The Ice Beneath Her

by Camilla Grebe

  “Where’s Mommy?”

  The voice comes from the backseat. For a second, I go numb with surprise and fear. Then I turn around and look at the girl’s face with a steady gaze. It’s quiet for a moment, while we inspect each other. She looks like she just woke up, but doesn’t seem afraid, just curious. Behind her, I catch a glimpse of suitcases in the luggage compartment.

  “Mommy had to go to the doctor,” I say, and start the car. “Jesper and I are going to be your babysitters.”

  “Wilma,” Jesper says in a thick voice.

  “Shut up!” I say to him, and give him another shock.

  He jerks and ends up sitting with his head bent forward and saliva running out of his mouth.

  “Jesper’s also a little sick,” I say, facing the backseat. “We’ll take care of him at home.”

  —

  It’s strangely quiet in the car. I’d expected the girl to have an arsenal of questions and protests for me, but she sits silent and wide-eyed.

  “Is your name Wilma?” I try.

  She puts her thumb in her mouth without answering, and looks out through the dark window.

  “You shouldn’t suck your thumb. There’s dirt and bacteria on your fingers,” I say, trying not to sound too stern. She silently meets my eyes in the rearview mirror.

  “Well, my name is Emma.”

  We drive a few hundred yards in silence. Maybe it’s the stress, but I make a wrong turn. The road looks unfamiliar, and the houses give way to snow-covered trees and vast fields. There’s not a living soul in sight.

  I have no idea where I am.

  “I want my mommy!” the girl screams suddenly.

  I hesitate, turn on the radio, and think. I start to turn around to tell her to be quiet. But before I can, Jesper throws himself at me and pushes me away from the steering wheel. Somehow he must have gotten out of his restraints, because his hands are free. He fumbles after the wheel and the hand brake.

  The car slips as I accidentally press the accelerator, then flies over a bump and runs into a birch tree. The bang is deafening, and the smell of burnt plastic spreads through the passenger compartment.

  Jesper lies in my lap with his head against the window. Large cracks run across the glass. It looks like a spiderweb.

  I turn around reflexively.

  The girl seems shocked, but unharmed.

  I put my hand gently against Jesper’s neck, searching for a pulse, but don’t feel anything. There’s blood flowing from his head down onto the dashboard. Everything is quiet, except for the sound of Wilma breathing in the backseat.

  I gently shake Jesper, but he doesn’t react. Isn’t breathing.

  I look out into the darkness. All I see are snow-covered bushes and fields. Slowly it dawns on me that I can’t go on with Jesper in the car. I have to leave him behind.

  But can I just leave him lying here, in the middle of the road?

  I stare out into the darkness. In the distance, I can just make out a square box with white text.

  “SAND.”

  —

  She’s lying in my bed, sleeping peacefully, as if she’s already forgotten yesterday’s events and images: the crash; Jesper’s limp, bloody body; me dragging it out of the car and after many attempts managing to push it down into the sandbox; then driving on as if nothing had happened and parking among the hundreds of cars in the parking lot at Danderyd Hospital, where the falling snow quickly spread out like a protective blanket over the cracked window and collapsed front. The only thing she asked on the short subway ride was where I’d taken Jesper. I calmly replied that he had to go to the doctor, just like Mommy.

  I don’t know if she believed me, but she didn’t say anything. Just nodded seriously. Wilma’s small, pale face is eerily perfect: round cheeks, long dark lashes, a half-open kiss of a mouth. I gently touch her cheek. Her skin is soft and warm.

  So beautiful, I think. So perfect and unspoiled. She really is a little miracle. There’s just one problem: She’s not mine. My child is dead and lost forever, disappeared before we even met.

  I sleep next to her that night. Several times I wake up when she turns and kicks me with her small, strong legs. Still, it’s taken root in me: the feeling that I’m part of something amazing and unique. That this child, all children, are the meaning of life. That the core of existence fits inside that small, chubby body next to mine, and that some kind of truth lives inside those pale blue, remarkably round eyes.

  Maybe I can keep her, I think. Maybe we can run away together. Start over somewhere where no one knows us.

