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- Herausgeber: Allison & Busby
- Kategorie: Abenteuer, Thriller, Horror
- Sprache: Englisch
- Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2018
Where is the line between hope and madness? Stella and her boyfriend were teenagers when their one-year-old daughter, Alice, vanished during a holiday. Though her body was never found, Alice was assumed to have drowned. Twenty-one years later, Stella is happily married and a successful therapist. But everything falls apart when a new patient walks into her office. The young woman introduces herself as Isabelle - but Stella is sure she's Alice. But when no one believes her, Stella begins to doubt her own mind. Even when her life is threatened, she can't convince anyone the danger is real. But for the chance to get her daughter back, Stella will risk anything: her licence, her marriage, her life. And in doing so, she'll confront a series of chilling questions. What happened on the beach all those years ago? If Alice is alive, why has she come back now? And how far will Stella go to save her?
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Seitenzahl: 541
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TELL ME YOU’RE MINE
Elisabeth Norebäck
Translated from the Swedish by Elizabeth Clark Wessel
CONTENTS
STELLA
I’m lying on the floor.
Legs pulled up, arms around my knees.
Inhale. Exhale.
My heart’s still pounding in my ears, the pain in my stomach has turned to nausea, but at least I’ve stopped shaking.
My name is Stella Widstrand now, not Johansson. I’m thirty-nine, not nineteen. And I don’t get panic attacks any more.
A grey autumn light streams in. I still hear rain pouring down outside. My office at the clinic looks the same as always. Tall windows, moss green walls. A large landscape painting and a wooden floor with a handwoven rug on it. My old, battered desk, the armchairs in the corners, just inside the door. I remember decorating this room, how carefully I chose every detail. I no longer recall why that felt so important.
I always imagined that I would find her. Not that she would track me down. Maybe she was driven by curiosity, wanting to see who I am. Maybe she’s come to accuse me, so I won’t ever forget.
Maybe she’s here for revenge.
It’s taken me so many years to rebuild my life, to get to where I am today. But even though I’ve left what happened in the past, still I’ve never forgotten. There are things you can’t forget.
I’m lying on the floor.
Legs pulled up, arms around my knees.
Inhale. Exhale.
Henrik kissed me on the cheek before he left for work this morning. I ate breakfast with Milo and dropped him off at school, then headed to Kungsholmen. Just a normal day. Fog on the windows, traffic over the Traneberg Bridge, mist hanging above the grey waters of Lake Mälaren, and no place to park when you get to the city.
Her appointment was an hour before lunch. She knocked, I opened the door, and I knew immediately. We shook hands, introduced ourselves. She called herself Isabelle Karlsson.
Does she know her real name?
I took her wet jacket. Said something about the weather and asked her to come inside. Isabelle smiled and sat down in one of the armchairs. She has dimples.
As I usually do when I meet a patient for the first time, I asked her why she sought help. Isabelle was prepared. She played her role very well and claimed she’s been suffering from a sleep disorder since her father’s death. She needs help dealing with grief. She said she felt lost and insecure, that she found social situations difficult.
It all felt extremely practised.
Why?
Why didn’t she just say what she wants? There’s no need to hide her real reason for coming.
She’s twenty-two now. Medium height, an hourglass figure with a narrow waist. Short, unpainted nails. She has no visible tattoos or piercings, not even in her ears. Her straight black hair hangs down her back. Still wet from the rain, it glistened against her pale skin, and it struck me how beautiful she is. More beautiful than I ever could have imagined.
The rest of the conversation is a haze. It’s difficult now to remember what I said. Something about the dynamics of group therapy, or something about communication, or how our self-image determines how we see others.
Isabelle Karlsson seemed to listen attentively. She tossed her hair and smiled again. But she was tense. She was on guard.
At first I felt sick to my stomach, then came the dizziness and the pressure on my chest, making it difficult to breathe. I recognised the symptoms. I apologised and left the room, went into the bathroom in the hallway. My heart raced, a cold sweat ran down my back, and the throbbing behind my eyes sent flashes of light through my head. My stomach knotted up, and I dropped down on my knees in front of the toilet and tried to vomit. I couldn’t. I sat on the floor, leaning against the tile, and closed my eyes.
Stop thinking about what you did.
Stop thinking about her.
Stop thinking.
Stop.
After a few minutes I went back in, told her she was welcome at group therapy next Wednesday at one o’clock. Isabelle Karlsson pulled on her jacket, lifted her hair from her neck, and tossed it. I wanted to stretch out my hand and touch it, but I stopped myself.
She noticed.
She saw my doubt, my desire to make contact.
Maybe that was exactly what she’d hoped to accomplish? To make me feel unsure?
She slung her bag over her shoulder, I opened the door for her, and she left.
I’ve dreamt of this day. Fantasised about how it would happen. How it would feel, what I would say. It wasn’t supposed to be like this. And it hurts more than I ever could have believed.
I’m lying on the floor.
Legs pulled up, arms around my knees.
Inhale. Exhale.
She’s come back.
She’s alive.
ISABELLE
‘Isabelle!’
I hear Johanna’s voice and turn around. I’m back in the M-building at the far end of campus. The lunch hour is almost over, the room is full of students, and every table and chair is occupied. It’s always packed here at lunchtime. I spin around, but don’t see Johanna until she stands up and waves.
‘Come over here,’ she calls out.
I have no desire to do so. I’ve spent the last hour on pins and needles. It felt like I might explode from holding all those feelings inside.
Grief. Rage. Hate. And the struggle to hide all of it. To smile and act nice. Be someone I’m not.
I’d much rather eat my sandwich alone before the next lecture starts. Think through what happened at the therapist’s office. But I always have a hard time saying no. I pull my bag up on my shoulder, then start winding my way through all those people, all those backpacks on the floor, all those green tables and red chairs, until I arrive.
