’s pockmarked skin.
‘You shouldn’t mourn what has been,’ her aunt used to say. ‘One should look forward, always forward.’
Kristin isn’t sure whether they’re words of wisdom or just a way of coping. Thinking about the day ahead, she feels slightly agitated. It’s Saturday, the day when she and Niklas routinely have intercourse and then go to his parents’ for lunch.
Live in the moment.
That’s really a better motto. Think of here and now. And right now she’s lying next to Niklas, sensing the togetherness. She falls back onto her pillow. He can sleep a bit longer; there’s no rush to get the day started.
Until he wakes up, she will allow herself a brief glance in the ‘rear-view mirror’. She won’t obsess about the past; just pay it a quick visit. That way, she will eventually work out exactly what she did. There has been no one to talk to, no one she can trust. Her only real friend, Ursula, lives in Los Angeles where she’s pursuing a movie production career. Brandon’s family, who seemed to like her once, turned their backs the moment the autopsy revealed how he died.
‘You did all the cooking,’ his mother screamed down the phone, ‘and you knew he was allergic to nuts!’
‘I didn’t keep nuts at home,’ Kristin defended herself.
But Brandon’s life insurance made everyone suspicious, including the police. Before she knew it, there was an investigation. She provided a statement and gave consent for the trailer to be searched (which had not been an easy decision to make) and apart from the fact that she had no idea how to use the EpiPen, she thought they would be satisfied.
Her own mother was never in touch. Not once. It’s okay though, she thinks. Her new life is good. Even when Niklas starts to stir and awkwardly searches for her under the duvet, his lips pressed against hers and his hands wandering over her thin body. At times, she dislikes this weekend bravado though. What if she doesn’t want to? But an acute fear of what might happen if she turns him down makes her comply. Men have needs. She’s witnessed that first hand.
‘What is it?’ Niklas says, looking concerned.
She must try harder.
‘Nothing,’ she says, attempting to smile.
She closes her eyes and tries to enjoy herself, feeling terrible when she doesn’t succeed. Instead she concentrates on love, on Niklas’s gentle nature, on serenity. That makes it easier.
Afterwards, Niklas is pressed up against her body, exhausted and sticky. His breath is stale. She pushes her perfumed wrist up against her nose, telling herself how wonderful her life is. Niklas is a keeper, but when he begins to kiss her again, rotating a stiff tongue in her mouth, rubbing himself against her thigh, she can’t take it.
‘Niklas, stop! I have to pee.’
She pulls away, staggers into the bathroom where she goes to the toilet, dries herself frantically, washes her hands, steps into the shower, scrubs, dries, brushes her teeth… All the time, she avoids her own reflection in the mirror, choosing instead to focus on everything she likes about this bathroom: the old-fashioned white sink, the chrome tap, the jasmine-scented soap and her perfumes. She needs to spray on more Coco Mademoiselle. That will make her feel better.
Niklas doesn’t comment on how long she’s been gone. He lovingly pulls her back into bed with a kiss on her forehead.
‘Shouldn’t we get up?’ she tries. ‘We might be late otherwise.’
‘Okay, but Kristin, at my parents’ house today… please try to eat.’
The indirect criticism hurts, but only for a second.
‘I will,’ she promises.
Because she will try. It’s getting easier, eating in front of other people.
No, it isn’t.
Yes, it is.
‘It’s embarrassing,’ Niklas says, looking uncomfortable. ‘I don’t know what to tell my parents. My mum gets offended.’
‘I understand. I do.’
In a relationship one has to compromise. She saw that on Oprah or some other daytime TV Show. Niklas’s family is important to him; she must show him that she cares about them too.
‘I love you though,’ he says, making her insides tingle.
He smiles and she mirrors him.
‘I love you too,’ she says, a line from Long Walk to Freedom coming to mind: people learn to hate, they can be taught to love. She should re-watch that movie; Mandela displayed such resilience. It’s possible to come out the other end if you only believe that you can. Having said that, if it weren’t for the insurance money, she would be stuck in another time. That thought weighs heavily on her.
‘You’re right,’ Niklas says, pulling his cover off. ‘We should get up.’
She watches his narrow frame as he climbs out of bed, before untangling herself from the sheets to make her side of the bed. Niklas very Swedishly insists they have two separate duvets, which is nice. She can tuck herself in at night without a body glued to hers.
They eat breakfast at the small table in the kitchen, the sun making everything appear brighter than it is: the sky crystal blue and the grass overly lush and green. Soon, though, the sky will be grey and heavy with rain. At least according to the papers.
Niklas smiles and places a hand on hers across the table as he turns the pages. She arranged the newspaper subscription since he thought it was too expensive. But it was worth it, seeing how happy it makes him. She shares everything she owns with Niklas. He doesn’t earn much although he does bring home leftover food from the school canteen. Not that she can eat it, of course – God knows how much bacteria circulates at a school – but it’s the thought that counts. He cares about her.
