A Nearly Normal Family Page 2

  “She was going to see Amina. She wasn’t sure if she would be coming home.”

  This last bit slipped out of her like a minor detail, although Ulrika knows exactly what I think about hearing that our daughter might come home on a given night.

  I looked at the clock; it was quarter past eleven.

  “She’ll get here when she gets here,” Ulrika said.

  I glared at her. Sometimes I think she says things just to provoke me.

  “I’ll text her,” I said.

  So I wrote to Stella and asked if she was planning to sleep at home. Naturally, I didn’t receive a response.

  With a heavy sigh, I got in bed. Ulrika immediately rolled over onto my side and slipped a hand onto my hip. She kissed my neck as I stared at the ceiling.

  I know I shouldn’t worry. I was never the neurotic type when I was young. The anxiety crept up on me when I had a child, and it only seems to increase with each passing year.

  With an eighteen-year-old daughter you have two options: either you drown under the constant worry or you refuse to think about all the risks she seems to love taking. It’s simply a question of self-preservation.

  Soon Ulrika was asleep on my arm. Her warm breath rolled over my cheek like gentle waves. Now and then she gave a start, a quick, electric movement, but soon sleep enfolded her again.

  I really did try to sleep, but my head was occupied with thoughts. My exhaustion had given way to a state of manic brain activity. I thought of all the dreams I’d had throughout the years, many of which had changed and others of which I still hoped to fulfill. And then I thought about Stella’s dreams and was forced to accept a painful truth—I didn’t know what my daughter wanted from her life. She stubbornly claims that she doesn’t even know. No plans, no structure. So unlike me. When I finished high school I had a very clear image of how my life would take shape.

  I know I can’t influence Stella. She’s eighteen and makes her own decisions. Ulrika once said that love is letting go, letting the person you love fly away, but it often feels as if Stella is just flapping her wings without taking off. I had imagined something different.

  No matter how tired I was, I couldn’t fall asleep. I rolled onto my side and checked my phone. I had received a response from Stella.

  On my way home now.

  * * *

  It was five minutes to two when I heard the key in the lock. Ulrika had moved to the very edge of her side of the bed and was facing away from me. I heard Stella padding around downstairs: water running in the bathroom, quick steps into the laundry room, more water running. It felt like an eternity.

  At last I heard her footsteps creaking on the stairs. Ulrika gave a start. I bent over to look at her, but it seemed she was still asleep.

  I was beset with mixed feelings. On the one hand, I was annoyed that Stella had let me worry; on the other, I was relieved that she had finally returned home.

  I got out of bed and opened the bedroom door just as Stella went by in only her underwear, her hair a wet tangle at her nape. Her back was a glowing streak in the dim light as she opened the door to her room.

  “Stella?” I said.

  Without responding, she slipped through the door and locked it behind her.

  “Good night,” I heard from the other side.

  “Sleep tight,” I whispered.

  My little girl was home.

  3

  On Saturday morning I slept late. Ulrika was sitting at the breakfast table in her robe and listening to a podcast.

  “Morning!”

  She pulled her headphones down to hang around her neck.

  Although I’d slept in later than usual, I still felt disoriented and spilled some coffee on the morning paper.

  “Where’s Stella?”

  “At work,” said Ulrika. “She was already gone when I woke up.”

  I tried to dry off the paper with a dishrag.

  “She must be exhausted,” I said. “She was out half the night.”

  Ulrika aimed a smile at me.

  “You’re not looking particularly energetic yourself.”

  What did she mean by that? She knew I couldn’t sleep when Stella wasn’t home.

  We were invited to a late lunch at the home of our friends Dino and Alexandra on Trollebergsvägen. A late lunch meant alcoholic beverages, so we biked into town. As we reached the Ball House sports center I spotted a police car; fifty meters on, at the roundabout next to Polhem School, were two more. One had its flashing lights on. Three officers were walking briskly up Rådmansgatan.

  “Wonder what’s going on,” I said to Ulrika.

  We parked our bikes in the courtyard and took the stairs up to the apartment. Alexandra and Dino met us in the hall, where we got past the pleasantries. It had been a long time. How were things?

  “Isn’t Amina home?” Ulrika asked.

  Alexandra hesitated.

  “She was supposed to have a match, but she’s not feeling very well.”

  “I don’t understand what it could be,” Dino said. “I can’t recall her ever missing a handball match.”

  “It’s probably just a regular old cold,” Alexandra said.

  Dino made a face. I was probably the only one who noticed.

  “As long as she’s healthy again by the time school starts,” Ulrika said.

  “Right, she wouldn’t miss that even if she has a fever of a hundred and four,” Alexandra said.

  Ulrika laughed.

  “She’s going to make a fantastic doctor. I don’t know anyone as diligent and thorough as Amina.”

  Dino puffed up like a peacock.

  He had every right to be proud.

  “So how’s Stella?” he asked.

  It was a perfectly reasonable question, of course. But I think we hesitated to respond for a moment too long.

  “Just fine,” I said at last.

  Ulrika smiled in agreement. Perhaps that answer wasn’t far from the truth after all. Our daughter had been in a good mood that summer.