Johanna’s the closest thing I have, have ever had, to a friend. And she has been ever since that first horrific period at KTH, the Royal Institute of Technology, when she took me under her wing and let me move in with her. Why, I don’t know. We’re not at all alike. She’s done so much, travelled all over the world. She has purple hair, pierced ears and nose, also a tattoo on her lower back and another on her forearm. It’s of a unicorn spraying fire. She’s cool, confident, knows what she wants.
Susie and Maryam, who are sitting next to her, are also very nice. But I can relax with Johanna, actually be myself.
‘Where’d you go?’ Maryam says. ‘I didn’t see you at the mathematics lecture.’
‘I wasn’t there,’ I say.
‘Did something happen?’ Susie puts a hand over her heart. ‘You never miss anything.’
‘I had to take care of something.’ I pull out the chair next to her, hang my jacket over the backrest, and sit down. It still surprises me when people even see that I’m here. When somebody notices me. Maybe even misses me. I’m so used to being invisible.
I open my bag and take out a sandwich I bought at 7-Eleven. It’s seen better days, so I throw it back in again.
‘Is it still raining?’ Johanna says.
‘Same as this morning,’ I answer.
‘Ugh, Mondays.’ Susie sighs while flipping through a textbook on mechanics. ‘Do you understand any of this?’
‘I wrote down a bunch of stuff about momentum last time,’ Johanna says, ‘but I can’t make sense of it.’
They laugh. I laugh, too. But part of me feels like I’m in a glass cage looking out. I feel like two different people. One is the person people see. But the other one, only I see. She’s the real me, and the difference between the two is profound. Inside me is a ravine of darkness.
And a tendency to be melodramatic.
‘Isabelle, you understand it, right?’ Maryam asks, turning towards me. ‘The panic is setting in, we need to start prepping for our exams soon.’
‘I promise, if you read the book you’ll get it,’ I say.
‘Just say it. If we spent our time studying instead of partying, we’d understand it, too.’ Susie nudges me and grins.
‘Admit she’s right.’ Johanna’s napkin hits me in the head. ‘Admit it, Isabelle.’
‘Do you think I’m boring?’ I say. ‘You think I’m a stick-in-the-mud, a nerd who doesn’t know how to have a good time? You’d all be lost without me, you slackers.’
I throw the napkin back at Johanna and burst out laughing when two more hit my head straightaway. I throw them at Susie and Maryam, too, and soon there’s a full-on napkin war at our table. We laugh and scream and everyone in the lunchroom stands up and starts shouting and—
My phone rings.
I do this way too often. Disappear into a fictional dream world. Play ridiculous little movies in my head. Scenes in which I’m as spontaneous and natural as everyone else.
I fish the phone out, look at the screen.
‘Who is it?’ Maryam asks. ‘Aren’t you going to answer?’
I send the call to voicemail and put the phone back.
‘Nothing important.’
After the lecture I head home by myself. Johanna is going to her boyfriend’s place. I wish I could have gone straight home after my appointment with Stella, considering how exhausting it was to meet her, but I didn’t want to miss anything important at school.
Now I’m on the metro. Alone, one of many strangers. When I moved here I hated that, but now I don’t mind. And after a year in Stockholm I can find my way around pretty well. In the beginning, I was terrified of getting lost. I mixed up Hässelby and Hagsätra, triple-checked how to get wherever I needed to go. In spite of that, I travelled around quite a bit, visited most of the shopping centres that were within reach of Stockholm public transportation.
I’ve taken the commuter trains to their final stations, tried out all the metro lines, and taken most of the buses in the city centre. I’ve walked around on the islands of Södermalm and Kungsholmen, through the neighbourhoods of Vasastan and Norrmalm, and spent a lot of time in the city centre.
I look at my fellow commuters and pretend I know everything about them. That old lady with orange hair and ruby red glasses, she works out at Friskis&Svettis twice a week, wears colourful leggings from the eighties, and stares saucily at men in the gym.
The couple holding hands and kissing each other: he’s a medical student and she’s a middle school teacher. They’re on their way home to their studio flat near Brommaplan. They’ll cook something together and watch a movie and fall asleep next to each other on the sofa. Then she’ll go to bed, and he’ll take out his computer and watch Internet porn.
The tall, skinny guy in the suit, coughing until he’s bent over double. He’s dying of lung cancer. No one knows how long he has left. How long do any of us have left? Life could end at any moment. It could be over today.
I miss Dad. Four months have gone by since that day in May. Four long, empty months. Afterwards, I found out that he’d been feeling sick for several weeks. Of course, he didn’t go to the doctor. I didn’t know a thing. Dad was hardly ever sick. Why would he bother me unnecessarily?
To say I feel guilty doesn’t begin to cover it. I went home too rarely. The last time I saw him was at Easter. I didn’t even stay the whole weekend.
Was it selfish of me to move? Dad wanted me to take this chance. He encouraged me to stay in the city, hang out with my new friends on the weekends, and to break free.
Only after he was gone did I learn the truth. And I will never forgive her for what she did. With all my heart I wish she was dead. I hate her.
Hate her.
Hate her.
Hate her.
STELLA
I wake up in our house on Alviksvägen in Bromma. I’ve been sleeping on the bed under a blanket. It feels like I’ve been lying here for days.
I asked Renate to cancel the rest of my patients and blamed it on a migraine. Hailed a taxi in the rain on St Eriksgatan. I don’t remember anything after that. I must have paid the driver when we arrived, left and gone inside. Took off my shoes and my coat, and climbed the stairs up to my bedroom. I don’t remember any of it.
My eyes ache, I have a pounding headache, and for a moment I wonder if I imagined everything. If I dreamt that a woman named Isabelle Karlsson came to my office.
I wish it was so.
Avoiding pain is a basic human instinct, trying to escape rather than face what hurts.
And I do wish I could escape.
