The Ice Beneath Her

by Camilla Grebe

  It’s Sunday. What does a happy little family in a nice suburb do on a Sunday? Go to the museum? Invite some successful friends over for an ambitious brunch of omelets, smoothies, and freshly baked sourdough bread? Build a snowman in the freshly fallen snow?

  That should have been me.

  That should have been me sitting there instead of that dark-haired woman. Only now do I realize how much I hate her.

  —

  The whole day goes by without anything happening. I eat my sandwiches and try to move around to stay warm. The coffee’s run out, and I’ve switched to the soda, which fortunately didn’t freeze during the night.

  Suddenly Mom pops up in my mind, like a Punch and Judy puppet. I don’t really know, but I think it’s because, like Jesper, she lived a lie.

  I remember when the call came from the hospital one morning while I was getting ready to leave for work. At first I was unsure if I should answer, because I was already running late and a late arrival meant a demerit. At least if Björne was in a bad mood.

  The woman introduced herself as a doctor and told me that my mother was ill. She’d gone to the emergency room last night and had been hospitalized for further tests.

  “How is she?” I asked with the cellphone wedged between my shoulder and ear, while pulling back the front door and starting down the stairs.

  “We don’t really know what’s wrong with her yet, but she’s stable. There is no immediate danger to her life, but she’s very worried, and she keeps asking for you.”

  “She’s asking for me?”

  It had been months since Mom called me, and I had a hard time believing she missed me. Not even when she was sick and alone.

  “Yes. She’d like you to come visit her.”

  I was quiet.

  “We have visiting hours between two and six,” the doctor continued. “Should I tell her you’ll be coming?”

  “Yes. I’ll be there,” I heard myself say, while I exited onto the street.

  We hung up, and I hurried to the subway. Winding past patches of ice and squinting against the crisp spring sunshine. Breathing in the scent of damp earth and last year’s rotting leaves.

  She’s very worried, and she keeps asking for you.

  I was confused. Knew I had to go to the hospital at once. If for no other reason, to find out why Mom was suddenly so anxious to see me.

  —

  She had a room at the end of a bright hallway. It looked like every other hospital room I’d ever seen: a bed with a small table on wheels and a chrome stool beside it, a television mounted on the wall, a couple of cabinets, and next to them a sink. The obligatory bottles of soap and hand disinfectant hung on the wall next to the tap.

  I found her sitting up in bed reading. I don’t really know what I was expecting, but I thought that she would be more seriously ill. Not that she’d be sitting in a tracksuit and reading a tabloid.

  “Emma, sweetheart!”

  She took off her reading glasses and pushed her bleached hair from her forehead. The scent of food arrived from the hallway. Lunch was on its way.

  “Hi. How are you doing?”

  I shrugged off my bag and jacket and sat down on the stool next to the bed. Mom put down her tabloid on the yellow hospital blanket draped over her legs and turned her deep-set eyes to me.

  “It’s terrible what you have to put up with in this place.”

  I noted she’d avoided answering the question I had asked. “Really?”

  She coughed and put her hand on her stomach, as if in pain.

  “They wake us up at six in the morning. Six. Can you imagine? And they’re running in and out of here constantly. Different people all the time. It’s like trying to sleep at a train station. And they’re all immigrants. Not that they can help it, but they can’t speak Swedish, you understand? How are you supposed to take care of someone you can’t communicate with? And last night there was another woman in this room. She snored so loud I couldn’t sleep a wink. I told the night staff, explained how sensitive I am to sounds, but they claim they don’t have any other rooms. In the end I had to ask for a sleeping pill, but they refused to give me one. Treated me like I was a junkie asking for heroin. It’s crazy. You work and pay taxes your whole life and then you get treated like this when you finally need help.”

  I don’t remind Mom that she hadn’t worked but was actually on disability for most of her adult life. She moves her thick hand to the corner of her eye, wipes away an invisible tear.

