One of the older guards, a woman who looks like she should work at a preschool, peers in with bright eyes and a cheery smile.
“Your lawyer is here, Stella.”
“He’ll have to wait. I’m having my coffee.”
She stares at me, perplexed, without saying anything. At last I get up with a heavy sigh, fold my open-faced sandwich over on itself, and stuff it into my mouth before drinking the last slurp of coffee.
My feet drag as I walk between the guards to the room where Michael Blomberg is waiting.
“I have good news,” he says, shaking my hand. “The prosecutor has approved a visit from your parents.”
My insides seize.
“What do you mean, approved? Who applied for it?”
Blomberg smiles and pokes himself in the chest.
“Yours truly.”
“But…”
The snake of worry twists in my belly. Mom and Dad.
“Thanks, but no thanks,” I say.
Blomberg leans toward me, concerned. His face goes fuzzy and I feel dizzy.
“What do you mean?”
I take a deep breath and close my eyes.
“I can’t handle it,” I say, feeling the tears spring to my eyes. “I don’t want to see them.”
51
I knew Dad was ridiculously fond of Robin. I had heard him praise the man on more than one occasion.
It wouldn’t be too difficult to lure Robin into the woods. And once I did, he wouldn’t be able to resist me. Then the whole gang of guys would come sneaking up and catch us red-handed. It would be a major clusterfuck.
Dad would freak out, of course. I knew he was still around; his car was parked by the dining hall.
The first part of my plan worked. But once I got Robin in among the trees, hidden from the rest of the camp, I started to have second thoughts. Robin was looking at me in a totally new way when he lifted his arm to touch me. There was a tenderness to it, as if he truly had feelings for me.
“We can’t do this,” he whispered, touching me with sensitive fingertips.
He was right. I was about to ruin everything for him. He would be finished as a camp director; he’d probably never get a job in the Church of Sweden again. Or worse.
Dad was the one I wanted to punish. Not Robin.
“In a few years,” I said, slowly lifting his hand away. “In three years I’ll be eighteen.”
He smiled.
“Can you wait that long?” I asked.
We still had a few minutes before the guys would come sneaking through the trees. I looked at Robin’s longing lips. I wanted to kiss him so much. Just once. What would it matter?
“Your dad,” he said, turning his head. “Adam is your dad.”
“So what? Are you afraid of my dad?”
“Afraid?” He laughed. “Who could be afraid of Adam?”
“Then what’s the problem?”
“Nothing. It’s just, you’re so different.”
He took my hand and led me farther into the trees.
“Come with me.”
His teeth gleamed in the dim light.
There was something he wanted to show me. Something in his room in the counselors’ cabin. When I pointed out that it was strictly forbidden for us confirmands to be in the counselors’ area, he laughed.
“What they won’t know won’t hurt them.”
Ignorance is power.
“What about Dad?” I asked, looking around anxiously.
Robin didn’t hear me.
“Come on,” he said, unlocking the door.
There were four rooms in the counselors’ cabin. A cramped hallway with a mirror and four doors. It smelled like a summer cabin. Robin’s was the last room on the left.
He went to the window and pulled down the shade.
“Sit down,” he said, pointing at the bed.
It was messy, with his clothes and belongings strewn everywhere: on the floor, on the bed, on the small bedside table. Next to the bed stood Robin’s half-open suitcase, and as I sat I peered curiously down at underwear, deodorant, and undershirts.
“Be right back,” he said, vanishing into the hall again.
I sat on the bed and felt the beating of my heart. Soon I heard the flush of the toilet.
I’m not stupid. Sure, I was only fifteen, but obviously I knew what was happening. There wasn’t anything Robin wanted to show me. I could have stood up and run away, and the thought did occur to me, but I wanted to stay. I wanted to hold on to the thrill.
And by then there was no risk that the guys would catch us in the act and throw everything into chaos. The worst that could happen was if they started looking for us and …
I sent off a quick text.
Abort! I changed my mind.
And received a thumbs-up in response.
A second later, Robin opened the door. There was something new in his face, something resolute, determined. His upper lip twitched as he pulled me close. Our lips met, his tongue found its way into my mouth, and we kissed.
I enjoyed it.
He pressed himself against me and that turned me on. I wanted him to keep going.
After a while, he rolled me onto the bed. I lay on my back and he let his whole weight rest on me, covering my mouth with his lips and sticking his tongue way down my throat.
It didn’t feel good anymore. I couldn’t breathe.
I flailed beneath him like a fish. Tried to scream. Didn’t he notice he was hurting me?
I couldn’t breathe, but Robin just kept going. There was no longer anything tender or loving about it. His motions were forceful, a demonstration of power and strength. I was prey and he had brought me down.
At last I realized it was pointless to resist. All I could do was close my eyes and wait for the hurt to stop. Hope it would be quick.
Robin yanked my underwear down over my hips and spread my legs. It felt like something broke inside me.
I was caught in his hold. I couldn’t do anything.
Then suddenly everything was suspended.