  Maybe she can be mine for real.

  —

  Wilma wakes up before me. When I open my eyes, she’s fiddling with one of my earrings on the bedside table. Her arms are pale, almost like marble.

  “Are you hungry?”

  She doesn’t answer.

  “Wait here. I’ll go get us something to eat.”

  I go into the kitchen. The refrigerator is empty, except for a dried-up onion and a package of rancid butter. I search the pantry. No crackers. No cereal. Nothing a little kid might like. The freezer is almost empty, too. But on the lowest shelf, I see something. I bend forward and take out a carton, open a kitchen drawer, and reach for a spoon.

  Wilma sits obediently on the floor eating the ice cream. She spills on her clothes and on the carpet, but that doesn’t bother me. She’s so perfect, and again, the thought returns.

  What if she were mine?

  I go into the bathroom and look in the mirror. My short hair is standing straight up. Black makeup is smeared on the pale skin under my bloodshot eyes. Bloodstains cover my neck and arms. I rub myself down with soap, get into the shower, let the hot water run over my shoulders. Wash away the mess.

  From the kitchen, I hear rattling from the cutlery drawer. I guess that Wilma is exploring. I’ve just decided I should go out and see what she’s doing when I hear an excited shriek from the kitchen. Then Wilma shouts:

  “I found a treasure. Look!”

  I dry myself off and wrap a towel around my body. Go out into the kitchen. Wilma looks excited. She’s jumping up and down.

  “You found a treasure?” I ask.

  “Look!”

  At first, I don’t understand what she’s pointing at, but then I see the bundles of cash lying here and there on the floor. I sink down on my knees. Small red rubber bands hold the banknotes in place. And suddenly I understand. This is the money I inherited. The money that disappeared without a trace. I recognize those rubber bands.

  “Where did you find these?” My voice sounds hollow, like it belongs to someone else.

  “There.”

  Wilma bounces up and down as she points to a narrow cabinet to the left of the oven, where I keep baking sheets. It must have been months since I opened that cupboard. In fact, I know exactly the last time I did. It was the night Jesper and I were supposed to have our engagement dinner. And I was going to make canapés in the oven. I bend forward and stare into the dark space. It takes a few seconds for my eyes to adjust. There are more bundles lying inside. I take them out, count them, and consider a moment. It actually seems like all the money is still there.

  “How…? Was the door open?”

  Wilma shakes her head with an air of importance. She has big ice cream stains on her chin and T-shirt.

  “When I opened it, I found the treasure.”

  I nod, collapse onto the cold floor. Trying to figure out what happened. Jesper must have put the money back. But why would he put it in the cupboard in the kitchen? The only explanation I can see is that he actually didn’t want me to find the money. He hid it on purpose.

  Like he wanted to drive me crazy.

  Just as I’m about to close the long, narrow door, I catch sight of something else hidden in the dark. It looks like a tray standing on end, leaning against the wall. I grope inside and grab hold of it. The edge is made of wood. I gently pull it into the light, put it on the floor in front of me. Trying to understand.
/>   It’s the Ragnar Sandberg painting.

  —

  I’m standing in front of the mirror in the bathroom again. Searching my memory. Could I have put the money and the painting in the kitchen, and not remember it? Something flutters by. A vague recollection of a dark kitchen. The weight of the painting in my hands as I crouch in front of the cabinet.

  Am I going crazy?

  I sit down on the toilet and pee. I decide I must have dreamed it all. I think of Mom instead.

  Think of the fact that she never answered my question.

  —

  The woman in green scrubs put her hand comfortingly on my arm. She was young. Very young. It said “Soraya” on her name tag.

  “Emma. It’s good you could come right away. I’ll show you where she is.”

  We walked in silence through the corridor. Outside the windows, I saw the treetops. The delicate green foliage danced in the wind. Broken clouds chased one another across the blue sky. We passed by some kind of kitchen. On the round laminate table stood a black plastic pot of withered daffodils. The smell of coffee and microwave dinners leaked out into the corridor.

