She sounded utterly resigned.
“Do what?” I said.
“Swear you won’t say anything to Dad! He would never understand. Neither would Mom! Promise?”
Unaware of what I was doing, I gave her my word.
“Didn’t you see I messed up the defense? Two times, the exact same feint?”
I had to confess that I hadn’t noticed anything.
“And then I fumbled that last pass to Stella. You saw that, didn’t you?”
“But you’re ahead twelve to four,” I objected.
“Dad doesn’t care about that,” Amina said, staring down at the floor as she unwound the bandage from her knee with a few hasty movements. “I can’t handle being the best all the time. I just can’t deal with it.”
This struck a painful chord. I thought of how I had spent a whole life toiling away to keep from being a disappointment to others.
“It’s only handball,” I said. “It doesn’t mean a damn thing. Not really.”
“But it’s not just handball.” She gazed at me with glassy eyes. “It’s everything. School, friends, at home. I can’t do it anymore.”
Without thinking it over, I moved to sit beside her and opened my arms. Amina curled up like a small child and I rocked her slowly back and forth.
I had such powerful feelings for Amina, and I wasn’t sure how to act upon them.
Several years later, on a hellish Sunday in early September, I was faced with the impossible choice between Amina and my own daughter, and I chose both of them.
I’m afraid that choice may cost me everything.
97
Jenny Jansdotter patiently waits for Amina to speak. The entire courtroom is waiting for Amina. She is about to reveal everything.
“One night when we were at Tegnérs, I think it was in the middle of August, Stella got a headache and left early. I ended up going home with Chris.”
She takes a long pause and looks at Stella.
“We were really just supposed to share a taxi, but … we’d had quite a bit to drink, and…”
Amina swallows the last word and hangs her head. Stella looks at her in confusion.
“We sat on his sofa, chatting. I’d had too much to drink. It just happened.”
Stella glowers at her best friend, who is speaking down at the table.
“What happened?” Jansdotter asks.
“He tried to kiss me.”
“And what did you do?”
This is painful. Stella and Amina mean so much to each other. Can their friendship survive this?
“I let him do it.” Amina’s voice is faint. “He kissed me several times, until I panicked and said I had to leave. I ran out of there and on the way home I called Stella.”
“Did you tell Stella about the kissing?”
“No. I was going to, but then … I couldn’t.”
Stella slowly brings her glass of water to her lips and lets it hover in the air for a moment before taking a sip. Jansdotter is rolling her pen between her fingers.
“Did you see Chris again after this?”
“He called me, like, a week later. We were supposed to plan a surprise for Stella, because it was her birthday. So Chris picked me up in his car and we brought sushi back to his apartment.”
She stops, her hand to her forehead.
“Go on,” Jansdotter urges her. “What happened at his apartment?”
“He kissed me again.”
I watch Stella deflate and recall how we hugged that night, after her birthday dinner. Only recently have we begun to embrace each other that way. Naturally and sincerely. Adam was snoring on the sofa, his mouth wide open, and we were careful not to wake him. Stella sniffled out a brief account of what had happened after she left the Italian restaurant. And that was when it hit me. While I am far from a relationship expert, I figured out what Stella herself refused to see. The more she told me, the clearer it became. She’d had her heart broken. She was in love and had been betrayed.
“What did you and Christopher talk about that night?” the prosecutor asks Amina. “While you were alone?”
Amina sighs deeply.
“Chris said he liked me. I’m the one he noticed first at Tegnérs. He said he liked Stella too, but not the same way. He had begun to see her downsides. He realized that there would be problems, but he said you can’t help your feelings.”
Stella is twisting her hands, around and around. I long to give her a hug.
“Did you believe him?”
“He was very convincing,” Amina says. “And I knew Stella wasn’t interested in him anyway. Not that it matters, but still.”
“So you betrayed your best friend?”
Amina sobs and shakes her head.
“I mean, I was, like, in love. Or … I thought I was.”
I take Adam’s hand and see the confusion in his eyes. Around us, a symphony of scratching pens and tapping keys. I glance quickly over my shoulder at Alexandra. She has mascara on her cheeks and fear in her eyes.
“Didn’t you ever see Stella that night?” Jansdotter asks. “You said you were going to celebrate her birthday.”
“Yes, she called. It was pretty late. She said she was on her way to Chris’s place. I seriously panicked and shouted at Chris that Stella was out on the street and then I rushed down to see her.”
“Did you tell Stella what had happened?”
Amina sighed.
“I told her that Chris had kissed me. I honestly regretted it, I felt totally worthless, and then we agreed that Chris was a pig and we would never see him again.”
“Did you stick to that agreement?” the prosecutor asks.
Amina turns to look at Stella.
“No,” she says. “I didn’t.”
98
I expect it’s easiest to hang your concerns on something concrete. When you can’t find the root of the problem, when whatever is making you itch and chafe can’t be seen, it’s extremely convenient to be able to focus on something tangible.