  “Oh, Emma. Getting old and sick is no fun. I can tell you that.”

  She looked expectantly at me, as if she wanted me to back her up, but I didn’t say anything. I didn’t know what to say.

  An assistant nurse came into the room carrying a tray. Her uniform was dazzlingly white against her black skin.

  “What did I tell you?” Mom whispered, and nodded to the woman.

  “It’s a liquid diet for you today,” the nurse said, and smiled as she set the tray down on the table beside the bed, then left.

  Mom didn’t answer. Just looked with disgust at the light brown soup. “This isn’t fit for human consumption. Do they expect me to eat this?” She stirred the soup with her spoon, then set it aside on the tray.

  “What happened?” I tried again.

  Mom waved her hand, as though it were unimportant.

  “They can’t really say. Something about my stomach. You think they’d be able to diagnose me faster considering how many people they have running around here.” She gave me a crooked smile. “But…when can you go home?”

  Mom shrugged. “The only positive thing about this is, it makes you grateful for what you have.”

  She looked at me. Her eyes were set so deep that it was impossible to determine their color. Her cheeks were red and seemed swollen, as if she had a mouthful of cotton.

  “We have each other, Emma,” she said, and grabbed my hand.

  If she had told me she was headed to the moon, I would have been less surprised. In the last five years we’d seen each other maybe twice. What did she mean, we had each other?

  Mom sighed deeply and wiped away another invisible tear with her free hand, while squeezing mine so hard it felt like it was going numb.

  “Remember, Emma? We had it so good. Your dad, you, and me. And then when Dad…disappeared, we comforted each other. I thought we were a strong little family, even without him. We helped each other as best we could. Maybe our troubles made us even stronger. They say that kind of thing brings people closer. Right?”

  I sat stone-still on my stool. Couldn’t believe my ears. When had we ever been a happy family? And the notion that we somehow got closer after Dad’s suicide was absolute bullshit. The only times I got closer to Mom—at least closer physically—was when I had to lead her to bed after she’d passed out at the dinner table, or in the bathroom. The only time I helped her was when I went and bought cigarettes and Pepto-Bismol for her hangovers. And as for her helping me, I couldn’t recall that she ever did.

  “I don’t regret anything,” she sobbed, and now I saw real tears. They rolled like glass beads down her fat cheeks. “But I wish we’d had your dad with us a little longer. He was such an incredible person, and we loved each other so much.”

  She said the last bit in a barely audible voice.

  Memories of Mom and Dad’s fights flashed before me like shadows on the edge of my visual field. Barely discernible, but still there. Fragments of a life that no longer existed. Dishes flying across the kitchen. Screaming. Police knocking on the door in the middle of the night because the neighbors had complained. The broken blue butterfly lying in shards of glass on the kitchen floor.

  For a second, I wondered if I should protest. Remind Mom what it was really like in that cramped apartment. But I knew it would be pointless, that the story she’d so carefully crafted couldn’t be changed. Her worldview stood there between us like an elephant, preventing us from any real mutual understanding.

  I suddenly felt tired. Longed
to just go home and lie down. Not think any more about the fat woman in the hospital bed, lying to me and to herself, and probably to anyone else who would listen.

  “I should probably go now.” My voice was a whisper.

  “Already?” She stopped sobbing instantly, almost as if someone had pressed a button. I nodded and stood up.

  “We have a meeting at work,” I lied.

  As I walked down the corridor, it occurred to me that Mom hadn’t asked how I was doing. She hadn’t shown the least bit of interest in me.

  —

  I’m shivering from the cold. Now and then I catch a glimpse of Jesper, the woman, or the child just beyond the edge of a room. It’s harder than I’d thought to keep watching the house without losing my concentration. And the binoculars are heavy. After a few hours my arms ache and my fingers are stiff with cold. I tried keeping my mittens on, but then I couldn’t hold on to the binoculars, so I have no choice but to leave them in my bag.

