‘Could you please help me across?’
She throws an arm around Gabriella’s neck and together they seat her. It’s pretty exhausting. Frank must be strong to deal with this on a daily basis. Or do they have help at home?
‘Thank you, dear.’
Birgitta’s Swedish, unlike Frank’s, doesn’t appear to have been affected by years in the States.
‘Did you meet Frank here or in the US?’ Gabriella asks, bringing Birgitta a glass of water, which she sips slowly.
‘We met in Chicago, the Windy City. I had moved there to experience a new country. It was tough at first, coming into contact with the right people, but when it came down to marrying someone… I don’t know…’ She adjusts her legs with her hands. ‘I guess it was comforting to be with someone who understood my origins.’
‘I would miss my family,’ Gabriella says. Even though her parents drive her crazy, she can’t imagine being too far away from them.
‘It’s liberating,’ Birgitta says. ‘When no one knows you.’ She looks across at Gabriella’s minuscule kitchenette. ‘Do you mind if we put the coffee on?’
*
With a cup of newly brewed Zoégas in her hand, Birgitta asks Gabriella questions about her sculptures and many books, her family and if she has a special someone in her life. It would be an ordinary conversation if it weren’t for the timing, but, after the initial strangeness of the situation subsides, it’s actually quite lovely having a guest. Talking to Birgitta is almost like having a mother in the house, but not her own.
‘Do you have children?’ Gabriella asks.
Is that what this is about? Birgitta’s children have left the nest and Gabriella is meant to somehow fill that void, no matter what time it is?
‘I do,’ Birgitta says. ‘A girl and ... two boys.’
‘Do they live in Chicago?’
‘No,’ she says simply, offering no further details.
Gabriella nods. Birgitta isn’t particularly forthcoming, so what else can she ask?
‘Have you missed Sweden?’ she says. ‘Is that why you moved back?’
‘Maybe,’ Birgitta says, studying the hands in her lap. ‘We had a plan when we moved here but I’m not sure any more.’ She looks up and meets Gabriella’s gaze. ‘Perhaps it was rather that I wanted to get away. Our youngest son died last year and it’s put a strain on our marriage.’
‘I’m sorry,’ Gabriella says. ‘That’s awful.’
‘Thank you, dear,’ Birgitta says. ‘I think I hoped that the change of scenery would improve our situation. My husband doesn’t deal with my disability very well either.’
Her eyes are on the hands in her lap again, as if sharing such intimate details embarrasses her.
‘That sounds hard,’ Gabriella says, searching her brain for comforting phrases but coming up with none. Should she ask about the son and how he died or is that too personal?
‘Well, I’ve left all my friends behind in Chicago with no plans to return,’ Birgitta continues, her shoulders hunched. ‘They’ve all said they will visit but that’s bullshit, isn’t it? Half of them don’t even have passports.’
The word ‘bullshit’ jars with Birgitta’s stylish appearance but it also makes her more likeable.
‘You’re a brave woman,’ Gabriella says.
Birgitta frowns. ‘I don’t know about that. You know, I’ve only been in this wheelchair for a few months. Well, I’m sure you could work that out, couldn’t you? I still don’t really know how the buttons work.’ A bitter-sounding laugh. ‘I prefer the manual one. At least that one exercises my arms and keeps me active.’
Gabriella watches as Birgitta leans forward to put her empty coffee cup on the table. It must be difficult to be confined to a chair.
‘For what it’s worth, you seem to be coping well,’ Gabriella tries.
‘I’m sure you want to know how I ended up like this? Most people do.’
That has obviously crossed Gabriella’s mind. It could be many reasons though, a car accident topping her list.
‘I fell down the stairs,’ Birgitta says. ‘In our house in Winnetka. That’s a village in the northern suburbs of Chicago.’
‘Oh.’
That’s slightly more unexpected. Birgitta isn’t old and brittle. She’s probably in her late fifties, early sixties at the most.
‘We were in the middle of refurbishing the basement but the floor was still concrete.’
