“That’s correct.”
“What time was it then?”
I sit up straight in my chair.
Please, Adam. Think of your family!
“Around eleven,” he says. “I didn’t actually check.”
“Did you fall asleep right away?”
“No, I lay awake for a few hours.”
“A few hours?”
“Yes.”
I take a quick sip of water, but I fail to properly screw the lid back onto the bottle; water spills in my lap and I dry it with the back of my hand. The bearded man glances at me.
“Were you awake when Stella came home that night?” Michael asks.
I lean even further to the side. Adam raises his chin and his clerical collar shines white as innocence in the direction of the judges.
“I was awake when she came home,” he says.
His voice is stronger now. Clear and firm. I sink back in my chair.
“Do you know what time it was?” Michael asks.
“It was quarter to twelve. I looked at the clock when I heard her come in.”
One of the lay judges brings their hand to their mouth. The rest of the court stares at Adam in silence.
“And you’re absolutely certain about the time?”
“I’m absolutely certain. I swear to God.”
90
“How can you be so sure?” I asked Adam.
This was, of course, one of his hang-ups: he was always doubting. And right now, there was absolutely no room for nuance. He had made up his mind.
“It’s going to be wonderful. You’re going to be the most fantastic mother in the world.”
He merely brushed off all my misgivings. According to Adam, my anxiety was a natural part of the process. Becoming a parent meant comprehensive adjustments that would change our lives forever. It was no wonder I was full of doubt and hesitation that made me feel ill.
In actuality we were too young to have a baby. I had just been assigned my post for my law clerk position, and Adam was in the middle of his program. Just six months earlier we had been living in the student dorm, spending several evenings a week hanging out at bars, low-key disco clubs, and fancy student dinners, but during the summer, against all odds, we had managed to come across a relatively spacious one-room apartment on Norra Fäladen. Furthermore, Adam was convinced that the rental agency would agree to upgrade us to a two-room place if there were to be an addition to our family.
“I love you,” Adam said multiple times per day, bending down to kiss the growing bump of my belly. “And you too, in there.”
Gradually the worst of my end-of-the-world mentality abated and my anxiety was exchanged for swollen elephant feet. Some days I couldn’t get out of bed, and I felt like a huge failure of a woman.
Adam served me homemade soup, brought me compression stockings and warm rice pillows, and gave me massages. Although I questioned the timing, whether it was really the right moment for us to bring a child into the world, I never doubted that Adam was the right man to father my child.
* * *
I spent quite a lot of time working when Stella was little. Sometimes I wondered if there was something wrong with me, whether I was somehow constructed differently from other new mothers, because I couldn’t put the rest of my life on standby and get all my strength from the fact that I was now the mother of a child.
Without Adam, it wouldn’t have been possible. He was constantly there, a safe harbor where I could land. He never denied me anything. Adam supported me at any price.
I soon found that the successes I was denied in my family life could be won instead in my career. By the time I was twenty-nine I had become a full-fledged attorney, and, considered an up-and-comer, I was recruited to a major firm with offices in all three Swedish metro areas. As Adam taught Stella to ride her bike without training wheels and put Band-Aids on her skinned knees, I commuted between high-profile clients in Stockholm and quick briefs in front of kids’ shows and a microwaved dinner plate. I hardly think I’m alone in saying that I craved stimulation from both career and family. Even though I happen to have been born without a penis.
Being a devoted mother always seemed to collide with my egotistical desire for self-affirmation and success in other parts of my life, and although I truly did try, I never managed to reduce myself enough to become the mother I was expected to be, the mother I believed I wanted to be. Meanwhile I saw men constantly getting away with the same shortcomings that plagued me and made me feel worthless as a parent.
At first, I considered the bond that developed between Adam and Stella to be entirely a good thing. Stella was Daddy’s girl. I might come home late, my brain full of statutes and precedents, to find them cuddled up in a sea of pillows, having bedtime stories in pajamas. Stella held her Dad’s hand through all of life’s little forks in the road. It was an Astrid Lindgren world, and I felt tiny leaps of joy in my heart every morning when our daughter’s miniature feet came romping across the bedroom floor.
* * *
The transformation happened very slowly. I can’t say when it began, but things that had once warmed my heart were soon sending cold shivers down my spine. I found new triggers for irritation everywhere. When someone pointed out what a wonderful father Adam was and what a lovely relationship he seemed to have with Stella, I no longer experienced pride; rather, I felt alienated. When Adam related long, colorful descriptions of his fairy-tale days with Stella, I welled with guilt and shame and envy.
We spoke early on about expanding our family. I suppose our desire for another child was grounded in a vague disappointment that neither of us would ever have given voice to. Against all reason, I convinced myself that my relationship with Stella would benefit if she had a sibling.
We tried to conceive again for over a year. We never talked about why it didn’t work. I suspect this was due to some sort of mutual but utterly misplaced respect. Sooner or later, the test would be positive and until then all we could do was try as often as we could manage, and, in Adam’s case, perhaps also pray to God for some sort of aid.