*
While Niklas showers she clears the table and wipes it down, enjoying the smell of cleaning products mixed with newly applied wallpaper, freshly installed white goods and assembled furniture. She feels as if she’s put a blank negative in the camera that is her life. All she needs to do now is find a job to blend into society.
Feeling pleased, Kristin sits down to read the rest of the newspaper, pulling on the gloves that protect her hands from ink stains. Niklas brought them home from work, which is another reason to love him. She flips through the pages and, although she normally avoids global news, a US article draws her in. But she tears her eyes away; it feels wrong, like an old pattern repeating itself. Her life is here, in this Swedish bubble of IKEA furniture, ABBA music and Ingmar Bergman movies (Fanny and Alexander being her absolute favourite). Now she has to shower again; lather every part of her body two, even three times, wash away the feeling of failure. She also wants to prepare for the upcoming bacterial attack in Niklas’s parents’ home. That’s impossible of course but worth a try. Niklas says nothing, but she knows what he’s thinking. It’s a waste of water.
She hurriedly gets dressed, they mustn’t miss the bus, but as they’re about to leave, the home phone rings.
‘Hello,’ Niklas says into the receiver. ‘Hello?’
He hangs up.
‘No one there,’ he says, shrugging. ‘Someone must have dialled the wrong number.’
No one there? Wrong number? She tenses.
‘The caller ID,’ she says, gettin
g an idea. She’s made sure they installed one. ‘What does it say?’
Niklas bends down and presses a button.
‘Unknown number,’ he says.
No, that can’t be. An invisible snare forms around her throat.
‘There’s nothing strange about that,’ he says when he sees her face. ‘Sales people often use a hidden number and I think the labour office does too. Oh, and the police.’
‘The police?’
The snare tightens.
‘Kristin, these sales people are ruthless. They will call at any time of the day to catch you out. But most likely, someone simply dialled the wrong number, or it was a prank call.’
Could that really be it? A stupid, wrong number.
Chapter 4
I was seventeen and in love. My boyfriend was two years older and we were filled with optimism about our future. Every week, we exchanged cards to celebrate our anniversary.
‘Six weeks today,’ he said and kissed me.
‘Six weeks,’ I echoed.
We had met at Navy Pier on a Friday night. It wasn’t the sort of place where he normally hung out but I liked it. It always felt lively and festive. He convinced me to join him on the Ferris wheel and that was that. We connected. There was an instant chemistry between us as we laughed our way around, chatting rather than taking in the view. Although he was clearly well off, he seemed more grounded than his friends and he listened when I spoke as if I had something important to say. It pulled me in.
Our backgrounds and our upbringings were vastly different but I told myself that this was an asset, not an issue. We would learn from each other and create our own unique identity. It didn’t matter that he was from a wealthy family, living on the north side of Chicago, while I had grown up with a single mother. I would tell my boyfriend how proud I was of her for bringing me up single-handedly but the reality was she only ever cared about the men in her life. I always had to fend for myself but didn’t want to come across as a victim, someone he needed to pity. Love overcame everything anyway. Didn’t it?
‘Boys like him don’t fall in love with girls like you,’ my mother told me.
I had managed to avoid the two of them meeting and hadn’t even planned to tell her he existed. But after he’d given me a designer watch for my birthday, my mother insinuated that I must have stolen it, forcing me to tell her. It upset me though: how could she not know I wasn’t a thief?
Despite my mother’s misgivings, I believed in us. I ignored anyone who didn’t support us, including his friends, who I overheard calling me a ‘gold digger’, or even my own friends, who told me he would never get serious with ‘someone like me’. We would show them all how wrong they were.
I kept telling myself that but, truth be told, it was only when it was the two of us together that I was able to kick all doubt to the side. That was when I felt most secure, his eyes locked to mine, his arms pulling me close, his warm tongue in my mouth. I felt invincible in those moments.
He was the first boy I’d slept with; the first one I had felt was good enough to take my virginity. After such a significant move, it felt like a novelty to learn about his body as well as my own, and I loved our experimentation in bed. During those hours I came alive and felt truly special.
My boyfriend was often busy however, so my mind had to work hard to maintain the image of togetherness to avoid losing faith. If he wasn’t studying, he was training for a marathon or some other race, active that he was, or he was socialising. He led a hectic life that I wasn’t used to. For the most part, I managed to fit in, but not always.
‘How about we stay in tonight?’ I asked one night, too exhausted to make an effort with his friends.
As much as I enjoyed being seen holding hands with him at social functions, it was also hard work. It meant I had to be someone I wasn’t.
‘Again?’ he said.
His soft, curly brown hair fell into his eyes and I brushed it aside and kissed him.
‘I like spending time with you alone,’ I said.
‘I get cabin fever with all this studying. How about the movies?’
‘Sure,’ I said. ‘Later…’
I pushed him onto the bed, hoping he would forget about the movies.