Is that why people turn to God? A world that’s impossible to understand demands explanations one can comprehend. An image of a man, an absolute ruler.
For a long time, my and Adam’s view of the world revolved around a child who never arrived. The egg that would not be fertilized became the emblem of our stalled life, which would never transform into the life we had imagined. As the distance between us widened, I experienced a desire for spiritual closeness I didn’t recognize. It was at its worst when I had just concluded a case. It was as if a vacuum opened up inside me, a bottomless loneliness. I would sit on a plane, heading home to my family in Lund, feeling my insides come crashing down.
It’s a dreadful experience, being unable to identify with your own child. I often felt powerless and resigned about my attempts to reach Stella.
“She’s like you,” Adam said after a fight that lasted a whole evening.
“What the hell do you mean?”
It started when we learned from Stella’s teacher that she was bullying a few girls in her class. When we confronted her, Stella threw a tantrum and hurled a glass of milk at Adam. She refused to discuss the situation at school. We wanted to know how she was truly feeling, but she went berserk all over the kitchen and Adam had to pin her arms behind her back until she was hanging over the floor like a wrung-out rag of screaming and tears.
Two days later, Amina was standing in our entryway in her handball shoes and knee socks, a burgundy backpack on her shoulders. As Stella slipped away to gather what she needed for practice, Amina looked at me with a grave expression that made her seem much older.
“It’s really not Stella’s fault,” she said.
I looked at her, puzzled.
“What’s going on at school, I mean. They provoke Stella. They know exactly what to say to get her to flip out. Then they tattle to the teacher.”
A mountain of shame rose in my chest.
“It’s the other girls who are the mean ones,” Amina said.
; Her brown eyes looked almost black in the dim light of the entryway.
I thought of what Adam had said. She’s like you.
* * *
The summer Stella would turn fourteen, we traveled to a handball tournament in Denmark. The girls and the coaches had lodgings in a school, while Alexandra and I shared a hotel room.
One evening we went out to a smoky bar and people bought drinks for us. Alexandra got way too drunk and threw up outside the hotel. After I’d forced a shower on her, she lay down on a chaise in the hotel room and cried over how worthless her life was. She wailed about Dino, who only cared about handball and refused to lift a finger at home. But she also complained about Amina, who never had time for anything besides schoolwork and her goddamn handball practice. I didn’t say anything, of course, but a thorny irritation began to grow inside me. I personally never had the privilege of feeling that my parents were completely satisfied with me. There was always an even higher grade, someone else who did better, someone smarter and more attractive.
A few weeks later, on a sunny morning, Amina came to our house. For once I was managing to relax—I was in the yard with a coffee and a novel.
“Stella’s not home,” I explained. “She went to Landskrona. I thought you were going too.”
Amina didn’t respond. She stood there in her shorts and tank top, under the cherry tree, gazing at me with a grim expression.
“Is something wrong?” I asked, putting down my book.
She gestured as if to say she wasn’t quite sure.
“Do you have a minute?” she asked.
“Of course!”
Once I’d brought out soda and a cinnamon roll, she began to appear more comfortable.
“I feel like the worst friend in the world right now.”
“Why? What’s going on?”
She squinted across the yard and told me in a restrained voice that she had put this off until the last moment. She really didn’t want to be a bad friend, but fear had taken over. She was worried about Stella.
“Those guys she’s with in Landskrona. They’re not good people. They get up to a bunch of bad stuff. Smoking and drinking.”
“Alcohol? You’re only fourteen.”
“I know.”
“I’m glad you told me, Amina.”
She bent forward.
“You promise not to say anything to Stella, right? If she finds out I … You have to promise me!”
I promised.
I wasn’t really thinking about Stella very much at that moment, however strange that may sound. I was mostly thinking of Amina. I admired her courage, her natural instinct to do the right thing.
“I’m so glad you came to me,” I said.
We stood facing each other for a long time before she leaned forward and hugged me.
During the week that followed, Adam and I had a serious talk with Stella. It was the start of a long, horrible period for us. The more we tried to reason with her, the more Stella lashed out.
“Stop interfering in my life! Living with you is like being in prison!”
Later that fall, when it came to light that Stella was smoking dope, Adam and I realized after a lot of “ifs” and “buts” that we needed professional help.
It was torture to sit through those meetings with principals and teachers, nurses and counselors—not to mention all the social workers and psychologists. I have never felt so vulnerable and violated, so belittled as a person. No failure in the world is comparable to being an inadequate parent.
Michael Blomberg offered a way out, a bit of solace.
99
I turn around to look at Alexandra again. I see my own mother in her. My stomach knots as I think of how ungrateful she has been toward Amina.
Alexandra meets my gaze. So far, she still doesn’t know. I’m sure Amina hasn’t said anything.
Ever since she told me what happened, I’ve taken pains to ensure that as few people as possible find out.
Not even Adam knows. Not even Stella.
In time, they will all understand.