  I almost miss the moment when the woman and little girl leave the house. Twilight has started to descend. The sky is still light, but the landscape has darkened, and windows start to glow. The woman and girl climb into a red Volvo and drive away in the direction of the city.

  I stand up slowly on legs that are stiff from hours in the cold. They’re gone. That must mean that Jesper is alone in the house. I take a few steps toward the window and train my binoculars on the house. And suddenly a wave of heat washes over me. My hands feel soft and warm. My cheeks flush, and my heart starts to pound so hard, it’s as if it wants to escape from my chest.

  He’s sitting at the table with a laptop in front of him. Beside him on the counter is a glass of wine. A sandwich lies on a plate.

  It’s time.

  —

  I stand on his front stairs with my finger on the doorbell. The time has come. There’s nothing I can do to stop the inevitable now. Maybe this was settled long ago. Maybe it’s the logical conclusion of the chain of events Jesper set off the night he disappeared. Yes, that has to be so, I tell myself. That’s how this started. I was standing in the kitchen, making canapés for our engagement dinner. That’s when it started.

  He started it.

  The thought gives me strength. I press the doorbell and hear a buzzing sound coming through the door. It’s not a pretty sound. No ding-dong or fragile ringing—more of an aggressive snarl. A sound that would drive you insane if you had to listen to it often enough.

  First, I don’t think he’s heard—nothing happens. Then the door opens and there he is.

  The king himself. The mighty man who crushed my life, turned it to shit without the slightest tinge of regret. He doesn’t look like much today. His hair is grayer than I remember it, his face sunken and tired, as if he’s suffering from some debilitating disease or hasn’t slept in a long time.

  “Hello,” I say.

  PETER

  Manfred stands in the middle of the floor, immovable, like a monolith. Resting his eyes on us, one by one. There’s something cunning in his face. Something primitive that makes you think of a predator on the trail of its prey.

  “Well, I’ll be damned,” Bergdahl mumbles. “It wasn’t Emma Bohman, after all. We better focus on that other girl, that Angelica Wennerlind, now.”

  “No,” Manfred says. “No. Something’s not right. Two women had an affair with Orre. Both disappeared, but we have only one murder victim. And Orre is thawing out in Solna like a pack of frozen crayfish as we speak.”

  Hanne stands up. Walks slowly over to the evidence wall and points to one of the papers. She looks comically small next to Manfred, but her voice is deep and sonorous as she begins to speak:

  “Emma Bohman’s mother died three months before the woman in Orre’s house was murdered. And her father died in May, ten years ago, four months before Miguel Calderón was murdered.”

  The room falls silent for a moment. A guard passes in the corridor, looks in through the door and says hello. The rattle of his keys disappears down the stairs.

  “What are you getting at?” Manfred asks.

  “For a psychologically fragile person, the death of a loved one can trigger mental health problems, even psychoses. And I find it odd that her parents’ deaths happened so closely in time to the murders. Maybe it’s not a coincidence.”

  I’m struck by how confident Hanne seems as she stands in front of the evidence wall. How her entire being exudes calm and authority. If she does have memory problems, they’re not evident.

  “This investigation is full of strange coincidences,” Manfred says, and sinks down on a chair. “For example, both Emma Bohman and Angelica Wennerlind had a relationship with Orre.”

  “We don’t know that,” Hanne says quietly. “They both claimed they were dating him, but no witness has confirmed their relationships. Angelica Wennerlind’s friend says that Angelica told her about her relationship with Orre. And Emma Bohman claimed that Orre was her fiancé, and that he bought her an engagement ring. But in the surveillance video from the jewelry store, only Emma appears. No one else. And of course, he denied the relationship.”

  “That in itself isn’t surprising,” Sanchez says. “He was very secretive about his girls.”

  “We should talk to Emma Bohman’s aunt again,” Manfred chimes in. “The one who reported her missing. Bergdahl, can you get ahold of her? And bring her here if she’s awake.”