  * * *

  We sat on the glassed-in balcony and enjoyed Dino’s pitas and mini pierogis.

  “Did you hear about the murder?” Alexandra asked.

  “The murder?”

  “Right here, by the Polhem school. They found a body there this morning.”

  “The police,” Ulrika said. “That’s why—”

  She was interrupted by the squeak of the balcony door. Behind us, Amina peered through the crack, her eyes glassy, washed out and colorless, a shadow.

  “Oh sweetie, you look awful,” Ulrika said, with no tact whatsoever.

  “I know,” Amina croaked; she seemed to be clinging to the balcony door to keep from falling over.

  “Go back to bed.”

  “I suppose it’s only a matter of time before Stella comes down with the same bug,” I said. “Because you two were hanging out last night, weren’t you?”

  Amina’s expression froze. It only took half a second, maybe tenths of a second, but Amina’s expression froze and I knew immediately what that meant.

  “Right.” Amina coughed. “Hope she’s okay.”

  “Now get back to bed,” said Ulrika.

  Amina pulled the door closed and dragged herself back to the living room.

  Lying is an art that few people fully master.

  4

  If it weren’t for our daughters, Ulrika and I probably never would have become friends with Alexandra and Dino.

  Amina and Stella were six when they ended up on the same handball team. Most of their teammates were a year older, but it wasn’t very noticeable. Both Amina and Stella showed a winner’s instinct early on. They were strong, stubborn, and unstoppable. Amina, in contrast with Stella, also had an unusually gifted sense for executing planned strategies and plays.

  During those first practices, Ulrika and I sat on the bleachers in the sweaty gym and watched our little girl run herself absolutely ragged. We had seldom seen her so free and happy as she was on the handball court. Di
no was single-handedly coaching the girls’ team; he was extremely engaged, passionate, and generous, and gave the little handball players lots of love. But there was one problem: his body language. He displayed explosive joy through gestures and expressions when one of the girls succeeded on the court, but he was equally free when expressing his distress if something went wrong. Naturally, this was a matter of concern to Ulrika and me, and we discussed it after every practice. I suggested we talk to the other parents or perhaps go to the club council. We really liked Dino as a coach. Maybe he was simply unaware of how his body language could be interpreted.

  “It’s better to talk to him personally,” Ulrika said, and after the next practice she walked up to Dino, who, rumor had it, had once played handball on a pretty high level himself.

  I hovered in the background as Dino listened to Ulrika. Then he said, “You seem to have a knack for this. Would you like to be my colleague?”

  Ulrika was so taken aback that she couldn’t respond. When she finally managed to speak, she pointed in my direction and said that I was the one who actually knew anything about handball and would make an excellent assistant coach for him.

  “Okay,” Dino said, looking at me. “The job is yours.”

  The rest, as they say, is history. We led that team to win after win, traveled around half of Europe, and brought home so many trophies and medals that there wasn’t room for them all in Stella’s bookcase.

  Amina and Stella were quickly compatible on the court. With finesse and cleverness, Amina got the ball to Stella, who tore herself free from the line without ever yielding until the ball was in the goal. But that winner’s instinct had its downsides. Stella was only eight when things went off the rails for the first time. During a match at Fäladshallen, she received a pass from Amina, smooth as butter, and found herself alone with the goalie but missed the breakaway. Quick as a wink, she caught the ball as it bounced back and threw it full force at the goalie’s face from three meters off.

  Chaos ensued, of course. The coach and parents of the opposing team rushed the court and fell upon Stella and me.

  She didn’t mean to. Stella never aimed her rage at anyone but herself. Upset by the missed goal, she had simply reacted impulsively. She was full of regret to the point of being crushed.

  “I’m sorry, I wasn’t thinking.”

  This became a recurring phrase. Almost a mantra.

  Dino liked to say that Stella was her own worst enemy. If only she could conquer herself, there would be no stopping her.

  It was just that she found it so darned difficult to control her emotions.

  Aside from that, it was easy to like Stella. She was thoughtful and had a strong sense of justice; she was energetic and outgoing.

  Amina and Stella soon lived in close symbiosis even off the handball court. They were in the same class, bought similar clothes, listened to the same music. And Amina was a good influence on Stella. She was charming and quick, caring and ambitious. When Stella began to slip, Amina was always there to get her back into balance.

  I only wish Ulrika and I had taken Stella’s problems more seriously. That we had reacted earlier. I’m ashamed to admit it, but apparently our greatest hurdle was our pride. Ulrika and I both considered it a radical failure to turn to the institutions of society. It may seem egotistical, but at the same time it’s very human, and it might not have been entirely misguided. We had demanded a lot of ourselves, to be the best parents we could be, but we were unable to live up to our own requirements.

  Perhaps it never would have had to go as far as it did.

  5

  When we biked home from Alexandra and Dino’s, the police cars were still at the school. It was frightening, that something like this could happen so close by. Apparently the body had been found at a playground by an early-bird mom who’d brought her small children to play. I shuddered at the thought.

  Ulrika hopped off her bike in the driveway and hurried for the door.