At the sound of Henrik’s Range Rover rolling down the driveway, I get up from bed and walk over to the window. It’s still raining. Our neighbour is standing at the fence in a raincoat with his little yapping dog. Milo jumps out of the car and runs towards the house. Henrik greets our neighbour and follows after. The front door opens; I hear him shout hello. I close my eyes a few seconds, take a deep breath, and go down.
Milo slips past me, asks what we’re having for dinner. When I say I don’t know, he goes to the living room and throws himself onto one of the sofas. Henrik picks my coat up off the hall floor, hangs it, and says he tried to reach me.
I tell him my phone must be in my purse. He turns his face towards the floor. It’s lying next to my shoes. He picks it up, hands it over to me.
‘We wondered if we should pick up food,’ he says. ‘You didn’t make dinner.’ It’s more of a statement than a question.
‘I haven’t had time.’
‘Did something happen?’
‘Why do you think that?’
‘Your car?’
My Audi is still parked on Kungsholmen, not in the driveway.
‘I took a taxi.’
Henrik examines me closely. I give him a quick kiss, avoiding his gaze, and head into the kitchen. He follows me.
‘Milo needs to eat,’ he says, opening the fridge. ‘He has to leave soon.’
I forgot about Milo’s basketball practice. I never do that. I sit down at the kitchen table, check my phone. Two missed calls and one text message. Henrik takes a plastic container out of the freezer, shouts to Milo that food is on its way.
‘How was your day?’ he asks after a while.
‘Good.’
‘Everything okay?’
‘Yes,’ I answer.
‘Are you sure?’
‘I’m sure.’
Henrik stirs the pasta and warms up the Bolognese. While telling me something about plans to visit his parents in the country next weekend and Milo’s basketball game on Saturday. Also, his day at work. He sets the table: plates, cutlery, and glasses, fills a pitcher with water. Tells me more about work.
It’s just like any other Monday, meeting at home after a long day, chatting in the kitchen. My husband is the same, my son, too. Our beautiful home is unchanged. And yet it all feels so foreign. As if I’ve been transformed into someone else. As if I’m a stranger in my own life.
Henrik calls out to Milo to tell him the food is ready. No reaction from the living room. He tells him to come now, but Milo dawdles. I walk to the living room, go over to the sofa. I take off his headphones and pull the iPad out of his hands. I snap at him that he’s in a hurry. Milo is surprised at first, then annoyed. He strides past me and sits down at the kitchen table.
Henrik puts his hand on my arm when Milo’s not looking. I know exactly what he wants to say. Take it easy. What’s the matter with you?
I should tell him what happened. Should talk to him. It’s not like me to keep secrets. I am, after all, a psychologist and a certified psychotherapist. I verbalise my emotions, I discuss things, figure out where the problem might lie. Especially when it comes to something that could transform our lives. Plus Henrik is my best friend. We’re always open with each other, we talk about everything. He knows me better than anyone else, which is what makes it so hard to hide something from him. I’ve never wanted to, either. Until now.
I can’t choke down any dinner. Henrik and Milo talk to each other; I don’t know about what. I hear them, but also don’t. My thoughts constantly return to her.
Isabelle Karlsson.
I wonder why she’s using that name. I wonder how much she knows.
Milo is telling us about some super-sweet bike he wants. He takes out his phone to show us. I apologise, get up from the table, and leave the kitchen. I go to the laundry room and try to compose myself.
A panic attack. Only one, in twelve years. I’m losing control and can’t do anything about it. Panicked terror and paralysing anxiety are taking over my body, invading my thoughts and feelings. Like boarding a runaway train, then being forced to ride it all the way to its final destination. And I never wanted to go there again. I’d do anything to avoid going there again. The thought of exposing my family to this terrifies me.
If I’d known what this meeting would entail, would I have gone through with it? If I’d known who she was, would I have been brave enough to meet her?
If it’s really her.
I can see myself asking her. Looking into her eyes, formulating the question, watching my words reach her consciousness, starting some chain reaction.
No, that’s not me.
Truth? Lie?
Yes, that’s me.
Truth? Lie?
I don’t trust Isabelle Karlsson. How could I? How could I trust her, when I have no idea what she wants? I have to find out more. I have to know.
Henrik is standing behind me; he puts his hands on my arms.
‘What is it?’ he says. ‘Talk to me, Stella.’
‘I’m tired.’
‘It’s not just that,’ he says. ‘I can tell something happened.’
He won’t give up. I turn around.
‘I had a shitty day,’ I say. ‘I got a migraine, cancelled everything, and went home.’ I imply that it has to do with Lina, a patient I’ve had problems with recently. I can tell he understands. Knew he’d interpret it that way.
Henrik touches my cheek and holds me. He asks if I have been contacted by the Health and Social Care Inspectorate. I haven’t. Not yet.
He tells me the last few months have been stressful, but it will all work out in the end. He’ll take Milo to practice tonight, I can stay home.
I stand at the kitchen window watching them leave.
Go up to the attic. Look in the bag.
The handbag in the attic. I haven’t touched it since we moved here, but after twelve years I still know exactly where it is. I don’t intend to look inside it. If I do, I’ll lose my mind again.
Twenty-one years ago my life was destroyed, but I rebuilt it. I can’t forget that. I chose to live. I couldn’t do anything else. The only alternative was death, and that was something I couldn’t do.
I focused on my education, on my goals. Five years later I met Henrik and fell in love.
I buried her. That doesn’t mean I forgot.
Look in the handbag, in the attic.
My panic attack today was a singular event. It won’t happen again. And I don’t need to go to the attic. What I need is sleep.
By the time I reach the bedroom I feel too tired to shower, too tired to wash off my make-up. Don’t even have the energy to brush my teeth. I take off the wristwatch Henrik gave me and put it in my bureau. My trousers and shirt I throw on the chair next to the door. I take off my bra and crawl under the blanket.
The rain’s still beating against the windows when I wake up in the middle of the night. I must have slept deeply, I didn’t even hear Henrik and Milo come home. The room is pitch-black thanks to our thick curtains. I usually prefer that, but tonight the darkness is suffocating.