  Bergdahl nods and leaves the room with cellphone in hand. Manfred turns toward Hanne again.

  “Could Emma Bohman be involved in this crime?”

  Hanne shrugs. “I guess it’s possible. Though there’s nothing specific that points to it, besides the fact that her parents died just before the murders. Do we know if there’s any connection between Emma and Calderón? Besides the timing of the murders, that is?”

  Manfred crosses his arms over his chest. Closes his eyes. “We haven’t been looking for that kind of a connection.”

  “Maybe we should have,” Hanne says.

  “There’s a lot we should have done,” Manfred mutters under his breath.

  Steps approach from the stairs, and a few seconds later Bergdahl enters. “The aunt was awake. I sent a car to pick her up. She’ll be here in twenty.”

  —

  While waiting for Emma Bohman’s aunt to arrive, I go outside with Manfred to smoke a cigarette. He asks Hanne to come too, and she hangs her coat over her shoulders and takes her little notebook along, as if she’s going to take notes outside.

  When the police station became smoke-free, it forced us inveterate nicotine addicts out onto the balconies or into the street in order to practice our harmful habit. We go to the small terrace on the second floor, which overlooks the courtyard. Two snow-covered terra-cotta pots with long-dead plants function as ashtrays, but there are butts lying in droves next to them, like fallen fruit next to an old fruit tree. The sky is black and starless above the city, and the cold stings your cheeks.

  “That thing you said about Emma Bohman and Angelica Wennerlind,” Manfred begins, and turns to Hanne. “That they claimed to have relationships with Jesper Orre. What exactly did you mean by that?”

  Hanne’s eyes look away, across the clumsy buildings and into the city. She fiddles with her notepad and says:

  “I meant exactly what I said. We can’t know if they were telling the truth or lying.”

  “Why would they lie about something like that?”

  Hanne shrugs, squeezes out a wry smile.

  “Why do people lie? Maybe to seem more exciting or interesting. Or maybe they believe it themselves.”

  “Now I’m not following,” Manfred says, and lights a cigarette.

  “You could be suffering from a delusion. They’re not unusual among psychotic patients. There are many examples of people who believed they had a relationship with someone without ever meeting them in real life. There’s even a medical term for the phenomenon—erotomania. Often people suffering from these delusions fall headlong in love with a celebrity or
some authority figure, and sometimes they’re convinced they’ve lived together for many years. Maybe even married them and had children together.”

  “A celebrity or authority figure. Like the CEO of the company you work for?” I ask.

  “Exactly,” Hanne says, and meets my gaze. “And they believe that love is reciprocated, even though it’s not.”

  It feels like Hanne is speaking directly to me, and something inside me breaks. Cracks like a dry branch under a boot. For a second, I wonder if I might have imagined everything that has happened over the past few days: our calls, the night at her house, the walk in the snow on Söder Mälarstrand. The palpable feeling of closeness might just be something that my brain conjured up in the absence of any other close relationships in my life, or maybe to lessen the weight of the debt I will never be able to repay.

  Manfred stubs his cigarette out against the wall and looks at his watch.

  “It’s a quarter after. The aunt will be here any minute. We should go back in.”

  —

  Lena Brogren is in her sixties and extremely overweight. She’s wearing a tentlike, floral-patterned tunic that reaches to her knees and a pair of pilled leggings. Her feet are wedged into fur boots, which look like two small dogs crowding around her legs. When she says hello to us, I’m struck by how scared she seems. Her eyes flicker between us, and she fiddles with the cigarette pack she holds in her hand.

  “I guess you can’t smoke in here?” she asks.

  Her voice is strangely bright and clear—she’d make a positive contribution to any choir—and contrasts sharply with her large body and haggard, shiny face.

  “Sorry,” Manfred says.

  The woman nods and looks at me.

  “Little Emma. What has she done now?” she asks in a quiet voice, shaking her head slowly, so that her double chins start to swing.