A Nearly Normal Family Page 3

  Late that year, when we found ourselves attending the same corridor party, I finally got up my nerve. To my surprise, Ulrika seemed to enjoy my company. Soon we were spending all our time together.

  “I can’t believe you’re going to be a pastor,” Ulrika said on that first evening. “You could be a psychologist or a political scientist or…”

  “Or a pastor.”

  “But why?” Ulrika eyed me as if I were begging to have a healthy limb amputated. “You’re from Småland, huh? It’s in your blood?”

  “Blekinge.” I laughed. “And my parents have very little to do with it. Aside from the fact that they sent me to Sunday school, of course, but I think that was mostly just for the free babysitting.”

  “So you weren’t brought up a Christian?”

  I laughed.

  “I was actually a die-hard atheist until I started high school. I was a member of Revolutionary Communist Youth for a while; I went around quoting Marx and wanted to rid the world of religion. But you grow out of all that dogmatic stuff. In time I grew more and more curious about different outlooks on life.”

  I liked the way Ulrika was observing me as if I were a riddle she wanted to solve.

  “Then something happened,” I said. “In my last year of high school.”

  “What?”

  “I was on my way home from the library when I heard a woman screaming. She was by the edge of the harbor, jumping up and down, waving her arms. I ran over.”

  Ulrika leaned forward. Her eyes widened.

  “Her daughter had fallen into the cold water. There were two more children. They were on the quay, screaming. I didn’t have time to think. I just threw myself into the water.”

  Ulrika gasped, but I shook my head. I wasn’t telling her this to portray myself as some sort of hero.

  “Something happened just then. The second I hit the water. I didn’t quite understand what, at the time, but I know now. It was God. I felt Him.”

  Ulrika nodded thoughtfully.

  “It was like a bright light came on in the dark water. I saw the little girl and got hold of her. My body filled with strength—I’ve never felt so strong, so determined, nothing could stop me from saving that child. It was almost effortless. Something supernatural pulled the girl up over the edge, made me blow life back into her. The mom and the little sisters were standing next to me, screaming, as water poured from the girl’s mouth and she came to. At the same time, God left my body and I returned to my regular self.”

  Ulrika blinked a few times, her mouth open.

  “So she made it?”

  “Everything turned out okay.”

  “Incredible,” she said, giving me her amazing smile. “And ever since, you’ve known?”

  “I don’t know anything,” I said firmly. “But I believe.”

  7

  On that Saturday night when our lives were about to change, I turned to God. I was worried about the stained blouse in the washing machine. I made the snap decision not to mention it to Ulrika. Those stains could be from anything, it didn’t necessarily mean much, and there was no reason to subject Ulrika to further anxiety. Instead I closed my eyes and prayed to God, asking Him to take care of my little girl.

  I was leaning against the kitchen island and swirling a glass of amber-colored whiskey in my hand when Ulrika came bounding down the stairs.

  “I just talked to Alexandra,” she said, out of breath. “She woke Amina. Apparently she was shocked to hear that Stella never came home.”

  “What did she say?”

  “She doesn’t seem to know anything.”

  I swallowed all the whiskey.

  “Should we call her colleagues at H&M?” I asked.

  Ulrika placed Stella’s phone on the counter.

  “I already tried. She only has Benita’s number saved, and Benita didn’t know who was working today.”

  I sighed and muttered. My anxiety was mixed with irritation. Wasn’t Stella aware of what she put us through? How we worried about her?

  When the phone began to jump on the counter, both Ulrika and I lunged for it. I was faster, and hit the green button.

  “Yes?”

  I was met with a deep, slightly guarded male voice.

  “I’m calling about the Vespa.”

  “The Vespa?”

  My head was spinning.

  “The Vespa that’s for sale,” the man said.

  “There’s no Vespa for sale here. You must have the wrong number.”

  He apologized but insisted that he hadn’t misdialed. There was an ad online with this number, and a Vespa for sale. A pink Piaggio.

  I grunted something about a mistake and hung up.

  “Who was that?”

  Ulrika sounded eager.

  “She’s planning to sell the Vespa.”

  “What?”

  “Stella put out an ad.”

  * * *

  We sat on the sofa. Ulrika sent a group text asking anyone with any information about Stella to text back. I poured another whiskey and Ulrika put Stella’s iPhone on the table in front of us. We sat there staring at it, and every time it buzzed we bounced up. Time stood still as Ulrika scrolled with her thumb.

  A few of Stella’s friends texted back; some seemed mildly worried, but most of them stopped at stating they knew nothing.

  When I googled Stella’s phone number, I found the ad straightaway. She really had put the Vespa up for sale. Her birthday present. What was she up to?

  “Should I take my bike and go looking for her?”

  Ulrika wrinkled her nose.

  “Isn’t it best to stay here?”

  “This must never happen again. Doesn’t she understand how much we worry?”

  Ulrika was close to tears.

  “Should we call the police?” she said.

  “The police?”

  That seemed excessive. Surely it couldn’t be that bad.

  “I have some contacts,” Ulrika said. “They could at least keep their eyes peeled.”

