A Nearly Normal Family

by M. T. Edvardsson

  “I used to want to be a psychologist,” I said. “But I don’t think I could deal. People have so fucking many problems.”

  Chris laughed again. I’ve always had issues with people who seem perfect. Seems like there must be some serious fault behind all that fantastic exterior.

  “Maybe I’ll get a law degree,” I said. “My mom’s an attorney, but I guess I’d rather be a judge. I like being in charge.”

  “My mom is a lawyer too,” Chris said. “A professor these days.”

  “Exciting,” I responded.

  It sounded more sarcastic than I had been aiming for.

  “Not at all,” he said, laughing. “Jurisprudence is just a bunch of quibbling and splitting hairs.”

  “I don’t believe that.”

  “You’ll see.”

  “Nah,” I said, stretching. “I’ll probably just say fuck law school and go to Asia instead. For years I’ve been dreaming of taking a long trip to Cambodia, Laos, and Vietnam.”

  “She’s totally obsessed with that trip,” said Amina. “Ask her a question or two and she’ll talk about it until your ears bleed.”

  “Wonderful. I like traveling,” said Chris.

  There was hardly a corner of the map he hadn’t discovered. He’d been everywhere in Asia except Mongolia. He’d lived in New York, Los Angeles, London, and Paris. But Lund was his childhood, and his home. For some reason he always returned.

  I wondered what kind of business he was actually involved in. He looked and acted like someone who didn’t need to worry about money, and that made me both curious and skeptical.

  “Still, it must be nice to have a law professor in the family when you’re dealing with companies and business and stuff, right?”

  Chris seemed to consider this.

  “I have actually been able to use Mom’s help a lot recently. But not business-wise. She doesn’t interfere with that.”

  “So what happened?”

  For the first time he stopped talking and looked down at the table.

  “It’s none of our business,” Amina said primly.

  “It’s okay,” said Chris. “I was subjected to … a lot of shit. But it’s a long story.”

  “This place doesn’t close until three,” I said.

  He looked at me. His smile was different now, his lips brushed with softness.

  “I had a stalker,” he said.

  “A stalker?”

  “Seriously?”

  Amina raised her eyebrows.

  “Yeah, a real sicko,” said Chris.

  55

  Chris didn’t like to dance, so when Amina and I returned to the neon sea of the dance floor, he remained at the table with his champagne and his smile.

  “Be honest, Amina,” I shouted on the dance floor. “Are you horny for him?”

  “Quit it! What do you think?”

  We held each other’s hands and spun around. The bass vibrated pleasantly through my body.

  “He’s not ugly,” I said.

  “I’ve seen worse.”

  I laughed and twerked.

  I’m not quite sure about what happened after that. I don’t usually drink much. In time I’ve come to realize that I don’t need alcohol, I get my kicks in other ways. Drinking mostly just makes me all hyped and annoying, and sick as a dog the next day.

  Anyway, some guy dragged me off. We danced closer and closer, and soon his mouth was against my neck, his bulge against my ass. We’d met before, sometime last spring. The sex had been fine, but I didn’t remember his name, what he did, what we had talked about.

  “I have to find my friend,” I said after a while.

  “What the hell?”

  He looked like I had just given him a fatal diagnosis.

  I crowded my way across the dance floor, hunting for Amina. It was almost two thirty. Was she sitting with that Chris guy again, waiting for a slow dance? I staggered between tables, walked past the bar, but couldn’t find her anywhere. When I took out my phone to text her, I saw I already had a message.

  Sorry!!! I went home puked in the bathroom couldnt find you

  I wrote back that it was cool, I understood, I was also heading home. I received a green puking emoji in return.

  After downing a large glass of water at the bar, I wobbled my way to the sidewalk. The night was filled with birdsong, it smelled like liquor, sweaty perfume, and pollen. The sky was studded with stars.

  “Taxi?” asked a male voice behind me.

  I ignored him. I never take gypsy cabs.