  The nurse’s steps were quiet but determined. She stopped outside a door and turned to me.

  “Before we go in…I need to warn you, your mother is hooked up to a respirator, which is helping her breathe. It may look a little scary with all the tubes and machines, but they aren’t making her suffer. She’s been given a lot of morphine, so she’s not in pain, but it may be difficult to communicate with her. She’s not quite conscious all the time.”

  “Will she recognize me?”

  The nurse smiled. I couldn’t decide if it was because my question was stupid or if she was just trying to be friendly.

  “If she wakes up, she’ll definitely recognize you. There’s nothing wrong with her mind, as you know. It’s just her body that…”

  She left the sentence unfinished.

  “Can I touch her?”

  “Absolutely. You can talk to her, hold her hand. Kiss her. It’s not dangerous and you won’t hurt her. But, as I said, I don’t know how aware she’ll be. She has developed both liver and kidney failure in the last few days, so she’s very…fragile.”

  In the distance I could see an old man tottering out into the corridor, aided by an assistant. He was pulling an IV pole behind him. Life’s end station: This is the way it looked. A white hospital corridor with shiny linoleum floors and stainless steel, adjustable beds. A silence punctuated only by the sucking and hissing of machines.

  The nurse opened Mom’s door. I put my hand on her arm, felt I had to ask. “Will she wake up again?”

  “It’s impossible to say.”

  Her dark brown eyes met mine. Then she gave me a brief smile and disappeared down the corridor in her silent white clogs.

  Halfway down, she turned back to me.

  “I’ll be at the nurses’ station if you need anything.” I nodded and walked into the room.

  I almost didn’t recognize her. It was as if her whole body had swollen up. Mom was big as it was, but this was something else. Her body seemed engorged with liquid. Her skin was shiny and glazed, almost transparent. Suddenly, I was afraid I’d make a hole in her if I touched her. That all the liquid would ooze out, like water from a balloon.

  Tubes were connected to her, and the only sound in the room was the hiss of the respirator painstakingly pumping air in and out of her chest.

  I wasn’t prepared for the shock.

  I think I’d somehow assumed I wouldn’t be affected, since our relationship was what it was. But I was wrong. My whole body started to shake, and when I grabbed a chair and sat down next to her, I broke out in a cold sweat. Strange memories, impossible to resist, caught me off guard: Mom, Dad, and I decorating a Christmas tree we’d stolen from the park. Mom lying in my bed, holding me tight, in one of those rare moments of love and closeness that I guarded like jewels. Her breath smelling sweetly of beer and cigarettes, and me not daring to move my face an inch away from her, despite the smell, filled as I was with unspoken gratitude for her affection. The blue butterfly, dead and broken on the floor, surrounded by shards of glass and dry, jagged branches.

  I laid my hand gently on Mom’s forearm, careful to avoid the large purple marks. She didn’t react. Her face was also swollen, especially around the eyes. It was hard to make out if they were open or closed.

  My tears surprised me. They ran down my cheeks, and I let them, didn’t even try to wipe them away. Inflammation of the kidney and liver failure, they said. And when I had asked if it could be because of the drinking, the doctor just nodded, explained that it couldn’t be ruled out. Told me many alcohol-related diseases end up in this department.

  I leaned over her. Put my face against her chest. Felt how it raised and lowered with the ventilator. And suddenly I had to know. I wouldn’t get another chance to ask the question that had plagued me for so long.

  I wiped my face against her yellow blanket and cleared my throat. Grabbed her arm tighter and studied her face closely.

  “Mom, it’s Emma.”

  The puffy face showed no reaction. I gripped her arm even tighter, so that her skin whitened under my fingers and my nails left small crescent-shaped marks on her unnaturally shiny skin. I patted her face with my other hand. Maybe a touch too hard.

  “Mom, it’s Emma.”

  One of her eyelids twitched. I didn’t know if it was a reflex or if it meant she might have finally heard me. I leaned forward. Put my mouth to her ear.

  “Mom. I need to know…”

  The respirator hissed, and Mom jerked as if I’d pinched her cheek.