I didn’t know if I was dead or alive.
Robin flew up and paced around.
“Someone’s out there,” he hissed, his pants around his knees.
I filled my lungs with oxygen, again and again. Finally, I could breathe.
“It’s Adam!”
Robin stared in terror at the window as he ran around looking for his shirt. He grabbed me by the arms and tried to pull me up off the bed.
“It’s your dad!”
I closed my eyes and breathed.
Dad.
Thank God.
Dad.
52
I miss Mom and Dad so freaking much, but I don’t know how I can ever look them in the eyes again. I miss Amina. I miss light.
This place will make you sick. My memories haunt me constantly and there’s nowhere to run.
In the middle of the night I wake up because I’m about to die. I’m drowning.
I toss and turn in the bed. I pound at the walls, try to yank the door open. I kick it until my toes are numb. My screams tear through my eardrums.
At last Jimmy the Guard opens the door. There are four of them, and they rush into the room and I don’t have time to think. They throw themselves at me and take me down.
Jimmy’s meaty hand presses my face to the floor. My screams are muffled by his nasty reptile skin.
My memories of the rape are sharp as knives; the images clear as glass. Part of me will always be there on that bed in the counselors’ cabin, gasping for breath.
They lock my hands behind my back and lift me up. I try to scream, but my mouth is clogged.
Four muscular men carry me out of my room. I fling my body around and they are forced to drop me in the corridor. I land on the floor with a crack and one of them hits me in the face. I don’t know if it’s on purpose.
It takes fifteen minutes for them to drag me to the elevator. Down in the observation cell, they receive help from a few more gu
ards to lift me up on the restraint bed. The straps tighten around my wrists and ankles. I lie on my back, crying and shaking. I’m back in the counselors’ cabin at confirmation camp. I’m drowning in Robin’s panting breath. The sweat and tears blend together. The inconceivable horror of another person taking control of my body. Another person forcing their way into the innermost parts of me and robbing me of the dignity and right to self-determination I had taken for granted.
Anyone who claims that she would never consider revenge, who firmly believes bloody, violent retaliation can never be justified, has never been subjected to rape. It’s even in the Bible: An eye for an eye, a tooth for a tooth. Before Jesus fucked everything up with that part about turning the other cheek.
53
Two days later, it’s new-girl Elsa’s turn to take me to the psychologist.
Elsa smells like vanilla. She seems to have a lot of questions in her head, but is far too professional or shy to say anything.
“Stella.”
Shirine gestures at me to have a seat.
Her small Bambi eyes are full of sympathy and trust. It’s hard to dislike Shirine as much as I’m trying to. She’s the kind of person anyone would have trouble not loving. I really want to hate people like that.
“How was your week?”
“Like an all-inclusive trip to the Canary Islands.”
She quashes a small smile. I look at the things on her desk and my eyes linger on a cute, flowery pencil case.
“I had one just like that in elementary school,” I say.
She puts the pencil case away.
“My daughter picked it out.”
Apparently it’s a sensitive subject.
“So what did you think of this?” she asks about The Catcher in the Rye.
“You said it wouldn’t be as depressing.”
“Was it? It’s been years since I read it. I just remember loving it.”
“Well, he ends up in the psych ward,” I say. “Sometimes I wonder if it’s possible to end up any other way in this sick world. Suicide or the psych ward, there doesn’t seem to be any other way out.”
“It doesn’t have to be that way,” Shirine says. “Life can be pretty simple too. You don’t have to make it so hard.”
I stare at her. Is she suggesting that I have only myself to blame? That Esther Greenwood and Holden Caulfield could have had an easier time and felt better if only they’d made different choices and hadn’t made everything so fucking complicated?
“I was thinking about something,” Shirine says. “What you said about how you’ve been to a bunch of psychologists before. What was it you didn’t like?”
I know she’s trying to coax me into sharing. This is just a way to get me to talk. And still I fall for it.
“You’re so sold on diagnoses. You want to force people into ready-made templates. I don’t believe in all that.”
“Know what?” Shirine says. “Me neither. I promise not to diagnose you.”
She sounds sincere.
“For a while I actually wanted to be a psychologist myself,” I say with a snort. “Stupid, huh?”
“Not at all.”
I lean back in the chair and cross my arms.
“Listen,” Shirine says. “Couldn’t you give me a chance? I like to say that everyone deserves a chance. I think it’s a pretty fair proposition.”
“Like you’re going to give me a chance?”
“Of course.” She smiles.
“Why did you become a psychologist?” I ask.
Shirine fiddles with the silvery button of her earring.
“My parents.”
“They wanted you to?”
“No, no, the opposite.” She looks down and runs her fingers through her hair. “They wanted me to become a doctor. My grandfather is a doctor, and so are both my parents. They believe that humans are biological beings first and foremost. They don’t think you can cure illnesses by talking about feelings and other abstract stuff like that.”
She still smiles, although her voice sounds dejected and her eyes are shiny.
“So that’s why you became a psychologist? To rebel?”