Gabriella stretches a hand out and rests it on Birgitta’s arm.
‘That sounds awful. I’m sorry. Do the doctors think this is…’ she wants to say ‘permanent’ but treads carefully ‘… reversible?’
Birgitta shakes her head. ‘No. I mean, Frank thinks it’s about willpower but he doesn’t understand that it’s… it’s not.’
‘That’s men for you.’ Gabriella smiles.
‘Yes, men can be a bit superfluous at times. You know, Gabriella…’ Birgitta says, looking at her across the table. ‘You’re a very attractive woman.’ She lowers her eyes. ‘Anyway,’ she says abruptly. ‘It’s late and I’ve taken up enough of your time.’
‘Oh, okay…’ Gabriella helps move Birgitta back to the wheelchair.
Once she’s outside, she travels down the road at a painstakingly slow pace. Gabriella is about to ask if she needs any help but her mind is still spinning from Birgitta’s words. What did she mean exactly? A few metres away, Birgitta suddenly turns around.
‘Let’s just keep these visits between us, please.’
Chapter 23
Frank
Birgitta’s singing voice reaches Frank through the doll-size rooms. A number of moving boxes still need to be unpacked but Frank navigates through the clutter, following Sinatra’s words. Birgitta’s eyes are closed, her legs stretched out on the white Cheshire sofa, the slender, fine-looking neck fragile and naked. He can only glimpse her made-up face beneath the fringe, but she seems to be smiling.
‘Yeah, yeah, yeah,’ she belts out as loud as she can.
He claps and she abruptly opens her eyes. The smile is gone.
‘Did you catch the bee?’ she asks.
‘Yes, it won’t bother you anymore.’
They’ve found the overgrown garden attracts many different types of insects and the open windows offer them the perfect opportunity to venture inside. Birgitta can’t exactly run away from them, and there is no air conditioning here, which means they need a draught to run through the brick house.
‘You don’t look happy,’ she says.
That’s because the guy he hired in Helsingborg hasn’t been in touch yet. He’s starting to worry he’s been scammed.
‘I feel frustrated,’ he admits, not stating what his real annoyance is. ‘It’s almost like we’ve moved to a new country, we’ve been away so long. All that paperwork they need us to sign. We can’t even get mobile phones until we’re fully registered as residents again.’
‘It’s the Swedish way.’ She shrugs.
‘I already miss the supermarkets and the pharmacies being open twenty-four hours.’ He sighs. ‘But that’s the way it is. Here we are.’
‘Och vi åker inte tillbaka. And we’re not going back,’ she says.
He’s not convinced yet, but he squeezes her hand. He loves it when she speaks Swedish. The heritage and language has always tied them together.
‘We should finish unpacking to settle in, then,’ he says.
He needs to establish order and walks across the creaking floor to open one of the boxes. It’s full of photo frames. He reluctantly places a photo of the children on the table. A broken family is not what he would have expected when he married Birgitta.
His own family was simpler. Growing up he would sit under the kitchen table, watching his mother bake or skin chickens; the sound of her clogs on the hardwood floor, slaps sweeping through the air.
‘Frank!’
While his mind has wandered, Birgitta has slipped onto the floor.
‘I need to go to the bathroom,’
she says, looking up at him.
‘You should have said. I would have brought the wheelchair.’
He lifts her up but it’s too late.
‘Oh,’ she says when she sees the wet spot.
Frank is tempted to drop her back onto the floor. This is not what he signed up for, but he unwillingly wipes it up. She doesn’t apologise as he changes her into a silk wrap-dress and he has to remind himself that Birgitta is the same woman he fell in love with. Despite the accident that’s left her legs immobile, she’s still his wife. Yet a strong sense of claustrophobia overwhelms him.
He puts her back on the sofa and escapes into his study, where he parks himself on the swivel chair. The two tiny square windows let in just enough light, casting a yellow glow over the dark, oversized furniture. Frank starts up his laptop and opens Outlook, clicking on Send/Receive All for the hundredth time today. Has the email he’s been waiting for finally arrived? He inches closer to the screen, and there it is: a sign of life.