Go up to the attic. Look in the handbag.
Henrik’s arm is draped over my waist; he grunts when I lift it off. I climb out of bed and pull on my robe. I sneak out of the bedroom and close the door. I pull a chair down the hall and place it under the hatch that leads to the attic. I climb up, grab the handle, and pull it down. Hold my breath when it creaks. I pull down the ladder, climb up, and turn on the lights.
The handbag is in the corner. I move a few boxes before I’m able to see it. A blue and wine-red paisley pattern, given to me by my mother years ago. I pick it up, then sink down to the floor and unzip it.
The spider has soft, limp legs of purple and yellow and a big silly smile. I pull the cord under its belly, but nothing happens. It used to play a few bars of ‘Itsy Bitsy Spider’. We found it hysterically funny.
A white blanket with grey stars. A small blue dress with lace around the neck and sleeves, the only garment I saved. I bury my nose in it, but it smells only of mothballs.
Photographs. In one stand three happy teenagers. Daniel; his sister, Maria; and me.
I’ve almost always had long hair. It’s thick and dark brown and naturally wavy. When this picture was taken it hung to the middle of my back. I’m wearing a yellow dress with a wide black elastic belt around my waist. Daniel’s arm is draped around my shoulders, he seems cocky and self-assured. His black hair is as dishevelled as ever, and he wears a pair of worn jeans and a flannel shirt with the sleeves cut off.
I wonder where he is right now. Wonder if he’s happy. If he ever thinks of me.
I look closely at Maria. Her waist-length straight hair is as black as Daniel’s. The resemblance to Isabelle Karlsson is uncanny. They could be sisters. Twins.
But it’s a coincidence. It has to be.
More photos. A seventeen-year-old holding a small baby. She’s barely more than a child herself. Both she and the baby are laughing. They have dimples.
My eyes sting, and I rub them with the sleeve of my robe. At the bottom of the bag is a red hardback book. I pick it up.
29TH DECEMBER 1992
Heeeeeelp! Shit, shit, shit. I’m pregnant. How could this happen? Or, I know how. But still. So that’s why I’m so tired all the time. So that’s why I’ve been so insanely moody and weepy.
Or like today. Me, Daniel, and Pernilla went to Farsta Centre to try on some clothes. I found a pair of super-cute jeans, but couldn’t button them even though they were my size. I really tried, but I couldn’t get them closed.
I totally overreacted, I know. I cried in the fitting room. Daniel didn’t get it at all and was insensitive, like he can be. ‘You on your period? Try on a bigger size, what’s the big deal?’ I got so angry I cried even harder. Pernilla chewed him out for me. We skipped shopping and got coffee instead.
How am I gonna tell Mum? She’s gonna hit the roof. Helena will think it’s awful. And Daniel, what’s he gonna say? He’s going to be a father. That’s not what we planned.
My emotions are out of control. My whole life is spinning.
I can’t believe we were so stupid. So irresponsible. All my plans, what am I gonna do now?
It feels like I’m going crazy. I go from laughing to crying every other second. I’m overjoyed. I’m terrified. A human being. Just like that?! Is it possible to already love this little creature inside me?
I want this baby. With him. I hope he wants it, too, because I can’t do anything else.
So, hello and welcome, whoever you are. The rest will have to wait.
ISABELLE
It’s mid-morning rush hour at Östra Station. Susie is a few steps below me on the escalator. I just turned around and noticed her looking at me. That means I’ll have to converse with her the rest of the way. Try to seem carefree, normal.
Normal. I don’t even know what the word means.
To be like everyone else?
Will I ever truly learn how to do that? So nobody sees what a weirdo I am? How evil I am?
Evil. I can’t call it anything else. I don’t do mean things. But sometimes I’m afraid I will. The hatred inside me, the ever-increasing rage. That’s what makes me evil. I don’t know what to do about it. And I suspect it will end badly. These thoughts I have, these feelings swirling inside me will surely lead to something terrible.
Am I being melodramatic again?
I step off the escalator and wait for Susie.
‘Heeey, Isabelle!’ she bursts out and comes over to me. She always speaks in exclamation marks. ‘So crazy that it’s not raining! It’s been such crappy weather for days! Where’s Johanna!’
‘She’s grabbing something to eat, I think.’
‘Grabbing something to eat.’ She laughs and mimics the melody of my country bumpkin accent. That happens more rarely now, and I don’t feel as embarrassed as I did in the beginning.
‘Where’s the lecture?’
‘Q1 hall,’ I answer.
‘Did you do the homework?’
‘Yes,’ I say. ‘And you?’ I toss my hair. A habit I’m trying to break.
Susie grimaces. ‘You’re so smart. I hope I don’t get called on today.’
She chatters the rest of the way, about how thankful she is it’s Friday, tells me everything that’s happening this weekend, how some people are going out on Saturday and do I want to come along, and then about how her dog threw up yesterday, and did I know her friend is a veterinarian, and, boy, do they see some gross stuff, ha ha. She reminds me that half of September has gone by, time is moving so fast, and it’s going to rain again soon.
I listen, hmmm sometimes. When we get to the hall, she heads off to the bathroom. I open the door and enter. The lecture won’t start for another eleven minutes. I look around before heading down the stairs. I choose a spot near the end of the third row.
I always sit close to the front. And always get there early. Sit with my notebook and pencils in front of me, ready to take copious notes. Every number and letter. I use different colours to mark things, underline them, and draw connections as a memory aid. There is something slightly neurotic about it. I know that. I’ve read about it. I have a thing about numbers. Even if I know I’m going to remember them, or will never need them again, I always write them down.
See you at three twenty-six. 03:26.
Take bus 515 or 67 from Odenplan. 515, 67.
Height sixty-four inches, weight one hundred and twenty-three pounds. 64, 123.
A lot of people think I’m too serious. Every student I know here at KTH takes their studies seriously, but they party, too. A lot. On Fridays there’s cheap beer at the student union, then there are the dinner parties where everyone wears coveralls over their nice clothes and ends up getting wasted, there are also the beer-drinking contests and the pub crawls organised by the various classes, and when exams are over there’s always a huge blowout to celebrate. Not to mention all the house parties.
Johanna and Susie always try to get me to go to them, but I’ve only done so a few times. The freshman party last spring was the only big party I’ve been to.
It’s not that I don’t want to join. I want to be one of the gang, and I wish it were easier for me. Easier to forget who I am.
Still, moving here is the best thing I’ve ever done. The number of friends I have on Facebook has increased drastically. I have more followers on Instagram. And I have Snapchat. I love it! I document my daily life. I take selfies. My digital reality is awesome, crazy, insane. When you look at my pictures you see a life filled with unforgettable moments where I’m surrounded by all these amazing friends who love me. Every like, every comment makes me happy. I know it’s superficial, but I don’t care. There’s nothing wrong with being superficial. And until last summer I was social in real life, too, not just online.
Then Dad died.
There’s a movement at the corner of my eye, and I look up. A guy I don’t recognise. He’s good-looking. He asks if he can pass by me, and I feel myself blushing. I stand up, and he smiles at me before squeezing into the row. Throws a long glance at my short dress and my knee-high boots.
One thing I’ve got used to this year is guys looking at me. At home I was invisible. My hair was the only feature I was satisfied with, even proud of. But my body? Sometimes they check me out, like now. It’s weird. But at the same time, I like it. No one looks beneath the surface, no one looks behind the mask. No one sees how fake, nasty, ruined, and twisted I am. No one is allowed inside.
Johanna and Susie gave me a makeover. It started when I borrowed a shirt from Johanna, which fit really well. Then they made me try on one of her shortest dresses. It was definitely too short. But according to them, that was the point. My legs were made for showing off.
They dragged me to H&M, Monki, Gina Tricot, all over the place. I discovered the second-hand stores here are way better than in Borlänge. Now I have a whole new wardrobe. Clothes in sizes and styles I’ve never bought before.
I’ve got used to being noticed. Realised it’s not that bad. Quite the opposite. It’s easier to hide that way. You can choose who you are in other people’s eyes.
My newly won freedom. My new strength.
I just wish I could forget the real me completely.
And that’s where Stella Widstrand comes in.
My thoughts are interrupted when the lecture begins. I listen closely and take notes until the break. Then I stand up and let the people in my row file past me into the aisle. I’m considering if I should leave the hall or stay, when I hear his name.
Fredrik.
I look around the hall. He’s sitting a few rows above me. He looks up, meets my eyes, and nods briefly. I know I’m staring. He rises and turns around, looking for Medhi. He shouts out something to him that I don’t quite catch.
Fredrik is slender and slightly taller than me. He has a thick mop of blonde hair that he often tosses to the side or runs his hands through. He laughs a lot. I can imagine the seven-year-old version of him in his school picture. Pretty much like now, but with a tooth missing in the front.
He usually wears jeans or chinos low on his hips and T-shirts. He’s a skater and coaxed me onto his longboard once. He ran along beside me, holding my hand and laughing so hard. When I asked why, he told me I squeal like a girl. He’s cute, cool, handsome. And he’s a good dancer. I know from experience, at the freshman party.
He can never, ever know what I’m really like.
There’s a gorgeous, rail-thin brunette sitting next to him. She stands up, pulls on his hand, and he looks at her. Laughs at whatever she’s telling him as they climb up the stairs towards the exit. He’s obviously tired of me. Maybe he suspects something. Maybe he knows.
Maybe everybody knows there’s something wrong with me.
I sit down again. Wish my life was different. Wish I fit in, that I was like everyone else. That there was no shadow inside me. Nothing to hide. But my life is not like anybody else’s.
And it’s her fault.
I want revenge.
I want her to suffer, like I’ve suffered.
I want her to cease to exist.
I want her to die.
STELLA
Thunk, thunk, thunk. The sound of basketballs bouncing against the floor and walls. Now and then a ball actually hits the backboard with an echoing racket. The noise level is deafening.
I’m headed down the bleacher stairs at the Vasalund Hall in Solna. A firm grip on my paper cup of scalding hot coffee. I sit down and nod to some familiar faces, then take out my phone to avoid conversation. I spent the week going to work, listening to my patients, buying groceries, cooking dinner, doing laundry. Pretending that everything is the same as always. But I haven’t been able to think about anything but Isabelle Karlsson. I think about her all the time. It didn’t matter to me that Henrik was working late every night or that Milo hung out with his friends too much.
Marcus sent a text message: Does dinner Wednesday work for you? My brother defers to you.
I’ve always liked Henrik’s little brother, but I have no desire to socialise with anyone right now. Still, I reply that we’re looking forward to finally meeting his new love interest. And seeing him and the kids, of course.
Another basketball mum I recognise asks if she can sit down. I scoot over on the bench and look out at the players. Milo is dribbling on the other side of the court. I wave but he doesn’t see me. I take my diary out of my purse, balance it on my knees. In my teens I kept a diary almost daily, and this ended up being the last one.
There’s obviously page after page about Daniel, but also about what I wanted to do with my life. A teenager’s thoughts, plans, and dreams. I wanted to be a tailor. Or a ceramist. Maybe work in fashion or interior design. I wanted to do it all. I wanted to be a Renaissance woman, working in some creative field, travelling around the world, spending a month here or there.
Daniel didn’t share my dreams. He had no interest in travelling or studying or learning new languages. He wanted to stay in Kungsängen, the suburb of Stockholm where we grew up, and eventually open a car repair garage. He was content with his cars, some street racing, and a few beers with his buddies on the weekends. We were very different. But I was in love, and we were happy.