  “Mom. You have to tell me…And be honest. Is there something wrong with me?”

  PETER

  Sometimes I wish I could ask my mother for advice on these investigations. I imagine her standing in front of the evidence wall, her hands on her hips and a stern look on her face. Completely unmoved by the police crowding around her. She was unusually perceptive, in a slightly cynical way. She could see through a lie as soon as it was said, and she wasn’t afraid to speak up when she disagreed with something. She could make things a little awkward, in other words. And could be a thorn in the side of the establishment—at least that’s how she wanted to see herself.

  Hanne reminds me a lot of her. Minus the cynicism. Strange. Why haven’t I thought of this before?

  I look over at Hanne, who’s sitting at a desk and sorting through a pile of documents. There’s even a physical resemblance, something about the hair and the finely drawn, dark eyebrows. And in the way she moves, the way she tosses her head back when she laughs. As if she wants the whole sky to hear her.

  Is it really that simple? Did I fall in love with my mother?

  Love is a reflex, I think. Something we just do, like sleeping or eating. And maybe we fall in love with what feels familiar, like home. What reminds us of how life was before all the disappointment.

  Manfred comes over to me. Punches me gently in the side. “You look like shit. Anything the matter?”

  I smile at his awkward attempt at thoughtfulness. “Thank you. When do we head out?”

  “The SWAT team and the negotiator will be here in thirty. Apparently the property on Kapellgränd is vacant. It’s set to be demolished, so we don’t have to worry about any neighbors. You coming with us?”

  “If you keep your mouth shut.”

  He snorts loudly and pounds me on the back. “There you go, Lindgren. You do have some balls, after all.”

  —

  The apartment building on Kapellgränd is dark and apparently abandoned. On the bottom floor, plywood is nailed across the windows, with sharp pieces of glass still visible beneath. We’re sitting in Manfred’s car: Sanchez, Manfred, Hanne, and me. Somewhere out there in the darkness the SWAT team is hiding. They’ve already searched the apartment and found it cleaned out, except for a bunch of empty bottles, a pile of old porn magazines, and a few dirty blankets on the floor. They found no
trace of a child, but we’ve decided to wait awhile, in case Emma shows up here.

  Hanne has been right before.

  Morrissey is on the radio, as usual, but at such low volume that I almost can’t make out the lyrics: You have never been in love / until you’ve seen the sunlight thrown / over smashed human bone.

  Is it true? I think. Did she do it out of love?

  A few lone pedestrians pass by in the wind. A couple of women in veils are walking up from Götgatan, arm in arm. Maybe they’re on their way to the mosque.

  Manfred drums his fingers impatiently on the steering wheel and peers out into the darkness. Wipes away condensation from the inside of the windshield with the sleeve of his camel-hair ulster overcoat and sighs.

  “Maybe she’s not coming. Could we be looking in the wrong place?”

  No answer.

  A lone cyclist wobbles by just as my cell rings. It’s Janet.

  Normally I’d send her straight to voicemail, but since I’ve four missed calls from her already, and I’m not doing anything at the moment, I decide to answer.

  “You need to come right now!” she says breathlessly.

  Something clicks inside me, but I keep my voice even. “Did something happen?”

  Manfred turns toward me with a questioning look. I understand immediately that he doesn’t think this is the right time to discuss family problems. But Janet has never cared about such considerations.

  “It’s Albin,” Janet sobs. “They took him.”

  I breathe. “Took him?”

  “Yes, the police took him.”

  I try to think a step ahead, but I come up blank. “The police? Why?”

  “He…They…found…”

  “Settle down. What happened?”

  My concern is mixed with embarrassment. This is what Janet has done countless times—called in the middle of something important, expecting me to drop everything. She’s never shown any understanding of the job I have to do. Even though I’ve sent her money every month for fifteen years.

  My colleagues’ eyes burn into me, but the image of Albin’s face steadies me. His lean teenage body and his ears protruding through his thin hair. Janet’s ears. And I remember his words that night when he came to see me in Farsta with a skateboard in one hand and a grocery bag in the other: