The Ice Beneath Her

by Camilla Grebe

  Had a fight with Mom. Can I crash at your place?

  Then I think of his eyes, the look he gave me as Janet led him out to the car, and how I jumped behind the curtain so he wouldn’t see me.

  When have I ever been there for him?

  “They found marijuana in his backpack, Peter. And now he’s sitting in jail with that horrible gang from Skogås. You have to do something. You are his father, after all. You have to…”

  Her voice rises into a falsetto, and I instinctively take the phone from my ear to avoid that sharp sound.

  “Well…what? What do you want me to do?” I shout.

  I hear her roar through the phone in my lap. Everybody in the car hears. It’s the same shriek as when she found the wedding invitations in my desk drawer. A roar from the abyss, filled with the same bottomless anger and disgust. And suddenly it’s as if I see myself through her eyes. I see the monster she thinks I am. The spineless creature who left her to raise Albin alone.

  A moment later I hear my mother’s voice. Weak and a little thick, as if eternity has deprived her of her sharpness. Responsibility, Peter. Isn’t it time you take a little responsibility?

  “Janet, I’ll call you right back.”

  She begins to protest.

  “No,” I say, and—though it must sound absurd to her to hear it from me—“Trust me. I’ll call you right back.”

  —

  Hanne’s gaze rests heavily on me as I climb out of the car. She opens the door and walks over to me. Puts her hand on my arm.

  “I want you to stay,” she says quickly.

  “I can’t,” I say, and meet her eyes.

  I should explain what happened. Tell her about Albin and Janet and the debt that has to be paid back one day. Explain that the day has come, as I probably always knew it would.

  “I’m begging you,” Hanne says. “I’m sure she’s on her way here.”

  “I have to go,” I say, and I go.

  —

  On Götgatan I pass by a pub. The red neon sign flashes in the darkness, screaming out its promise of warmth and oblivion, and suddenly I yearn for a beer. Just one glass inside that warmth, instead of heading directly to the police station in Farsta or back to Hanne. A refuge from all the choices that make life so damned hard to navigate.

  But refuge isn’t what I need now—and it certainly isn’t what I deserve. What I need is a quiet place where I can make an important call.

  I step inside, quickly take the place in: the people slung over their drinks, the sports playing on muted TVs, the vinyl-covered sofas and the beer glasses glistening in the dim, yellowish light.

  I put the phone to my ear.

  EMMA

  I don’t understand Wilma. I’ve spent the whole week trying everything to get her settled into my home. I read books to her, made pancakes, and did craft projects. We fed the pigeons at Karlaplan and watched the dogs playing in the snow at Gärdet Park. And when someone rang the doorbell, we hid under the bed playing the quiet game. But instead of getting closer to me, she’s become increasingly difficult to make contact with. Slipped into herself in a strange way. She’s sat for hours just staring at her hands or methodically cutting paper into tiny pieces, then tossing them down like flower petals onto the floor around her.

  Many times we’ve passed by newspapers with Jesper’s image on them, but she hasn’t seen them, or if she has, she didn’t understand. I myself looked away when I saw the photos above the headline “Famous CEO Wanted for Murder.” Couldn’t meet his eyes, didn’t want to think about everything he did to me.

  The last few nights, Wilma has been waking up screaming in terror, and when I shake her lightly awake from her nightmare she asks for her mother and pushes me away. I wish I could make her feel safe with me, but I just don’t know how. Several times I’ve found myself getting angry with her for being so ungrateful and had to remind myself she’s just a child. She can’t help that she’s ended up in this situation. It’s my responsibility—my duty—as an adult not to lose my patience.

  —

  We are on our way to McDonald’s, which is the only thing that seems to put Wilma in a good mood. She has her sticky little hand in mine and is babbling on about how she found the treasure last week. I think there’s one positive thing about the money and painting surfacing: My financial problems are solved. At least for the short term. And yes, I’m happy I found the painting. It means a lot to me, not just because of its value, but because in some strange way it connects me to my past, is a bridge to my childhood. To a world that no longer exists. To Mom and my aunts and their merry tea parties. To sugary, slightly burnt cinnamon buns, the smell of cigarette smoke, feeling safe on Aunt Agneta’s knee, wedged between her enormous breasts.