In the fall of 1992 Daniel and I spent all of our time together. We drove around in his red Impala, having fun, with no clue what was in store for us. We both wanted to keep the baby. We even talked about having more.
I wrote about the pregnancy, about my anticipation and my fear. About the looks people gave us. We were teenagers expecting a child and not everyone thought it was as wonderful as we did.
The birth, the first time I held her to my breast. Daniel with tears in his eyes and Alice in my arms.
The first time we met the little person who would turn our lives upside down. Her scent. I could smell her for ever. Her sweet little mouth. Her dimples.
I thought I’d feel more when I read about all of this. That every word would grab me, give me joy and laughter, or sorrow and tears. Honestly, I don’t remember much of what I’ve written. It’s like a story told to me by an acquaintance.
As long as I refuse to think about that day a year later. As long as I keep the door closed to that room. I don’t know if I have it in me to face the pain, if I could handle hearing the accusations. I just don’t think I can go back, let guilt drag me down again.
Why weren’t you there?
I flinch when someone scores a basket, and the man behind me roars.
Milo takes the rebound and dribbles across the court.
When he was younger I went to every practise, every game. Both basketball and tennis. Even though I don’t need to any more, I still go to many of them. He’s thirteen. And I am hopelessly overprotective. He’s my only child.
I wonder when I stopped thinking of him as my second.
Both of them got their smiles from me. Milo has my curly hair and Alice, my eyes. Otherwise they both favour their fathers.
Alice. Daniel.
Milo. Henrik.
Different lives.
Are they colliding now?
What will that do to me? To my family?
It must be a coincidence. It has to be my imagination. I’ve spent enough time hoping and believing. I can’t handle more anxiety and useless suspense. Nothing will change what happened. I’ll never get back the time I lost.
As we leave Vasalund Hall, I throw the diary into a rubbish bin.
29TH JULY 1993
I’m a mother now!
Alice Maud Johansson is one week old today.
There was no way I could have imagined what it feels like, I know that now. My life has changed completely.
Who knew I was capable of feeling instant love for a person. She is the most perfect thing you could possibly imagine. Little, tiny chubby fingers and toes. Tons of hair sticking out in every direction. She was born with her own fur hat, Daniel says. Just like him. Thick, black hair.
The world’s cutest little mouth. I think she even has dimples. Especially one on the left side, like me. Her right ear looks like Daniel’s and Maria’s. Elf ears. It’s genetic.
She looks more like her dad, but she has my eyes. She’s a mix of the two of us. I have never been so happy in my life.
She’s also so helpless, completely dependent on me.
It’s a lot of responsibility.
It hasn’t been that long since I waddled home lugging bags of groceries – which Daniel chewed me out for afterwards. Apparently, I wasn’t supposed to lift anything heavier than a carton of milk or a loaf of bread. Then he put his ear on my belly and listened. He sang Elvis songs to it, ‘Teddy Bear’ and ‘Love Me Tender’. Then he fell silent and stared at me with wide eyes, whispered that he could feel her moving. Then he ran his hands over my stomach, searching for our baby, trying to feel her feet. That was just a week ago. It could have been a century ago.
I was in labour through a whole night. It hurt like crazy, and I thought she’d never come out. It was awful, but also the most awesome thing I’ve ever experienced. When they finally put her on my breast, all pink and wrinkled, her big eyes stared straight into mine, and it was the most beautiful moment of my life.
Daniel didn’t like seeing me in so much pain. I squeezed his hand so hard he thought he might faint, too, he told me later.
And he did actually faint! At the precise moment Alice was born. He fell like a tree and hit his head against a chair. He doesn’t want me to mention it, but he got five stitches near his hairline. My love. My brave hero.
The first time he held her, he cried. I feel more in love with him than ever.
Mum and Helena were here today. Even though Mum thinks we’re too young, she could barely bring herself to let go of little Alice. Helena was kind of stiff, both to me and Daniel. She still can’t relax around him. And she didn’t want to hold my daughter. It made me sad.
We’re becoming so different as time goes by.
I brood more and maybe I’m a bit on the introverted side. But how do you get anywhere if you don’t reflect and think? My sister likes to get things done; she doesn’t like to think so much. She carries on no matter how she feels. I got pregnant accidentally, and I don’t really know what to do with my future; she spends her time focusing on minor details.
Do I wish I were different? How could I? Who would I be then?
Life is unpredictable. Anything can happen.
No matter how much I brood or how much Helena plans, neither of us knows what to expect. Isn’t that what makes life interesting? I know I’m being silly now. A teenager trying to sound deep or whatever.
I need to sleep. Daniel and Alice are lying next to me, sleeping like logs. My family.
STELLA
Today is Wednesday. Time’s been moving unbelievably slowly.
I finish my morning coffee, put the cup in the dishwasher, and close the diary lying open on the kitchen table. It was stupid to throw it away. As if doing so would change anything. When we got out to the car in the car park, I told Milo to wait for me. I ran back to Vasalund Hall and fished the diary out of the rubbish. Dried it off and put it back in my purse.
Eventually, reading it brought the past back to life. Just like I had thought it would. The guilt, the anxiety. Knowing what I did, what I can never undo. But I have no choice, I have to go on. Meanwhile I keep trying to pretend like nothing happened. Henrik can’t know. Not yet.
I’ve locked the front door and am headed towards the car when our neighbour shouts my name and waves. Johan Lindberg somehow manages to always be outside when we leave or enter our home. He was recently fired from his position as a financial adviser at a big investment firm, let go immediately when it was discovered he’d been sending dick pics to his female co-workers. But of course, they gave him a golden parachute. When a man at that level crosses the line, his landing is a soft one. Johan Lindberg will never have to work again. We call him the investor. He’s always around home, boasting about his new life as a day trader. He’s annoying, but harmless, and sometimes almost pleasant to talk to. But I don’t feel like it today, so I wave back and drive off.
I pass by the reception desk and say hello to Renate. She asks me how I’m feeling, thinks I look pale. I don’t mention my sleepless nights or loss of appetite. Instead, I smile and blame my genes, I always look pale. She laughs. I laugh, too, for good measure, and continue down the hallway towards my office. I hang up my coat and change my shoes. Sit down at my desk, take out my calendar and MacBook Air. I look through the calendar, taking note of today’s sessions. Two in the morning, then group therapy after lunch, and one session after that.
It’s been nine days since I met her. The woman who calls herself Isabelle Karlsson. Nine meaningless days. Nine days of suffocating nothingness. I’ve been drinking more than I should. Self-medicating of course, what else?
I don’t like the red wine Henrik persists in bringing home. I don’t even like wine. It tastes bad, gives me headaches, and makes me feel ill every time I drink more than two glasses. But for the last few nights I’ve gulped it down just to be able to sleep. And even that has barely helped. Still, it’s better than sleeping pills. When I use those, my brain ceases to function the next day. Then again, in the long run I know alcohol is not truly an option. The risk of relapse increases the more I drink.
The uncertainty is excruciating. Not knowing, never being able to silence the swarm of thoughts and questions buzzing around inside me. And I waver constantly between certainty and doubt. So sure my instincts are correct, and then just as sure that I’m wrong. My mood is terrible; I have no patience.
Isabelle Karlsson. Today she’ll participate in group therapy for the first time. I don’t remember the last time I felt this nervous about a therapy session. Or scared. Maybe my self-esteem as a psychotherapist isn’t what it used to be. But no. I know that what happened to Lina Niemi wasn’t my fault. I’m good at what I do.
Still, I should have detected the problem sooner. I tried for a long time, but I couldn’t help her. In the end, she became dependent on me, wanted me to always be available to her.
Lina Niemi’s staged suicide attempt occurred following my decision to refer her to someone else. Last May she took a handful of antidepressants and washed them down with alcohol. Her mother found her. She spent one night in the hospital for stomach pains, that was all.
Her life was never in danger. But according to Lina herself, she’d almost died. She claimed everything was my fault: I wasn’t responsive enough in our conversations, I didn’t care about her problems, I didn’t heed her cries for help. She said I was unprofessional, fostered her destructive dependence on me.
Lina’s parents listened only to their daughter. Which I suppose is understandable. But afterwards Lina’s mother started blogging about me. I’m manipulative, my methods are dubious, I get off on being needed. I’m never mentioned by name, but there aren’t many psychotherapists with the initials SW who practise on Kungsholmen.
Still, I was surprised when they reported me to the Health and Social Care Inspectorate. I took it hard. Did I make a mistake in my treatment of Lina? I’ve analysed it so many times, and every time I come to the same conclusion.
No, I did not.
However, I am far from sure that my colleagues share that opinion. Of course, they want to cover their backs. Several times they’ve asked me if there were really no signs of self-harm. Every time I have assured them I did everything I could for Lina Niemi. They’ve also wondered if maybe I need a break, even suggested I take a leave of absence. I made it clear to them that I don’t think I need that.
I submitted Lina’s patient journal for review and gave my version to the Health and Social Care inspectors. I’m still waiting for a decision.
Right now, I can’t afford more complaints.
I need to be professional around Isabelle. The problem is I have no clue what her intentions are. And it frightens me.
There’s a knock at the door. It’s nine o’clock. My first patient has arrived.
In a few minutes, it will be one o’clock. My fear has increased. I can’t handle another panic attack. I try to calm myself down. I try not to let my emotions get the better of me. I try to think rationally, to talk some sense into myself.
It’s just a figment of your imagination, Stella.
There has to be some rational explanation. It’s a coincidence.
It’s a misunderstanding.
It can’t be her.
Inhale. Exhale.
It doesn’t help.
Nothing helps.
Anxiety gnaws at my stomach, and my field of vision narrows to a single blurry point of light.
I rush out into the hall and down to the bathroom. I fall on my knees in front of the toilet and throw up. Then I stand up, holding on to the edge of the sink, and close my eyes. Wait for the dizziness to subside.
I rinse my mouth, wipe my forehead and the rest of my face with a paper towel. I study my expression in the mirror. Attempt a smile. I leave the bathroom and go to the lounge.
Nine red armchairs circle a round rug. Someone, probably Renate, has prepped the room, and the air is fresh. I sit down in my usual chair and force myself to relax, breathe.
Sonja comes in next and sinks down in the chair closest to mine. When the session is over, she’ll be the first to leave. She has social anxiety disorder and has been in this group the longest. Still, she never speaks. I greet her; she answers with a motion of her hand.
My armchair is placed with its back to one window. To the left of me is another wall with high windows, to the right is the door. I look at the clock above it and glance at my wristwatch. I’m always careful to come just before the session begins and finish exactly ninety minutes later.
Two minutes left.
Still no Isabelle Karlsson.
Clara is already in place, afraid as she is of arriving late.
She sits on my left. Her expectations for herself are incredibly high. Despite a good job as a project leader in a successful media company, she constantly doubts her own abilities.
Magnus is here, too. He sits in the chair opposite me with his eyes glued to his old shoes. He looks up, brushes his hair out of his eyes, then looks down again. Chronically depressed.
Isabelle opens the door.
Her black, shiny hair is pulled up in a ponytail. She is wearing light blue jeans, a black top, and a dark brown leather jacket. She gently closes the door behind her and slides down into the armchair next to Sonja.
I realise I’ve been holding my breath and release it.
Her face is impossible to interpret. I resist the impulse to stare at her. To my great relief, the strong emotions of the last meeting do not return. She isn’t as similar to Maria, Daniel’s sister, as I thought the first time. At least that’s what I tell myself.
Our eyes meet. I realise this isn’t a coincidence.
Isabelle is here for a reason.
She must have tracked me down to see who I am, not just for therapy. I have to find out what she’s really searching for. I have to find out what she wants and why she’s so secretive. Before I dare to confront her. Everything would be so much easier if she’d just be honest with me. I have no idea why she’s not.