On Walpurgis Night the year Stella was four, we finally broke the silence. We were lying in bed and the whole world spun as soon as I opened my eyes. The bonfire smell had penetrated our skin.
“Honey,” Adam whispered. “Something must be wrong.”
“Wrong?” I repeated, although I knew what he was talking about.
“What should we do?”
I couldn’t produce a single word. Tears stung behind my eyelids, but I kept fighting them back.
“I love you,” Adam said.
I was unable to respond.
91
“Does the prosecutor have any questions for the witness?” the presiding judge asks.
“Yes, I do.”
Jenny Jansdotter confers briefly with the assistant prosecutor before turning to Adam.
“How was your state of mind on the Friday in question?”
I think I glimpse a shrug, but Adam doesn’t have time to formulate a response before Jansdotter continues.
“You said earlier that you felt tired and worn out. It had been a tough week. You had just had to bury a young man.”
“That’s right.”
“And yet you couldn’t sleep that night?”
“Well, sometimes that sort of exhaustion has the opposite effect,” Adam says calmly. “You can’t fall asleep, even though you feel dead tired. I was also worried about Stella, of course. Terribly worried. I don’t like going to sleep before she gets home.”
Jenny Jansdotter picks up a pen and twirls it between her fingers.
“So you claim you were awake when Stella arrived home that night?”
“Yes.”
“And what time was that?”
“I said that already.”
“I’d like you to repeat it.”
“Quarter to twelve,” Adam says, annoyed.
Jenny Jansdotter tilts her chin up and juts her head out over the table like a b
ird of prey.
“Curious,” she says.
There is an alarming hint of triumph in her voice.
“Very curious,” Jansdotter says, unfolding a piece of paper on the table in front of her.
What is this? Is there something we missed?
“I have here a list of your text messages, Adam. Each text that was sent from your phone on the night of the murder, and each text you received, is included. Two messages were deleted from your phone, but the evidence technicians were able to recover them. I’m sure you are aware that deleted texts can be recovered?”
Adam bows his head.
Dammit, this cannot be true. How could Michael have missed the phone records? We knew the police had taken Adam’s cell phone into evidence, but it never occurred to me that there could have been any compromising information on it.
“At eighteen minutes after eleven, the following text was sent from your phone to Stella’s number: Are you coming home tonight?”
The prosecutor holds the list up and points with the tip of her pen.
“Okay?” Adam says.
“Do you recall sending such a text?”
His shoulders squirm and he looks thoroughly uncomfortable.
“Yes, I suppose I could have. My wife said Stella might be spending the night at Amina’s. That’s why I texted her to ask.”
“Are you coming home tonight?” Jansdotter repeats. “Did you receive a response from Stella?”
Adam scratches his chin. I try to catch Michael’s attention, but he refuses to look in my direction. Sweat is running down his face and he tugs at his tie as if he can’t breathe.
“I don’t remember,” Adam mumbles.
“Are you sure? You don’t remember whether you received an answer?”
Adam swallows hard and shakes his head rapidly.
“Probably not.”
Jansdotter waves the list. Beside me, the bearded man sucks air through his teeth. I’m getting an inkling of where this is going. How could we have missed it?
“Stella did in fact send a reply,” the prosecutor says.
“Oh?”
Adam just sits there as if waiting for a death blow. I want to shout at him to hold his ground—he can’t give up now.
“The technicians have managed to recover that one as well. The fact is, you deleted both of these messages on Saturday, when you learned that Stella had been taken into police custody.”
“I did?” Adam says.
He doesn’t sound like he’s very good at lying. No one is buying this.
“Stella wrote, On my way home now. The message was received by your phone at twenty minutes to two. When Stella had already, according to your story, been home for almost two hours.”
92
Adam doesn’t respond to the prosecutor’s statement.
“Do you have any explanation for this text?” Jansdotter says. “Why would Stella send a text to say she’s on her way home at twenty minutes to two when you claim she was home by eleven forty-five?”
Adam is silent. The seconds are ticking by.
A woman in the row behind mine tugs at my blouse and gestures at me to sit down. But I have to go to Adam. He needs me. This is all my fault!
“I’m sure there can be delays,” Adam says at last.
The bearded man hisses psst at me and nods toward the end of the row, where a security guard has puffed up his chest and is staring at me.
“What do you mean, Adam?” Jenny Jansdotter says.
“Sometimes texts can get stuck out in cyberspace,” he says, obvious doubt in his voice. “Just because I received a message at a certain point in time doesn’t necessarily mean it was sent right then.”
I sink down on my chair and a sigh of relief goes through my body. Naturally, Adam is right. He may not have a clue about all these technicalities, but he’s smart and quick on his feet. Common sense would dictate that he’s not wrong. The fact that the prosecutor has proof of when a text arrived means nothing in practice unless she can also prove when it was sent. And in order to do that she would need access to Stella’s phone.
Jenny Jansdotter makes a pained face.
“Isn’t it the case that Stella in fact came home much later than you claim?”
I sneak a look at the security guard and find that his interest in me has abated.
“No,” Adam says firmly. “Stella came home at eleven forty-five.”
Michael swipes the back of his hand over his sweaty forehead. Next to him, Stella is staring at the table with glassy eyes. She looks so small and fragile and I hate myself for what I am subjecting her to.
In the past few weeks, I have found myself explaining time and again to both myself and Michael why we can’t tell Stella everything. I have felt my doubts gnawing at and burrowing into me, but it would be too risky to tell her. Stella has far too much trouble controlling her impulses. One too-strong emotion, one stray word, and that would be the end of it.
Furthermore, Stella has always loved being contrary. When her handball coaches told her to aim low she lobbed high instead; when Adam’s mother admired her waist-length hair she shaved her head.
My chest fills with pain as I look at her.
“Do you know where Stella’s cell phone is?” the prosecutor asks Adam.
“No idea.”
“Why have the investigators been unable to locate it?”
“I don’t know.”
Adam’s voice sounds calmer now.
“When did you last see Stella’s phone?”
“I don’t remember.”
“Isn’t it the case that you found it, Adam?”
“No,” he says firmly. “Stella always has her phone with her.”
“You mean she had it with her at work, at H&M, on that Saturday when she was taken into police custody?”
“I assume so.”
“If that were true, the police would have found it, wouldn’t they?”
Jansdotter stares him down, but doesn’t manage to make him lose his cool.
“Isn’t it true that you found Stella’s phone on Saturday? The day she was brought in to jail.”
“Absolutely not.”
Adam jerks his head and glances over his shoulder; for a split second we look straight at one another.
“I don’t know anything about Stella’s phone,” he repeats.
This is closer to the truth than the prosecutor suspects. Adam doesn’t know what happened to Stella’s phone. Only I do.
For a brief moment, the prosecutor loses her train of thought. She does a good job of hiding it, but it certainly doesn’t escape me or the other experienced lawyers in the courtroom. I allow myself to relax ever so slightly; I lean back and take a few sips of water. The bearded man looks at me and I get the sense that he knows, that he can see right into my thoughts.
Once Jansdotter has collected herself and conferred with her assistant, she continues her examination.
“Did you speak to Stella when she returned home that Friday night?”
“Yes,” Adam says. “As I’ve already stated.”
“What did the two of you say?” the prosecutor asks.
“I opened the door and said goodnight. Stella said goodnight too.”
“So you saw her?”
“Yes.”
“What was she wearing?” Jansdotter asks.
“Underwear.”
“Just underwear? Does she usually undress before going up to her room?”
“It happens, I guess. If her clothes need washing she puts them in the laundry room.”
“According to Stella’s colleagues, those who were with her at the Stortorget restaurant that night, Stella was wearing dark blue jeans and a white blouse. The police found the jeans when they searched the house, but the top hasn’t been located. Did you see the white blouse when Stella came home?”
“No,” Adam says. “I don’t know anything about a blouse.”
To some extent, this is true.
“Are you sure? You didn�
�t see the white blouse in the laundry room?”
“No.”
“On Saturday either?”
“Not that I can recall,” Adam says. “But if I had seen it, I probably wouldn’t have committed it to memory.”
“I think you would have, actually,” says Jansdotter. “Because I believe that blouse was covered in stains. From blood. You really didn’t see the bloody blouse?”
“Definitely not!”
Now Adam is so firm that he sounds angry. That’s not good. Not good at all. Michael sends him a small signal.
Jansdotter lunges again.
“You have a woodstove in the house?”
“Yes?” Adam says.
“During the search of your home, the police noted that a fire had recently been lit in the woodstove. Who lit the fire that Saturday?”
Adam scratches behind his ear.
“It could have been me. Or my wife.”
He’s smart. Obviously he understands what’s happening here. All he has to do is keep a cool head. Think of your family, Adam. Think of Stella and me.
“You don’t know?” Jansdotter asks.
“We have a fire pretty often.”
“In the summer? The first days of September? When it’s seventy degrees outside?”
“We think it’s cozy.”
The prosecutor sighs loudly.
“Isn’t it true that you found Stella’s bloody blouse and burned it in the woodstove?”
“Absolutely not,” Adam says. “I did not burn any blouse.”
No, he didn’t.
93
When the presiding judge concludes the first day of proceedings, I stand up and manage to catch Stella’s eye before the guards take her away. We look at each other for a second or two. I reach out my hand; it fumbles in the air. This is the moment when I must be a real mother; I must compensate for what I never managed to do when Stella was little. This time I’m doing what I’m best at. Please, Stella, you have to trust me.
In the past few years, our relationship has slowly improved. While Adam found it increasingly difficult to understand Stella’s various life choices, I have become closer to her; I have come to understand my daughter better and better. To some extent I have Amina to thank. It was through her that I was finally able to meet Stella on her own terms. Through Amina, I learned to understand.
A Nearly Normal Family Page 30