“Not really. I’m sure I would have become a doctor if it weren’t for my germaphobia.”
“Germaphobia?”
Shirine nods.
“I’ve undergone therapy.”
“Did it help?”
She gives a dubious smile.
“Maybe you should try drugs.”
Then she bursts into laughter.
“I’m really curious about you, Stella. I want to get to know you.”
“Because I’m a murderer?”
“I don’t know anything about that. You’re still awaiting trial.”
Shirine is polished in a sneaky way. Somehow she’s lured me into a conversation.
“Can I leave now?” I ask.
“Will you come back?”
I look at her in feigned surprise.
“Like I have a choice.”
54
I didn’t actually want to go out. It had been a long Friday at work, and the very thought of getting out of my sweatpants, fixing my hair, and putting on my face exhausted me.
“Come on,” said Amina, who had lined up shots on the desk. “For once I don’t have a match tomorrow.”
She wanted to go to Tegnérs, but said she was open to other ideas too.
“Know what you need?” she asked, handing me a shot glass brimming with surface tension. “To get laid.”
“Seriously? The only dudes I need right now are called Ben and Jerry.”
I balanced the glass in my hand, hesitating.
“Cheers,” said Amina, and we took the shots.
I did it to be a good friend. For Amina and the alcohol. After two ciders and several shots that were basically forced on me, my heart sped up and my body got warmer. I don’t usually drink that much. Amina started our “Party Like an Animal” playlist on Spotify and at last we sat on our bikes on our way to Tegnérs. It was early June and the nights were still chilly. I had to grip my skirt, which blew up around my legs.
Brimming with giggles and expectations, we stumbled into Tegnérs. The flashing lights made the dance floor overflow. Cascades of color were flung at us from every direction and the vibration of the bassline rumbled like cannon fire in our chests. Amina and I went all in. Purses on the floor and hands in the air.
A few guys from our old high school showed up and were shockingly entertaining. As I shot the shit with them, Amina disappeared over to the bar.
“Need a glass of water,” she said.
After quite some time, the guys had moved on and she still hadn’t come back.
I found her at the bar.
She was standing on tiptoe. She’s always wished she were a few inches taller. Her eyes sparkled, and between her lips she held a long straw that vanished into a toxically green drink. Next to her stood a guy in a paisley shirt, babbling as if he was afraid the oxygen was about to run out.
“So this is where you’re hiding?”
Amina jumped. The guy stopped midsentence and stared like I had just ruined his night. He was one of those classic hunks with thick, slicked-back hair and bright blue eyes. I realized that he was also old. At least ten years older than us.
“Who’s the grandpa?” I asked, dissecting him with my gaze.
Amina groaned, but Paisley Shirt chuckled, all laid-back.
“I’m not that old, am I?”
“It’s all relative. Al Pacino is like seventy-five. And Abraham lived to be one hundred and seventy-five, right?”
“Abraham?” Paisley Shirt asked as he waved the bartender over.
“From the Bible,” I said. “Like, the forefather of all religions.”
He ordered a drink across the bar before he looked at me.
“So you’re Christian?”
“Not at all. It’s called being well-informed.”
He laughed again. His teeth were a little too straight and white
to seem natural.
“I apologize for her,” said Amina. “She’s not used to drinking.”
“Blame the alcohol,” I said.
“She has her good sides too. If you look really hard, for a long time.”
“So how old are you?” I asked. “Because you are old.”
He struck a pose: put his hand on his side and stuck out his chest as he fired off another smile.
“What do you think?”
“Thirty-five,” I said.
He pretended to be offended.
“Twenty-nine?” Amina guessed.
“Nice. On the first try too,” he said, touching her arm casually. “You’ve won the drink of your choice.”
Amina turned to me.
“His name is Christopher.”
He put out his hand, and after a moment of feigned hesitation I took it.
“Chris,” he said with a wink. “You can call me Chris.”
* * *
I wanted to dance again, and Amina promised to join me soon. As if.
I reached my arms high up in the air and pumped them to the beat. It felt like there was helium in my chest. I had wings.
Time flew by with no sign of Amina. I was sweaty and aching when I finally tracked her down at a table, her gaze sunk deep into Chris.
“We’re drinking champagne,” he said, offering me a glass.
I tried to make eye contact with Amina. What was this? Was she interested in this guy? Amina’s not the flirty type. She would never go home with a guy she met at the bar. Last time she had a serious crush on someone was when we were in fifth grade. And this guy was ten years older than us. Almost thirty.
I filled my mouth with bubbles and got the feeling that there was something shady about this whole thing, that something was off.
“So what do you do?” I asked.
Chris flashed a big smile, as if he appreciated the question.
“A little of everything, actually. Business. Mostly real estate. I have a couple different firms.”
This mostly sounded suspicious to my ears.
“Amina told me she’s going to be a doctor,” said Chris. “So what are your plans?”
I tried to attract Amina’s attention, but she only had eyes for Chris.
A Nearly Normal Family Page 18