  The snow falls over Karlaplan. Big woolly flakes cover the drained fountain. The large trees stand in a silent, serious circle, as if guarding the square and all of the city’s inhabitants. Fake Christmas trees and sacks of firewood are lined up outside the hardware store. People stream in and out of the Fältöversten Mall carrying bags of Christmas gifts. It strikes me that I’ll neither give nor receive any presents this year, now that Mom is dead. Christmas will come, but a different kind of Christmas. At the corner store, I see the headline: “Five-Year-Old Kidnapped.” The picture doesn’t look much like Wilma, but still I hold her more tightly. Pull her away.

  “Can I get a Happy Meal? Please, I want a Happy Meal. Please.”

  “Okay,” I say without really thinking.

  Maybe it’s a bad idea to let Wilma decide for herself what to eat. Maybe she’ll end up with bad eating habits.

  “And a milk shake? Please.”

  I hesitate a moment. I decide to worry about her diet later. It’s more important to take advantage of those moments when Wilma is communicative and friendly to me.

  “Sure.”

  We eat in silence in the noisy restaurant.

  The ice cream stains on Wilma’s clothes are complemented by ketchup and grease stains from the fries. It’s crowded and humid. The floor in the restaurant is covered in a thick layer of brown slush that patrons have tromped in. Suddenly, a woman slips. One of the drinks on her tray slides off and falls down toward Wilma. I catch it a second before it hits her. The woman, who’s wearing a puffy coat and ski cap, has two small children in tow. She puts her hand to her mouth in horror.

  “Oh no. I’m sorry. Is your daughter okay?”

  At first, I don’t understand what she means. Then I smile widely. “Don’t worry. Everything’s fine.”

  Something warm spreads through my frozen body. I look at Wilma, who seems completely oblivious to the little drama that’s just taken place. She licks the salt and grease from her tiny fingers with her head tilted to the side. Her fair hair falls in matted curls down onto her shoulders.

  Is your daughter okay?

  On the way home I can’t stop thinking about it. What if she could be mine for real? Now that I have money again, maybe it’s possible. We could run somewhere far away. Norrland, maybe. Hide out. Get a new cat or a small dog.

  It would surely take a while for her nightmares to disappear, and for her to start trusting me fully, but I’m sure she would eventually. I just have to give her some time.

  I grab Wilma’s hand again. It’s as sticky as before.

  “When are we gonna see Mommy?” she asks. Irritation flares up inside me.

  “I don’t know,” I say truthfully. “When your mommy is well again.”

  “But when will Mommy be well again?”

  “I don’t know that either. Only the doctor knows.”

  “Can we ask the doctor?”

  Suddenly I just can’t take her whining anymore. I’ve answered these questions a thousand times—how long is she going to keep asking about her mother anyway?

  “No, we can’t, because—”

  I stop abruptly, and stare at the entrance to my apartment building. Feel my legs almost give way beneath me.

  There are several police cr
uisers parked on the street outside my building. Dark-clad figures conversing outside the door. Two German shepherds are sniffing the sidewalk.

  —

  We hurry back toward Karlaplan. Wilma is grumpy now. She wants to go home and look at the treasure, doesn’t want to go anywhere else.

  “Ouch, the scissors hurt,” she whines as I pull on her, trying to get her to hurry up.

  “What scissors?”

  Wilma fishes my big kitchen scissors, which she was playing with, out of her pocket. “The ones I was cutting with.”

  “Are you crazy? You put scissors in your pocket? What if you fell! They could have stabbed you.”

  I pull the scissors out of her hand and put them in my pocket. Filled with an unfamiliar feeling: the fear that Wilma will hurt herself. So this is what it’s like to be a parent, I think, and for some reason I feel a kind of satisfaction.

  Before we go down into the subway, I cast a look behind me, but nobody seems to be following us. The people outside my building don’t look nearly as threatening from a distance. I slow down the pace. Exhale. Release my grip on Wilma’s arm. She doesn’t say anything, just pinches her little mouth.

