After She's Gone

by Camilla Grebe

  It’s just me and the darkness and the snow falling silently onto Berit’s little cottage.

  Malin

  I stare out the windshield. Realize I’ve almost forgotten how perfectly black the night is here.

  Almost like a grave.

  Plus it’s still snowing, making the visibility even worse, and forcing me to slow down to a crawl.

  When I arrive home, I notice that the outdoor light is broken. I remind myself to buy new bulbs for it tomorrow. Ragnhild wasn’t so far off when she pointed out that Mom’s property needs some attention. And even I can screw in some lightbulbs, though I’m probably the least handy person in Ormberg.

  When you live in the country, you’re supposed to be handy and strong.

  This isn’t a place for people who are all thumbs. Trees fall, roads get snowed in, cars break down in the middle of the forest, and the power goes out during autumn storms.

  It’s a demanding way of life.

  Nor are you supposed to be a wuss or a whiner in Ormberg, or find life better anywhere else, for example in Stockholm—especially not in Stockholm. And if you do, you better keep it to yourself. Or you’ll end up frozen out as quickly and surely as the summer vacationers disappear in August.

  Mom is standing by the stove when I come in. Her short, square figure is so different from my own. We used to joke about it when I was a little, how I didn’t look like her at all, how she must have picked me up from a troll in the woods.

  The elk stew simmering on the stove smells like juniper, and she’s holding a glass of wine in her hand.

  “Hello!” she says, putting down her glass to give me a quick, tight hug that almost squeezes the breath out of me.

  Yes, Mom is made for life out here.

  Strong, tough, and for the most part satisfied with life. Or at least with her life—she worries herself to bits over me. Mostly because I’m a cop. I don’t think she understands that my work in Katrineholm consists primarily of dealing with drunks, interviewing shoplifters, and filling out paperwork. Maybe that’s why I was so pleased to be asked to take part in this investigation.

  Finally, some excitement—a serious crime, a murder investigation, a chance to make a difference.

  And in the most unexpected of all places: Ormberg.

  I don’t think any other serious crime had been committed here since that German tourist was knifed at the campsite down by the lake during a fight three years ago. But he needed only three stitches at the doctor’s office in Vingåker before going back to slurping beers under the awning of his RV.

  Otherwise, not much happens here: some petty theft, some vandalism and graffiti at the building that used to be Brogrens Mechanical, but which now seems to exert an almost hypnotic force on the teenagers of Ormberg. There’s also some drunken domestic abuse calls and some arrests for drug possession—people do a lot more drugs in the countryside than you’d think.

  But that’s it.

  Until a few days ago, anyway.

  I sit down at the kitchen table and turn to Mom.

  “Do you need help?”

  Mom shakes her head, wipes the sweat off her forehead with the back of her hand, and takes a sip of wine.

  “No, no. Sit, you’ve been working all day.”

  And I reflect that that’s exactly what I’ve been doing all day. Sitting: at the office, at Berit’s, and then at the office again.

  “It’s just terrible,” Mom says. “About the dead woman at the cairn.”

  “Yep.”

  “Was she from here?”

  “No. I’ve never seen her before.”

  Mom takes a sip from her wooden ladle. Reaches for the mortar, takes a pinch of something inside, and sprinkles it into the pot.

  “And that cop from Stockholm. Have you found him?”

  I think about Peter. For the first time since his disappearance, I admit to myself that the likelihood that something terrible happened to him is much greater than that we’ll find him nursing a broken foot in one of the summerhouses.

  “No, we haven’t found him.”

  “How long has he been gone now?”

  “Five days.”

  Mom tilts her head to the side as if trying to calculate how likely surviving five nights in the woods would be.

  I think she too finds the probability microscopic, because she says nothing more about it. Instead, she puts the ladle into the stew and stirs it.

  I notice that the table is set with four faded flowery plates. And with the good silverware, which is usually kept in a wine red felt case in the top drawer of the china cabinet.

  “Are we four tonight?” I ask. “I thought it was only you, me, and Margareta.”

  Margareta is my father’s sister, but we don’t meet very often nowadays. Like Mom, she’s spent her whole adult life in Ormberg. And also like Mom, she’s made for the countryside—physically strong and the opposite of wussy. Nor have I ever heard her express the slightest desire to live anywhere else.

  This is either the center of the earth or the end of it, depending on how you look at it.

  “Magnus is coming, too.”

  I nod. I haven’t told Mom how I saved Magnus from a beating by a bunch of brats in the woods on Monday. In part because I promised to keep it quiet, in part because just thinking about it upsets me.

  “Did you talk to the priest about the wedding?” I ask.

  Mom stiffens. Then she walks over to the table, wipes her hands on her apron, and sits down across from me.

  “Malin. Sweetheart. Have you two really thought this through?”

  “What do you mean?”

  She wrings her hands and looks down at the table.

  “It’s just that…sometimes I get the feeling or, I wonder…do you really love him?”

  “Are you crazy? Of course I love him.”

  Mom sighs.

  “Marriage is a big step. Do you have to move so fast? Why don’t you live together for a while first?”

  Mom’s right that we haven’t lived together for very long. We met when I was studying at the Police Academy, and only lived together a month before I got the job at Katrineholm and moved. Now we commute back and forth and, of course, that’s not an ideal situation. But I still don’t understand why Mom is saying this. Why she doesn’t respect my choices like I respect hers.

  I mean, the fact that she chooses to live in this backwater, for example.

  But Mom continues:

  “Sometimes I wonder if…I mean, you know after what happened with Kenny…”

  “Please! Stop!”

  “Okay, okay,” Mom mumbles.

  “Why are you even saying this? Don’t you like Max?”

  Mom takes a deep breath and looks straight at me. Her pale blue eyes are red-rimmed. The wrinkles around her mouth and her heavy eyelids make her seem tired and sad.

  “Yes, I do. But I’m not the one marrying him, Malin. Tell me why you love him, what you love about him.”

  “What is this? A goddamn test? I love him because…We have it good together, okay? He’s a good guy. He’s fun and smart and makes good money and we’ll have a good life.”

  “In Stockholm?”

  “What does that matter?”

  “It doesn’t matter where you live. But sometimes I get the feeling you want to run away from here. And that’s not a good basis for a marriage. If you run from something, make sure it’s not yourself you’re running from.”

  Mom’s right, of course: I do want to escape this place. Any sane person would if you ended up here. You don’t put down roots in Ormberg unless you’re crazy, or born here, or both.

  But what I have with Max has nothing to do with wanting to leave.

  Max is perfect for me. I can’t explain it any other way. He’s everything I’ve ever wanted: ambitious,
urban, and financially secure.

  And besides: What is love anyway, other than friendship spiced up with a little sex? I fuck my best friend, and I’m fine with that, thank you very much.

  But that’s hardly something I can say to Mom.

  Why do people talk about love all the time, as if it were some sort of supernatural force? Almost like a religion. I don’t believe in love, and I don’t believe in God.

  I believe in hard work, determination, and persistence, things that give results.

  I believe in facts and science, not superstition and emotions.

  Especially not emotions—you should be damn careful about those. Otherwise, you don’t know what might happen. You might end up knocked up and stuck in a place like Ormberg. Tied for an eternity to some snot-nosed kids and some guy that seemed exciting for one summer evening down by the lake when you were young and dumb and had five or six beers in you.

  Something blinks outside the window—headlights approaching in the dark. An old, rusty Saab drives up in front of the house.

  Magnus and Margareta.

  Mom looks at the clock.

  “Right on time. I told Margareta seven.”

  As soon as Mom opens the front door, Zorro, a huge German shepherd, comes bounding in. He barks, jumps around our legs like a pinball, and licks my hands. Then he runs into the kitchen to investigate if there’s anything edible on the floor.

  My aunt’s old dog is much more good-natured than he seems. She’s had him for as long as I can remember.

  Magnus comes inside, stamps off the snow on the doormat, and hangs up his jacket. Margareta follows behind him, wearing a dirty old coat and a big pink scarf. Her short brown hair stands on end when she takes off her knitted heart-patterned stocking cap.

  Mom takes off her apron, runs a hand over her sweater, and walks toward them.

  “Hello!” she says. “How are you two?”

  Magnus stares down at the floor while pulling off his boots. When he bends forward, I can see that the hair on top of his head has thinned out. The bare spots shine under the warm light of the ceiling lamp. His big body is more hunched than it used to be, his face more wrinkled. You can tell he’s passed forty-five.

  “Yes,” he drawls. “Fine.”

  I give him a tight hug, and, for once, he hugs back. Maybe he’s still grateful I saved him in the woods.

  “Things are great,” Margareta says in her husky, cigarette-soaked voice, and gives me a hug that smells like smoke and old dog.

  “Malin. Jesus, I forgot how tall you were. You should have been a basketball player instead of a cop.”

  Margareta laughs at her own comment and smiles widely. Her teeth are crooked and dotted by ugly fillings. The hands resting on my shoulders are strong and sinewy.

  Magnus’s washed-out fleece sweater is stretched tight over his heavy belly, and he’s wearing the kind of jeans you buy at the gas station halfway between here and Katrineholm.

  “Come in,” Mom says. “The food is ready.”

  We go into the kitchen and sit at the table. Mom and Margareta complain loudly about snow removal, and Margareta says she may call the county office to complain again this year, otherwise they won’t do shit.

  Margareta is good at making things like that happen. She has a finger in most pots here in the village. In fact, she’s probably the most influential person in Ormberg, which is impressive considering she’s a retired midwife and a single mother to her village-idiot son.

  Before Kenny died, I’d do anything I could to avoid spending time with Margareta. Mom used to remind me how tough Margareta had it, and how she needed us. Her first child died from pneumonia, at six months old. And her husband, whose name we were never supposed to say within earshot of Margareta, left her for a hairdresser from Flen while Margareta was pregnant with Magnus.

  I guess that’s why they’re so close.

  “Magnus got a job,” Margareta chirps.

  “Congratulations!” Mom says with a smile. “What are you going to do?”

  Magnus stares down at his lap.

  “He’s gonna help Ragnhild Sahlén clear brush by the creek,” Margareta answers. “In the spring, of course.”

  “That’s a wonderful job,” Mom says, smiling encouragingly at Magnus.

  “Congratulations,” I say, and think there are actually some advantages to living in a small town like Ormberg. The people here take care of each other. It’s a kind of solidarity I’ve never seen in Katrineholm or Stockholm. And even though the kids throw stones at Magnus, he has a place here. He can be part of the community.

  He’s allowed to be needed.

  We talk about snow removal a little while longer, then Margareta turns to me and puts a bony hand on mine.

  “It’s just awful, Malin. Absolutely awful. Running into that corpse. And by the cairn of all places. Isn’t it odd?”

  I nod.

  “What exactly happened?” she asks.

  “I can’t really talk about that.”

  “Of course,” Margareta agrees, but then she pats my hand a little and continues:

  “And what about that cop from Stockholm? Has he turned up yet?”

  “No.”

  She shakes her head slowly and purses her mouth into the shape of a pale raisin.

  “So terrible!” she says. “Imagine if he’s out there in the woods. Frozen like a fish stick.”

  “Oh, Margareta,” Mom says, and slams down her glass.

  “I’m sorry! But surely that’s what you’re all afraid of?”

  Margareta’s eyes meet mine.

  “Yes,” I say, trying not to picture Peter as a fish stick.

  “No disrespect to the Stockholmers,” Margareta says, and coughs, “but it’s easy to get lost in the woods around here if you don’t know your way. Easy to underestimate the danger. And as for the cairn. I find it hard to believe in things that you can’t see, but I’d bet my life there’s ghosts there. I remember that German family who—”

  “Please, Margareta,” Mom says.

  Margareta shrugs her shoulders slightly and looks insulted. Magnus continues mechanically shoveling elk stew into his mouth during the silence.

  “Do you think his disappearance has anything to do with the woman by the cairn?” Mom says.

  “No clue,” I say. “Maybe. There must be a reason why Peter and Hanne—the one we found in the forest—went out into the storm. But we don’t know. Although…”

  “What?” Margareta asks, her eyes wide.

  It’s very typical of Margareta: the unbridled curiosity, the shameless digging into other people’s business.

  “We’ll find him,” I say, trying to sound sure. “As soon as Hanne starts to remember what happened.”

  “Then let’s hope she does,” Margareta says. “He can’t lie out there in the snow all winter.”

  Mom throws her a look of warning, but says nothing.

  “I’m just saying it would be terrible if one of the children found him,” Margareta says.

  Magnus stops with his fork halfway to his mouth.

  “Who’s dead?” he asks, and suddenly looks afraid.

  “Nobody we know is dead,” I say, leaning forward and patting his hand. He pulls it away.

  “But what does she say then, the woman who lost her memory?” Mom asks, reaching for her wine.

  “Hanne? I can’t tell you that. The details of the investigation are confidential.”

  Margareta turns to Mom and holds up a pack of cigarettes.

  “May I?”

  “Sure,” Mom says, pushing the old ashtray with the Cinzano logo on it, the one we’ve had as long as I can remember, toward her.

  Margareta lights a cigarette and takes a deep, satisfied drag. Then she coughs.

  “Why in the world they would l
eave that poor, confused woman with Berit is beyond me.”

  “Is she staying with Berit Sund?” Mom asks in astonishment.

  Margareta nods, and her eyes shine.

  “Insanity,” she says emphatically. “That old biddy can barely take care of herself and her limping dog.”

  She takes another drag. The cigarette crackles and turns red.

  “I’ve heard Berit is having money problems,” Mom says. “She probably needs the extra cash.”

  “Berit always has money problems.” Margareta chuckles. “I remember the winter of ’85. I was on my way to attend a delivery in Berga. A critical situation—breech—and they couldn’t get to the hospital because of the storm and…”

  I wish I were somewhere else. I can’t stand listening to Mom and Margareta’s never-ending gossip.

  Magnus is still staring down at the table. Not once during the meal has he met my eyes. He’s looked everywhere else: at Mom, Zorro, the stew, and the kitchen ceiling.

  Just as Margareta is launching into a very detailed story about how Berit borrowed money to replace a car that she then managed to set on fire, my phone rings. Usually I wouldn’t answer in the middle of dinner, but at the moment it’s a welcome break. I’ve heard the story of Berit’s car at least a hundred times.

  “Excuse me,” I say, stand up, and go to the hall. “Have to take this, it’s work.”

  * * *

  —

  It’s Manfred calling.

  I can hear the drone of the portable heater in the background and realize that he hasn’t left the office, even though it’s past nine.

  But, of course, his wife and daughter are at home in Stockholm. There’s not much else to do besides work.

  Ormberg is full of things you can’t do.

  Can’t go to the gym, can’t have a beer at the pub, can’t order a pizza. Can’t stop by a cafe and grab a latte or pick up the evening paper. Can’t go to the post office or buy milk or a carton of eggs to make some pancakes, if you happened to forget to buy them earlier.

  Nevertheless, Manfred has gone back to Stockholm only once since we got here two weeks ago, even though it takes just a couple of hours to drive there.