  “We can share one,” he said, and I turned around.

  It was Chris.

  “Only if you want to, I mean. It’ll be cheaper.”

  He smiled in that intimate, humble way again. The glow of a streetlight was reflected in his pale eyes.

  “I don’t know where you’re going,” I said, realizing I was having trouble standing upright.

  Did I really want to take a cab with him?

  “Pilegatan,” he said. “Right by Polhem.”

  Well, we were going in the same direction.

  Chris walked over to the nearest taxi and waved at me to follow. How dangerous could it be? We would only have to ride, like, five minutes together.

  We slid into the backseat through opposite doors and I pressed my knees together.

  The car took off with a jolt and my stomach turned. My mouth was dry as dust and I tried to ignore my dizziness.

  “Are you okay?” Chris asked.

  I tried to look at him, but everything was spinny and flickery.

  “Do you feel okay?” he asked again, putting a hand on my arm.

  “Like a princess,” I said, hiding a burp with my hand. “It must be the Chinese food I ate. Fucking duck.”

  “Oh, bad duck. Been there, done that. Not my favorite memory.”

  I gazed out the window. Fumbled with my phone and texted Amina.

  Taking a taxi with Grandpa Chris!

  She didn’t respond. What if she was mad?

  No hard feelings, right? I wrote.

  This time the answer appeared quickly.

  Ha ha you can have grandpa to yourself no worries

  Happy smiley face with sunglasses.

  “Do you come here often?” Chris asked.

  That repulsive perfect smile again.

  “To Tegnérs? Well, there’s not many options when you’re too young.”

  “Or too old,” he said.

  That was actually funny. I appreciated his self-awareness.

  The taxi braked suddenly and my stomach gave another worrying lurch. A thick clump stuck in my throat.

  “Everything okay?” Chris asked.

  I took a deep breath and muttered something about how he’d managed to choose the worst taxi driver in town, what were the chances?

  “Have you tried Tinder?” I asked. “Happy Pancake? Those are full of people your age.”

  “Happy what now?”

  “There’s this new thing. The internet. A worldwide digital zone. Mostly for us young folks, maybe.”

  He chuckled, but soon a more serious expression passed over his face.

  “I’ve had some bad experiences.”

  “With the internet?”

  “With girls.”

  I laughed a bit, but Chris’s smile seemed forced and sad. The taxi took a left and braked. More gently this time. Maybe the driver had heard my dig. My stomach was seriously upset, though, and I was afraid I might throw up at any moment.

  “This is me,” Chris said, and only then did I realize that the car had stopped. “I’ll pay for the whole trip, so just tell the driver where to let you off.”

  He leaned between the front seats to swipe his American Express.

  My phone buzzed. Another text from Amina.

  Youve got your pepper spray right?? You never know!

  What did she think? I began a response, but the puke was rising up and my cheeks filled with saliva and I couldn’t wait any longer. I opened the door and staggered out.


  With my eyes on the asphalt, I stumbled over to a bush, tossed my purse on the ground, and threw up.

  It took a long time. I gagged and coughed and more came out. Until it was just bile. How had I gotten so drunk? I hadn’t had all that much to drink.

  This was why I hated drinking.

  Surely no one had put anything in my drink, right?

  When I was sure I was done, I tried to fix myself up a little using a wet wipe from my purse. Then I turned around, shame-faced, only to discover that the taxi was gone. Farther down the sidewalk was Chris, something hard in his gaze.

  “Come on,” he said. “You can come up and freshen up a bit.”

  I thought of Amina’s text and felt for the pepper spray in my bag. Rummaging and rooting. What the fuck? I shoved half my arm in. Nothing. I always have that little bottle with me. Always.

  But it wasn’t there.

  56

  Chris lived one floor up in a yellow building pretty close to Polhem School. The door said C. Olsen.

  What was I doing there? Drunk and dizzy and totally wrecked after puking out half my stomach.