Jenny Jansdotter’s sharp treble rips a hole in the silence of the courtroom.
“So you violated your agreement with Stella and continued to see Christopher Olsen?”
Amina shakes her head.
“That’s not quite what happened.”
The prosecutor makes a baffled expression.
“No? Isn’t that what you just said?”
“I only saw Chris once after Stella’s birthday. He contacted me several times that week, but I told him we couldn’t see each other. He was really persistent. He wrote that he was so curious about me and it would be a waste not to explore what might happen between us. And stuff like that.”
“So you agreed to meet him?”
“I was honestly planning to tell him to go to hell. I didn’t meet up with him because I wanted us to be together or anything. I just wanted to get rid of him. I swear.”
She takes another tissue and blows her nose.
“On Friday he texted me again. I’d made an agreement with Stella. I didn’t want to see Chris again.”
“But you did?”
“He wrote that he had a surprise for me,” she continues. “He was going to pick me up in a limo. I told him my dad would beat him up if he showed up at our house. But anyway … he wouldn’t give up, so we decided he would pick me up at the Ball House after handball.”
“Did he arrive in a limousine?”
“No, he had his own car. Something got messed up with the reservation.”
Stella is watching Amina intently. How much of this does she know?
“And this was on the thirty-first of August, the same night Christopher Olsen was murdered?” Jansdotter asks.
“Yes.”
“What did the two of you do then, Amina? After Chris picked you up in his car?”
“We drove out to the sea. I don’t know exactly what the place is called. But you could see Barsebäck from there, anyway. The nuclear power plant. We sat on a grassy hill and Chris had brought a basket with wine and bread and a bunch of cheeses.”
Amina falls silent.
“Go on,” says the prosecutor.
“We ate and drank the wine. We watched the sunset and then…”
Amina loses herself again. A journalist in the row ahead of me drops their pen and the whole courtroom hears it land on the floor. Stella whirls around and stares. She looks straight at me, her eyes black.
“Then what?” Jansdotter says. “What happened next?”
I watch as Michael places a reassuring hand on Stella’s arm.
“Then he kissed me.” Amina gulps. “We kissed.”
100
The chance to work with Michael Blomberg was a dream. One of the country’s most prominent defense attorneys. I knew it would involve a lot of business trips and nights in hotels, but Adam supported me wholeheartedly and it was a chance I couldn’t pass up.
What would have happened if I’d declined Michael’s offer? I know there’s no point in such thoughts, but it’s hard to stop myself from wondering.
As Amina talks about Christopher Olsen in the courtroom—how she couldn’t resist him, how she was swept up and felt like she was falling for him, even though in reality something totally different was going on—it’s hard not to relate.
Maybe sometimes all it takes to believe you’re in love is being appreciated and valued. Being seen for who you are, admired for your existence rather than your actions. That’s exactly what made me fall for Adam. His natural way of looking beyond my accomplishments. The way he captured my soul with his gaze.
Fifteen years later, Michael Blomberg did the same thing.
* * *
My relationship with Michael went hand in hand with my increasing inability to deal with Adam. The man I had once fallen for, the romantic idealist with a heart the size of a star and eyes full of nuance no longer seemed to exist. I hadn’t been present enough to know how it had happened, but Adam had gradually dev
eloped a neurotic temperament that was well on its way to turning into a manic need for control.
Adam had imagined an entirely different life for himself than what he was now stuck with. The images he had created of his future and his family were diametrically opposed to reality, and his increasing need for control was, in that sense, nothing more than a desperate but potent method of maintaining his dream of the life he had pictured for himself. But just because I understood what had happened didn’t mean I had any intention of accepting it.
Adam crossed the line one night when he forced his way into Stella’s room after smelling smoke through the door. I had just flown in from Bromma on the last flight of the day, and I landed in our kitchen around midnight, a total wreck.
“You have to let Stella make her own mistakes. Weren’t you ever a teenager? You are violating her privacy.”
Adam was pacing back and forth, muttering in despair. When I saw him in that state, I made up my mind.
“I love you,” I said, putting my arms around his neck. “I’m going to spend more time at home with both of you.”
“I’m sorry,” said Adam. “It’s all my fault. You don’t have to…”
I battled back my guilt.
“I’ve been working too much,” I said, promising to decrease my hours. “There are things I can take care of from home.”
“I have to try to calm down,” Adam said. “To talk to Stella without losing my temper.”
“Count to ten first.”
He smiled and we kissed.
* * *
On Monday I sat down with my phone as soon as Adam had left for work. Naturally, I was flattered by Michael’s attention, but I had never fooled myself into thinking that it would lead to anything but brief moments of self-fulfillment. I knew Michael well enough to understand that we would hardly have a future together, or even anything exclusive.
He sounded neither surprised nor disappointed when I called to tell him that from that point on, our relationship must be kept strictly professional. I have to confess that my heart ached when he ended both the conversation and the relationship with the phrase “no problem.”
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