  “Can I have an ice cream?” she says as we pass by the newspaper stand. Her light blue eyes catch mine.

  “It’s really cold,” I try.

  “I’m not cold. I’m hot. Can I get an ice cream? Please.” She pulls on my arm.

  I sigh. Go into the store and buy her an ice cream.

  I have only three hundred kronor in my wallet. I didn’t bring more when we left the apartment, and now it’s too late to go back. This isn’t even enough to rent a car, which is a shame, because if we had a car we could at least get out of town. Drive somewhere else.

  We go down into the subway. Wilma eats her ice cream from the bottom up, and it drips down onto her coat. Big vanilla puddles run down her chest. I decide to ignore it. I have more pressing concerns.

  The train rolls into the station, and we board. We sit opposite each other. Wilma has finished her ice cream by now, but still has the wooden stick in her mouth. She sucks and bites on it, until it breaks in two pieces.

  At the Östermalmstorg stop a woman in a puffy winter coat gets on. She passes through the car handing out some sort of sheet of laminated paper, which reads: Please help my daughter. She’s disabled due to cerebral palsy, and we have no money for a wheelchair or physical therapy in Odessa. I look at the picture. A smiling ten-year-old is sitting in an armchair. Her teeth and glasses look far too big for her little face. Her arms and hands are curved, as if cramping. Her legs look strangely thin, like they belong to another, smaller body. A dog stands beside her.

  “This is my daughter.”

  The woman is suddenly beside me. Her accent and blue eyes remind me of someone, and suddenly the pieces fall into place, and I know exactly where to go.

  I give the woman back her photo and shake my head. Feel my heart pounding in my chest.

  “I’m sorry. I don’t have any money.”

  —

  Olga is folding jeans when we come in. I don’t see Mahnoor or Björne. Maybe they’re in the stockroom. Maybe on a break.

  Olga hugs me tightly. The scent of her perfume hangs heavy around her and almost makes me sneeze.

  “What did you do to yourself?”

  She widens her pale blue eyes, and I’m struck by how similar she is to the woman on the subway. Not just the accent, but also her appearance. They could be sisters.

  “What do you mean?”

  She runs her hand through my short hair.

  “You look like a man, Emma. Do you want to look like a man?”

  Before I can answer, Mahnoor pops up behind me. Puts her hand softly on my shoulder. I turn around, and she hugs me.

  “You look great,” she whispers in my ear. “Don’t listen to her. I’m so sorry. We heard you were laid off. They’re such assholes.”

  Then they notice Wilma. A wrinkle appears on Olga’s forehead.

  “This is Wilma,” I say. “I’m taking care of her.”

  “So you found a job?” Olga says. I nod.

  Mahnoor and Olga look at Wilma again, but she seems to have lost interest in my colleagues. Instead, she’s exploring the shop. Crawling under racks of clothes. Fiddling with the security tags. Sorting through the barrettes and earrings at the checkout counter.

  “It’s just temporary. Her mother is ill. I’m taking care of her until she gets well.”

  Mahnoor and Olga nod. I turn toward Olga.

  “I promised her we could go to that water park in Södertälje. You know, that thing with slides and waves. Could I borrow your car again, Olga? I’ll bring it back tomorrow.

  “Sure. It’s a pain in the ass finding parking anyway.” Olga rolls her eyes.

  “Thank you so much.”

  I follow her into the staff room. She grabs her purse, which is encrusted in gold embroidery and rhinestones. Roots around in it. Pulls out a pack of cigarettes, a box of tampons, and a hairbrush, until she finds what she’s looking for.

  “Here. Just bring it back tomorrow afternoon. I don’t need it today.”

  I take the keys and give her a quick hug.

  “Thank you. You’re so sweet.”

  She looks down at the floor, suddenly embarrassed. “Stop. It’s nothing.”

  We go back out into the store. Wilma is sitting on the jeans table helping Mahnoor fold. Mahnoor smiles, and Wilma laughs. It looks very idyllic. They might as well be sitting in a park or a playground.