‘You’re naughty,’ he said, breaking into a grin.
I did try to be adventurous in bed, especially since he seemed to enjoy that side of me. It also encouraged him to call me when his parents were sleeping. I wasn’t allowed to stay over, but I would sometimes sneak in and then back out again during the night. We would giggle non-stop and the euphoria I felt was hard to describe. I really loved him.
Unfortunately, our schedules often clashed. Apart from studying, I also had to work to help my mum out and make sure I could stay at school. He respected me waitressing and never asked me to quit, but he clearly didn’t like it.
‘You flirt with your customers,’ he complained, trying to sound as if he was joking but I could tell it bothered him.
‘I’m being friendly,’ I told him. ‘It helps with tips.’
‘If you need money, I can help you.’
‘I don’t want your parents’ money,’ I said, but I immediately regretted my words. They made me sound ungrateful and disrespectful.
Understandably, he looked hurt. ‘I’ll make my own,’ he said. ‘As soon as I finish university, I will work hard to make all your dreams come true.’
I wanted to believe this, but at the back of my mind I recognised that many men had shared similar sentiments with my mother, only to let her down. Although the last one, a spindly accountant named Elliott, had stuck around for a while so maybe there was hope?
Still, I needed to make my own way to ensure I remained self-sufficient. Even though I was certain that my boyfriend was telling the truth – he really was planning to work hard to make my dreams come true – it didn’t hurt to have a backup.
My future parents-in-law seemed okay although I was yet to formally meet them. I had only seen them in passing since they didn’t include boyfriends and girlfriends at family dinners. Apparently they were strict, but he assured me they would love me. Still, he kept me at an arm’s length from both his parents and siblings, who I had never even met.
‘Until we get married, let’s not involve them,’ he’d say.
Married? He was already thinking about that? It was sheer bliss to hear.
This fancy life would really be my future. When my boyfriend and I were apart I made elaborate plans, which involved a wedding, a grand home and children. Overall, our love for each other was too strong to fail. I decided to focus on the positives and couldn’t wait to prove to my mother that my relationship was indeed a success story.
‘See,’ I would tell her, ‘he’s not too good for me.’
Chapter 5
Frank
November 2016
Nothing could possibly prepare you for losing a child. The world was no longer in colour; everything was black and white, but mostly grey. Frank felt exhausted but instead of being allowed to grieve, questions were asked about Anders’s life. Could he have died as a result of foul play? The thought disturbed Frank. Why would anyone want to harm his son?
‘Couldn’t it have been a late-night swim gone wrong?’ Frank asked the police officer who visited their house. Drowning incidents were usually accidents.
‘Maybe,’ the officer said. ‘Did he have any friends over in the last week?’
‘Not that we know of,’ Birgitta said. ‘But we would be happy to hand over any security footage that we have. Although we’ve had issues with the cameras so I’m not sure they will paint a complete picture.’
The video surveillance was a good idea as they had both had separate engagements most weekday evenings, and had spent the weekend away together.
‘Could you provide me with a list of Anders’s friends?’ the officer asked.
‘They were mainly from his school,’ Frank said, feeling embarrassed that they no longer kept track of who their son was spendin
g his time with.
‘He rarely brought anyone to the house,’ Birgitta added.
‘Why not?’ the officer asked. ‘I mean, you have the space and the facilities to keep a team of teenagers happy, I would have thought? Swimming pool, your own beach, a basketball and tennis court?’
Frank detected envy in the officer’s voice. He clearly didn’t understand that money couldn’t buy everything, including his children’s unconditional love.
‘Anders didn’t want to show off,’ Birgitta said and Frank was grateful for her response even though it wasn’t completely true.
His wife was wearing a powder-pink Chanel suit, sleek heels and matching pearl jewellery that he had bought for her in Hawaii. Her blonde, shoulder-length hair had been washed, blow-dried and sprayed, the make-up painstakingly applied with immaculate precision. She was a stereotypical picture of perfection and Frank knew why: she was trying to appear as if her life was still in order. That everything was under control.
Should the surface crack, Frank pushed a box of tissues her way, and put a comforting hand on her knee. It would only be a matter of time before she started crying.
‘Did he have a girlfriend?’ the officer asked.
‘Not any more,’ Frank said. ‘At least, not that we know of.’
He smoothed out a crease in his jeans. Contrary to his wife, he had opted for a casual look. People too often assumed that rich people had a sense of entitlement and he wanted to squash that belief. He was a grieving father. That was all that should matter.
Notes were made. Frank and Birgitta answered as accurately as they possibly could, admitting that Anders had been a wild child and a rebel, but not someone who regularly got into trouble.
Sitting opposite the police officer in their now eerily empty home, Frank tried hard to keep his emotions in check. It was difficult enough that Anders was dead, but killed? He wouldn’t accept that.
Still, they would answer the officer’s questions and had agreed beforehand to show the police their son’s room in case it could lead to answers.
What Did I Do? Page 2