  As I bent down in the hallway to pull my shoes off, I nearly fell onto my head. Chris caught me and held me up, his hands on my hips.

  “Lie down on the sofa for a minute,” he said, guiding me gently into the living room.

  I collapsed onto the sofa and lay there like a beached whale, staring up at the fancy plasterwork on the high ceiling. Meanwhile, Chris was clattering around in the kitchen. My eyelids were heavy and I was halfway into a fog.

  “Are you asleep?” Chris asked.

  He set a large glass of water on the coffee table.

  “Drink this.”

  My eyes swam as I sat up. I took big gulps of the water.

  Chris watched me expectantly.

  When I put the glass back down, it struck me how ridiculously naïve I was. I knew full well that there were rape drugs you couldn’t taste. Why was I being so careless? But, okay, we were in his house and at the moment I was northern Europe’s least sexy pick-up. So there probably wasn’t anything to worry about.

  “That thing you said. About girls,” I said. “What did you mean?”

  “What did I say about girls?”

  “You said you had some bad experiences.”

  “Oh, that.”

  He sucked at his lower lip and looked like he regretted mentioning it.

  “It’s fine,” I said. “We don’t have to talk about it.”

  Chris leaned back on the sofa and rested his hands in his lap.

  “You know that stalker I mentioned?”

  “Oh, right, the stalker.”

  The memory gradually returned.

  “It wasn’t just some random. It was my ex.”

  “Your ex?”

  He nodded and scratched his chin.

  “She couldn’t deal with things ending between us. I didn’t handle it well, I’ll admit that. I met someone else and fell for her. Not a pretty story, but you can’t help what your heart wants, can you?”

  “Did you cheat on her?”

  “Depends on how you look at it. Nothing happened between us, not physically, I mean, not even a kiss. But I cheated emotionally and I’m not proud of it.”

  I understood. I hate cheaters, but no one can control their feelings.

  “Obviously I realized I would hurt Linda, which I suppose is why I kept putting it off. But I never would have dreamed that she’d flip out this much.”

  “What did she do?”

  He scratched his chin even more. No doubt this was hard to talk about. I drank my water and felt a little more alert.

  “Linda has a long history of being mentally unwell,” said Chris.

  “What do you mean?”

  I’ve never understood that concept. You seldom hear people talking about being “physically unwell.”

  “I knew she was unstable. She’d had periods of depression before, and eating disorders and stuff like that, back when she was a teenager. She’s a sensitive soul.”

  That just seemed silly. Whose soul isn’t sensitive to being abandoned by the person you love?

  “When I told her what was going on, she lost it. Violent outbursts, throwing things, and threatening me. Even though this is my apartment—I’d had it for three years when Linda entered the picture—she refused to move out. I had to stay with my mom for several weeks and threaten to bring in the police and stuff, before she finally gave in.”

  “That was when you got your mom to help?”

  “Well, one of the times. It gets worse. Linda started harassing my new girlfriend. She sent messages, several hundred a day. Then she showed up outside my girlfriend’s work, and followed her.”

  “That sounds just sick.”

  Like something out of a movie.

  “I kept thinking that it would be possible to talk to her. We were together for three years, after all. My girlfriend wanted to file a police report, but I convinced her not to. Since I knew Linda.”

  “What a bizarre story. I understand why you’re on guard now, when it comes to girls.”

  Chris nodded.

  “But that’s not all. Linda went to the police and reported me. She made up a whole bunch of awful accusations. I can hardly stand to think about it. She claimed I abused and raped her. It was absurd.”

  “Shit,” I blurted.

  “I had to sit through interrogations and listen to a ton of morbid things she claimed I had done. It was the worst thing that’s ever happened to me. For a while I thought it was going to work. It seemed like the investigators believed her. I was about to be put away for terrible things, to be marked as a domestic abuser and rapist. My life was about to be ruined.”

  “Shit.”