  “Aren’t you going to lock it up?” I called.

  “Have to pee,” she mumbled, digging through her purse for her keys.

  I led her bike across the paved path and parked it next to my own under the metal roof. I realized I had forgotten to cover the grill and found the protective casing in the shed.

  When I came inside, Ulrika was standing on the stairs.

  “Stella’s still not home. I called, but she won’t pick up.”

  “I’m sure she’s working late,” I said. “You know they’re not allowed to have their phones on them.”

  “But it’s Saturday. The store closed hours ago.”

  That hadn’t occurred to me.

  “I’m sure she just went somewhere with a friend. We’ll have another talk with her tonight. She needs to get better at keeping us in the loop.”

  I put my arm around Ulrika.

  “I got such a terrible feeling,” she said. “When we saw all those police. A murder? Here?”

  “I know. It makes me feel uneasy too.”

  We sat down on the sofa and I looked up the latest news on my phone, reading it aloud to her.

  The victim was a man in his thirties, a local. The police were being very secretive about the incident, but one of the evening papers said that a woman who lived nearby had heard fighting and shouting outside her window during the night.

  “This kind of thing doesn’t happen to just anyone,” I said, as if I, and not Ulrika, were the expert. “I’m sure it’s alcoholics or drug addicts. Or gang crime.”

  Ulrika breathed calmly against my shoulder.

  But I wasn’t saying this to relieve her anxiety. I was convinced it was true.

  “I was planning to make carbonara.”

  I stood up and kissed her cheek.

  “Already? I don’t think I could manage to eat as much as a piece of arugula right now.”

  “Slow food,” I smiled. “Real food takes time, honey.”

  * * *

  As the bacon sizzled in my carefully selected olive oil from Campania, Ulrika came thundering down the stairs.

  “Stella forgot her phone.”

  “What?”

  She paced restlessly back and forth between the kitchen island and the window.

  “It was on her desk.”

  “Well, that’s odd.” The carbonara was at such a critical stage that I couldn’t look away from it. “Did she forget it?”

  “Yes, didn’t you hear me? It was on her desk!”

  Ulrika was nearly shouting.

  It was certainly unusual for Stella to leave her phone at home, but there was no reason to overreact. I stirred the carbonara swiftly as I turned down the heat.

  “Forget the pasta,” Ulrika said, tugging at my arm. “I’m seriously worried. I just called Amina, but she isn’t answering either.”

  “She’s sick,” I said, just as I realized the carbonara was going to be a failure.

  I slammed the wooden spoon down on the counter and yanked the pan from the burner.

  “Maybe she left her phone at home on purpose,” I said, battling whatever was bubbling up in my chest. “You know her boss has been getting after her about it.”

  Ulrika shook her head.

  “Her boss hasn’t been getting after her. She gave the whole staff a warning about using their cell phones at work. Surely you don’t believe Stella would voluntarily leave her phone at home?”

  No, of course that didn’t sound likely.

  “She must have forgotten it. I’m sure she was in a hurry this morning.”

  “I’ll call around to her friends,” Ulrika said. “This isn’t like her.”

  “Shouldn’t you hold off on that?”

  I rambled on, something about how we’d been spoiled by modern technology and constant access to our daughter, always knowing where she was. There was really no reason to get all worked up.

  “I’m sure she’ll come flying through the door any moment.”

  At the same time, I started to have a nagging feeling in m
y stomach. Being a parent means never being able to relax.

  When Ulrika padded up the creaking stairs, I took the opportunity to slip into the laundry room.

  There I was. Surely it wasn’t just a coincidence? I opened the door of the washing machine and pulled out the damp clothes. A pair of dark jeans that I had to turn right side out to confirm that they belonged to Stella. A black tank top that was also hers. And the white blouse with flowers on the breast pocket. Her favorite top that summer. I was holding the blouse in one hand and fumbling for a hanger. That’s when I saw it.

  Stella’s favorite top. The right sleeve and front were covered in dark stains.

  I looked up at the ceiling and said a silent prayer. At the same time, I knew God didn’t have a thing to do with this.

  6

  Throughout the years I have frequently encountered the false assumption that a belief in determinism is simply a natural by-product of my belief in God, as if I must consider my free will to be limited by God. Of course, nothing could be further from the truth. I believe man to be the living image of God. I believe in man.

  Sometimes when I meet people who say they don’t believe in God, I ask which god it is they don’t believe in. They often proceed to describe a god I certainly don’t believe in either.

  God is love. It’s wonderful to find someone you belong with. It might be God, it might be another human being. It might even be both.

  Ulrika and I were young when we met and since then there has been no other alternative. We were both new to Lund. Thanks to my powerful but naïve dream of becoming an actor, I joined the skit group at the Wermlands student union, and Ulrika moved into the union’s student apartments later that winter. She was the type of person who attracts attention without taking up too much space, who shines without being blinding.

  As I fought to chip away at my Blekinge accent and rid my skin of pimples, Ulrika sailed into every imaginable university scenario as if she clearly belonged in each one. I plastered the city with posters that read No EC, No Bridge while Ulrika became procurator of the student union and aced all her law exams.