I am about to start when Arvid pulls open the door and rushes in. He throws himself into the chair next to Magnus. I give him a long look and hope he understands how much I disapprove of his habitual lateness. He ignores me. Takes out a box of mints and puts one in his mouth.
I begin: Welcome. As I told you last week, we have a new group member starting today. Her name is Isabelle.
Short silence. Everybody looks at Isabelle. She smiles, pretending to be shy. She does it well. Where did she learn to lie so convincingly?
Magnus: I don’t think Anna should have left. She was just starting to get somewhere.
Clara: She had to stop in order to keep progressing, she said. This is more about you and how much you dislike change.
Magnus: Maybe. But still.
Silence.
Clara: How’s your week been, Arvid? You had a family reunion to go to, right?
Arvid: Ugh. I thought I was gonna go insane. Being with my family for a couple days, what a fucking nightmare. My sister was weird. As usual. Dad drank, Mum was a nervous wreck. Then we pretended to be a ‘happy family’ for the relatives. Good God. Total fucking fakes.
The door opens, Pierre comes in.
Pierre: Sorry. Stuck in traffic.
I give another long look. Doubt he even notices it. Pierre pulls out the armchair next to Isabelle. She seems embarrassed.
Me again: Welcome, Pierre. Nice of you to make it. As I told the others, Isabelle is joining the group starting today.
Pierre: Hi, Isabelle. Hope you contribute more than some of the others in here.
He looks meaningfully at Sonja. Isabelle lowers her gaze to the rug. Is she annoyed?
Pierre: Therapy is pointless if you never open your mouth. So why are you here?
Isabelle: My dad died.
Her voice catches. She clears her throat, looks at me, looks down again. She seems genuinely sad. Have I misjudged her? Or is she acting again?
Isabelle: It went so fast. I wasn’t able to make it home in time. We never had the chance to say goodbye. I didn’t even know he was sick.
Arvid: Home? Where do you come from, is that a Dalarna County accent?
Isabelle: Yes, I’m from Borlänge.
She blushes. If she’s just acting she’s really good at it.
Isabelle: I moved here a year ago last August to study.
Me: Were you born in Dalarna?
The rest of the group reacts to my direct question. But I can’t control myself.
Isabelle: I was born in Denmark. But I’ve lived in Borlänge most of my life.
Magnus: Do you like Stockholm?
Isabelle: It’s thanks to Dad I’m even here.
She laughs, seems embarrassed. I smile encouragingly. I don’t know what to think. Is she really that similar to Maria? Maybe I’m wrong.
Me: It sounds like you were very close to your father?
Isabelle looks at me. Defiant and scornful. Aggressive. She knows. There is no doubt about it any more. She knows. But can she see that I know? Can she see that I know who she is? And if so, does she realise I’ve seen through her carefully constructed facade?
Isabelle: He was everything to me. That’s why it came as a shock when I found out he wasn’t my real father.
Now we’re getting there. Here it comes. In just a moment everyone will know her real reason for being here.
Arvid: Did you think he was your biological father?
Isabelle: Yes. But he adopted me when he and my mother met. I don’t know who my real dad is.
Adopted?
Did she tell me that at our first meeting? I don’t remember. Who is the woman she calls her mother? Is it her mother? Her biological mother?
The conversation continues, but I find it impossible to concentrate on what anyone is saying. Is time standing still? Or is it going faster than usual?
‘Stella? Thank you for today?’
I snap out of it, meet Pierre’s derisive look and glance up at the clock on the wall: 2.33. My wristwatch shows the exact same time. Unsure if I can trust my voice, I nod and stand up.
I’m aware of how strange I’ve been acting. I let us run overtime, I haven’t paid attention for the most part, and I asked Isabelle a direct question, for no apparent reason. Usually I only speak when the conversation stalls, sometimes to help someone progress in their reasoning. But never like this. Not in this clumsy way.
Sonja is first out of the door; the others follow. I usually leave the room immediately, too. But today I remain standing, unable to move. I can tell my breath stinks. My armpits are sweaty, and I hope it’s not visible.
I can’t tear my eyes away from Isabelle.
She drapes the strap of her bag over her shoulder. As she turns, her ponytail dances to the side.
Her right ear is pointed and slightly longer than the other.
There are only two other people in the world with an ear like that.
Her right ear looks exactly like Daniel’s and Maria’s.
That insight is a punch in the stomach. My nausea returns.
I hear Daniel’s voice. As clear as if he were in the room. Yes, I have an elf ear, are you gonna make fun of me for it? You know it just means I’m gonna bring magic into your life, Stella.
‘Isabelle?’ I say.
‘Yes?’ she answers.
I want to tell her I’ve been waiting for this day for over twenty years. I want to go over to her and take her in my arms and never let her go.
‘Thank you for today,’ I whisper. That’s all I can manage.
Isabelle smiles. The dimple in her cheek deepens. She leaves.
She’s gone.
I sink into the armchair, close my eyes, and clench my trembling hands.
I buried you. We stood at your headstone in the cemetery. We wept and said goodbye.
Still, I never stopped looking for you. I searched for you in every crowd, in every face, on every bus, and in every street. Year after year.
Hoping. Wishing. Waiting. One day you would come back.
But then I stopped. Stopped hoping, stopped wishing. I had to move on. Either that or I had to follow you, to disappear. I moved on. For my own sake, for my son’s. Was that wrong?
I don’t understand why you pretend we’re strangers. Do you want to see what kind of person I am?
Want to see if I feel regret? If I’m plagued by guilt? Do you hate me as much as I hated myself?
Do you want to punish me? Make me feel pain?
I already do.
The pain of you never leaves me. It’s as much a part of me as you are. It never lets me forget. What is it you want to know, what do you want me to say?
I can only say sorry.
Forgive me, Alice.