  That’s all I could manage to say. Chris looked shaken, as if it was all coming back to him, and I was ashamed that I’d been thinking about rape drugs. Really, though, I hadn’t done anything wrong. Life has taught me to consider every man a potential rapist. Better safe than sorry. I had no reason to feel ashamed, but when I saw Chris’s fear I couldn’t help it.

  “After a while things ended with my new girlfriend too. She said she supported me, sure, but I knew she had doubts. Maybe it’s wrong to blame her; how could she know for sure? But I can’t be with someone who even entertains the thought that I could hurt her.”

  His pale blue eyes gleamed and thoughts whizzed through my brain like fleeing birds.

  “So that’s why I’m single, and a little bit afraid of girls,” Chris said, his smile edged with sadness. “It’s probably going to take some time before I can trust anyone again.”

  “I understand.”

  He gave a heavy sigh and lowered his head. Out of sheer reflex I placed a comforting hand on his knee. Warmth radiated from him and traveled through my body. Tears glistened in his eyes.

  I don’t know what I was thinking. I suppose I felt sorry for him. The alcohol had turned my brain into mushy fruit.

  “Hey,” I said, putting an arm around his neck.

  When he turned his face towards mine, I brought my lips to his.

  “Stop,” he mumbled, shoving me away.

  I let go of him. My face went hot and my heart was pounding like a drum. What the hell was I doing?

  “Not like this,” he said. “Not now.”

  I just wanted to crawl under the sofa and disappear.

  “I think it’s best if you go home,” Chris said, typing on his phone. “I’ll get you a taxi. Where do you live?”

  So fucking humiliating. I didn’t even want to look at him.

  I gave him my address and staggered into the hall as he made the call. When I looked at myself in the mirror, I had to squint. I looked like come fucking help me.

  On my phone was a new message from Amina.

  What’s going on? Where are you???

  Heading home, I wrote.

  Chris followed me down to the street and hugged me. It felt stiff. I was convinced I would never s
ee him again, and as I got into the taxi I regretted having given him my real address.

  57

  Michael Blomberg has a new shirt on: dolphin-blue with white buttons and rolled-up sleeves, and a sloppily folded handkerchief in his breast pocket. He leans way over the table with an oversized smile.

  “I really want you to see your mother. We need to talk, the three of us.”

  “I can’t,” I say.

  The very thought scares the shit out of me.

  “What do you want me to tell her, then?” Blomberg asks. “That you don’t want to see your own mother?”

  Of course I want to see her. There’s nothing I want more. But Blomberg would never understand.

  “Tell the truth. I can’t deal with it.”

  He sighs heavily.

  “Or else lie,” I suggest. “I’m sure you’re competent enough to come up with a good lie.”

  The big lawyer shakes his head.

  “I’ve known Ulrika for many years…”

  “I know. You know Mom pretty well, right?”

  Blomberg stiffens. This isn’t the first time I’ve made such an insinuation, and it won’t be the last. I’m happy to let him wonder. Ignorance is power.

  “Do you know Margaretha Olsen too?” I ask.

  “I don’t exactly know her. She’s a—”

  “Professor.”

  He is startled and makes an annoyed grimace.

  “Lund is a small…”

  “Pond.”

  “City,” he says. “Lund is a small city.”

  “Does she think I’m guilty too?”

  “Who? What?”

  “Margaretha Olsen. Does she?”

  “I have no idea about that whatsoever,” Blomberg says, scratching behind his ear. “What does it matter? Who cares what people think? The important thing is for us to demonstrate reasonable doubt in court.”

  “Is that really the important thing? Then why does it feel like everyone has already made up their minds about what happened?”

  “What ‘everyone’ are you talking about?”

  “The police, the prosecutor, like, the whole world.”

  Blomberg squirms, but sounds as certain as always.

  “That’s called confirmation bias. When you have a theory and ignore everything that contradicts it. It’s extremely common. Doesn’t have to be conscious at all. And likely isn’t.”