  I go over to them. Stroke Wilma’s cheek. “We have to go now, honey.”

  “No. I’m working,” she protests, and manages to sound very determined. Olga and Mahnoor laugh.

  “She’s a real sweetie. I could take her home.”

  Something glitters in Mahnoor’s dark eyes. I reassure myself that she has no idea that that’s exactly what happened, that I did take Wilma home with me.

  —

  Just as I’m leaving, a guy wearing a green parka enters the store. He walks toward us and as soon as his eyes meet mine, I recognize him.

  It feels like someone has just kicked me hard in the stomach. It’s Anders Jönsson, the journalist I met with. The one who specialized in sabotaging Jesper Orre’s life and career. A sort of colleague of mine, you might say.

  He looks at Wilma and then me, and I know that he knows.

  I turn around and the car keys drop from my hand onto the floor, but I ignore them. Instead I take Wilma by the hand and run out of the store toward the subway.

  HANNE

  Peter left. He got out of the car after that phone call and left, even though I asked him to stay. The weight of it settles on me.

  The atmosphere in the car is heavy. Sanchez and Manfred exchange meaningful glances, but say nothing. I wonder what they’re thinking, if they too are surprised by Peter’s sudden outburst, and how quickly he disappeared into the darkness toward the subway.

  “He does that sometimes,” Manfred says tactfully, as if reading my thoughts.

  I don’t respond.

  “I guess something must have happened,” Sanchez says, and her eyes linger on me.

  Do they know? I wonder. Have they sensed that my relationship with Peter is something more than professional?

  “We’ll be fine without him,” Manfred continues.

  “Why are you defending him?” I ask. “He disappears, and you seem to think it’s perfectly normal. But is it? Do you really think that’s okay?”

  No answer.

  We sit there for a moment. In silence. Then Manfred’s phone rings. He lifts up his big body to grab the phone from his back pocket and answers. Listens for a long time. After he hangs up, he turns to me.

  “A witness saw Emma Bohman and Wilma half an hour ago at her former workplace. A journalist who writes articles about Orre, and who’s met her before.”

  “What do we do?” Sanchez says.

  “We head out,” Manfred says, and starts the car.

/>   “Wait,” I say. “Can’t we stay a little longer? I still think she’s going to come here.”

  Manfred throws me a tired look. “We’re searching in the wrong place. We should go back now.”

  “No. I’m staying.”

  “You’re coming with,” Manfred says, an edge in his voice. I open the car and step out. It’s dark and a hard crust has formed on top of the slush.

  “I’m staying,” I say, facing Manfred. Manfred and Sanchez exchange a glance.

  “Do what you want,” Manfred says. “But I think you should take the opportunity to go home and get a few hours of sleep. There’s nothing you can do here alone anyway.”

  Then the car takes off in a cloud of exhaust.

  I’m freezing. The cold penetrates my damp winter coat, and I realize I’ve forgotten both my gloves and my hat in the car. Luckily I have my notepad with me; it’s lying safe and sound in the inside pocket of my coat. The idea of Manfred and Sanchez reading my notes—the names and physical descriptions of the members of the investigative team—and finally realizing the extent of my problems feels far more frightening than the cold. The shame of the unmentionable is beyond everything else.

  Dementia.

  A case for the memory clinic.

  On her way to becoming a vegetable.

  I clench my hands in my pockets. I try not to think about the disease or the cold biting my cheeks. Instead I focus on the Inuit. How they survived winter after winter, in bitter cold. Fishing and hunting even though they lived in total darkness for months. How they made sacrifices to the sea goddess Sedna, so she’d let them catch sea animals without pulling them down into the depths.

  —

  A half hour goes by without anything happening. I pull up my hood and push my hands down into my pockets. Tramping in place, unsure of what I should do. The apartment building on Kapellgränd stands empty and dark in front of me, the shards of glass behind the plywood glistening in the moonlight like sharp teeth.

  Maybe Manfred was right. Maybe I should go home to Gunilla’s. Take Frida for a walk, crawl into bed. Sleep without setting an alarm clock. Forget this day—Peter leaving the car, my gloves and hat still in the backseat.