The guy Frank hired has sent him a message with three attachments. He speedily opens them, desperate for a glimpse of Sofia. But the first photo is of a man, and so is the second and the third. The man carrying his envelope has blond hair and is wearing a grey hoodie, supermarket-style jeans and Velcro sandals. Who is he?
Frank goes back to the message and reads it.
This man carried the envelope back to an apartment on Drottninggatan. For more details, please transfer the remaining balance.
‘What are you looking at?’
Birgitta is outside the door, her wheels touching the high threshold, which he’s left intact. A man needs his cave.
‘Nothing,’ he says, closing the laptop. ‘Can I help you with anything?’
‘I’m bored.’
‘I was planning to go out,’ he says.
He will have to do the money transfer later, and he could use some fresh air anyway.
‘Oh, okay,’ she says. ‘I guess I’ll find something to read.’
He leans down to kiss her, as per his normal exit routine. Only she sticks her tongue out at him. He stands back, assessing her face. For some reason, he feels as if she did that on purpose.
‘Dry lips,’ she explains when she sees his expression.
‘Right… well, I’ll get your ChapStick.’
He dutifully fetches her lip balm and watches as the menthol burns her lips.
‘See you later,’ he says, giving her a peck on the cheek.
On his way out, he grabs a jacket. The June wind is strong and surprisingly cold. It hits his face as soon as he walks outside, bringing with it a smell of fresh manure. He will need to get used to this; the yellow colza and cream wheat fields stretching far into the distance, surrounding their property.
According to Birgitta, the city where they suspect Sofia has settled is one of the oldest in the Nordic region, stretching back to the Viking Age. He doesn’t really care about the history though. He’s in Helsingborg for one reason only and if Sofia isn’t here, he will travel elsewhere while Birgitta stays put. Over the years, he has learnt to choose his battles and, after what’s happened to Birgitta, he’s decided to let her win this one. She can stay. For him, the grief for his son works like fuel as he channels his heartache and anger into the search for his daughter. That’s the only way he can keep going.
Frank walks up and down the country lanes, taking in the new views, pondering who the man in the photos is. How is he linked to Kristin and, more importantly, Sofia? He walks and walks but achieves no clarity. Instead, he feels irritated and trapped. The remoteness of their location should invoke a sense of freedom, but it doesn’t. Not even their house offers any solace, with its crooked and awkward rooms and hallways. The only feature Frank likes is the basement. If you look closely at the cool, whitewashed walls you can spot sporadic bloodstains. Apparently the farmers huddled together there during the hunting season. Frank imagines them with their rifles, the manly sweat in the air mixed with whiskey breath, the bloodied rabbits and deer placed on the long wooden table the owner left behind. That type of history interests him. This is also where he will bring Sofia when he finds her.
Rain trickles down but he slows down his steps the closer he gets to home. It’s Birgitta. Her dependence on him is starting to feel like a noose around his neck. The handicap is restricting their lives, making it less adventurous. He wishes he could talk to her about the email he just received but, during their thirty years together, their lives have become increasingly separate. He no longer knows the best way to communicate with her. One minute she gets angry with him and the next she’s emotional and weeping. Only their sex life seems to have remained intact but even that is suffering now. They can still be intimate despite Birgitta’s damaged legs, but it’s missionary or nothing. He lights up. Maybe she will be up for a quickie? He could use it right now, but it will depend on her mood.
‘Birgitta?’ he calls into the house, the stone walls creating a faint echo.
‘In the kitchen.’
He’s not sure what to expect. She could easily shout at him for being gone too long, but he finds her peacefully reading a magazine at the table, her reading glasses parked on her nose. Maybe sex isn’t off the table.
‘Are you any closer to finding Sofia yet?’ she asks.
He pours himself a cup of coffee from the still-warm pot and sits down.
‘I’m not sure.’
‘You’re not sure?’
As much as he hates the edge in her voice, it also makes him grow hard.
‘No,’ he says testily. ‘I’m not sure. It’s work in progress.’
He no longer feels like sharing anything about the letter he’s sent or the man who’s watched the post box. They lock eyes, the stiffness between his legs hurting. He could easily lift her out of the chair and ram his cock into her; he can imagine her loving it, begging for more, but her eyes are cool and he finds that, ultimately, he’s no longer in the mood. The throbbing subsides.
‘I see,’ she says.
She purses her lips, her powers limited now that she can’t get up and leave the room. Instead she shuts him out with silence. He leans back in his chair, overcome with fatigue. It feels as if he’s been running a marathon, not just the last few months, but his whole life: their marriage, setting up and running a company, providing for a family that would ultimately be torn apart. He studies Birgitta; he doesn’t mind her being quiet, he does prefer it to arguing, but they do need to work together.
‘You need to trust me,’ he says.
‘Can you please help me to the bedroom?’ she says.
He doesn’t get up immediately but after a long enough wait, he grabs hold of the handles and pushes the chair out of the narrow kitchen, through the living room with its low-hanging beams, and into the all-white bedroom.
‘Stop,’ she says.
She takes hold of the wheels and spins around, facing him.
‘In this room,’ she says, ‘steps no one but you and me.’
‘What are you saying?’ His heart is pounding. A volcano is threatening to erupt in his chest but he suppresses it. ‘I understand that it hasn’t been the same since your accident,’ he says. ‘But I still want you.’
‘Accident?’ she says.
‘You know what I mean.’
He leans down and takes hold of her hand.
‘We will find her,’ he says.
‘I want you to leave her alone, Frank.’
He stands up. ‘Leave her alone?’ What is she saying? Birgitta is the one waking up every morning with the tragic reminder of what her daughter did to her. ‘We came here for a reason, Birgitta. Wasn’t it your idea in the first place?’ He stands up and starts to walk around the room, unable to stand still. ‘Also, don’t you want to know why? Why she would really kill Anders? We need to get to the bottom of it because I can’t stop thinking about it. What went through her head? What could possibly have awoken such rage in her? Anders was so innocent, so—’
‘But what i
f we find her?’ she interrupts him. ‘Then what? With her presence in the house, we will never forget what we’ve lost.’
She points to two frames that she’s hung on the wall, low enough for her line of vision. The one on the right is of Anders, carefree and smiling.
‘That’s the way I want to remember him,’ she says.
Frank’s jaw tightens as he turns his attention to the other frame. It’s a faded photo with frayed edges showing his sister, Ulla. He stuck it in a frame years ago to preserve it. She’s squinting, the sun bouncing off her wavy auburn hair, the freckles much more visible than he ever remembered them.
‘Why is that there?’ he asks, his chest heavy.
It’s so unlike the last image he has of her, the one that’s permanently etched in his mind: hollow eyes and streaky hair, her gaunt figure making her way towards him, begging for money.
‘Maybe we need to leave all of it behind,’ she says.
He leaves her then and, once again, retreats into his study. Before he loses it. If Birgitta wants to change her mind, that’s her prerogative but he can’t stop what he’s started. They have a responsibility and that is to capture Sofia and make everything right.
Frank logs into his bank account and arranges the money transfer. He needs as many details as possible about the man who collected the letter, and that includes his exact address. While he waits for a response, the printer whirs into action as Frank prints the photos. He wants to study each one more closely.
Birgitta can’t control him. She’s always done whatever the hell pleases her. It’s his turn now and he will use whatever means necessary to pump this man for information.
Chapter 24
With an X permanently etched into my skin, I stopped responding to messages from my boyfriend. How would I explain the tattoo on my ankle? I could possibly say it had been a drunken mistake but what about the rest? I’d had no choice but to drop out of school. I found I could no longer keep up with my studies, either because I was too tired or too hung over, every evening spent at a party or with X and his friends. My life had simply changed and I had to accept that. It’s only temporary, I kept telling myself. I would find a way out.
What Did I Do? Page 12