  “This is ridiculous!” I stood up. “That we should even have to … I’m so…”

  “Shhh!” Ulrika said, one finger in the air. “Do you hear that?”

  “What?”

  “Ringing.”

  I stood stock still, watching her. Both of us were sick with worry. Soon a long signal echoed through the house.

  “The landline?” Ulrika said, standing up.

  No one ever calls the landline.

  8

  We never planned to have Stella. She was a wanted, welcome baby; eagerly awaited and beloved long before she took her first breath. But she wasn’t planned.

  Ulrika had just received her Master of Law degree and was about to start a clerkship when, one evening, she sat down across from me, placed her hands over mine, and looked deep into my eyes. Her smile was restrained as she shared with me the fantastic but overwhelming news.

  I had one year left in my education and another year as a curate after that. We lived in a one-room apartment in Norra Fäladen and survived on loans; our situation was far from optimal for bringing a child into the world. I realized, of course, that Ulrika had doubts; there was an anxious hesitation behind that initial, effervescent joy, but a whole week passed before either of us even said the word “abortion” aloud.

  Ulrika was rightly worried about practicalities. Money, housing, our education, and careers. We could always wait a few years to start a family; there was no reason to rush into it.

  “With love, we can do anything,” I said, bringing my lips to her belly.

  Ulrika made some financial calculations; meanwhile, I bought tiny socks that said “My Dad Rocks.”

  “You’re not antiabortion, are you?” she’d asked even during those first intoxicating days of our love, five years earlier, when we’d hardly left the student apartment at Wermlands Nation.

  “Absolutely not,” I responded.

  I’m certain my belief in God filled her with doubt and fear. It was easily the
greatest threat to our budding, fragile relationship.

  “I never dreamed of a pastor,” she said on occasion. Not to hurt me, not at all. It was just an ironic comment on the mysterious ways of the Lord.

  “That’s okay,” I would reply. “I never dreamed of a lawyer.”

  * * *

  Not once did I seriously consider not having the baby. At the same time, I inserted doubt in my conversations with Ulrika, to seem open to all options. It didn’t take long, though, before we were united in our decision.

  Before the birth we took classes and practiced breathing together. Ulrika had morning sickness and I massaged her swollen feet.

  With one week left before her due date, Ulrika woke me at four in the morning. She was standing at the foot of the bed, wrapped in a blanket.

  “Adam! Adam! My water broke!”

  We took a taxi to the hospital and it was like I didn’t understand what was happening, how much was at stake and how much could go wrong, until Ulrika was lying on a stretcher in front of me and writhing in pain while the midwife snapped on her long rubber gloves. It was as if I had gathered all my fears and anxieties into a hiding spot deep inside, and it had all been released, all at once.

  “You have to do something!”

  “Let’s have a sit, Dad,” a nurse said.

  “Take it easy,” said the midwife. “Everything is going to be fine.”

  Ulrika was hyperventilating and swearing. As soon as a new contraction hit, she pressed herself upward, screaming and flailing.

  I held Ulrika’s hand tight. It was relentless; her whole body was shaking.

  “We have to get the baby out now,” the midwife said.

  “You can do this, honey,” I said and kissed Ulrika’s hand.

  She stiffened and her body tensed like a spring. The room grew perfectly silent and I could almost feel the wave of pain that crashed through her body. Ulrika thrust her pelvis in the air.

  “Help me, dear God!”

  And the midwife yanked and tugged and Ulrika roared in long, primal jolts. I held her tight and swore to God that I would never forgive Him if this didn’t end well.

  Silence fell over us like a blanket. You could have heard God snap His fingers in that moment. The longest second of my life. Everything that meant anything seemed to hang in the balance. My mind was devoid of thought, but I still knew this was the instant when it would all come to a head. In the silence.

  Then, as I peeked out, I saw it. A bloody, blue clump on a towel. At first I didn’t understand what it was. A moment later, the room was filled with the most beautiful infant’s cry I had ever heard.

  9

  Stella’s face flickered through my mind as I rushed into the kitchen after Ulrika. Although our little girl was eighteen now, the face I always pictured was that of a child.

  Ulrika grabbed the landline phone from the wall. Not once during the call did I take my eyes off her.

  “That was Michael Blomberg,” she said after she’d hung up.

  “Who? The lawyer?”

  “He has just been appointed to represent Stella. She’s with the police.”

  My first thought was that Stella had been the victim of a crime. Hopefully it wasn’t anything serious. I even had time to think that it was okay if she’d been robbed or assaulted. Anything but rape.

  “We have to go, right away,” Ulrika said.

  “What’s going on?” I thought about the peculiar call and the ad online. “Is it the Vespa?”

  Ulrika looked at me like I was nuts.

  “Forget about the damn Vespa!”

  On her way to the door she ran into my shoulder.

  “What did Blomberg say?” I asked, but she didn’t respond.

  Ulrika snagged her coat from the rack and was headed for the door when she suddenly wheeled around.

  “I just have to do one thing,” she said, walking back into the house.

  “Come on, what did Blomberg say?”

  I trailed her through the kitchen. As she reached the doorway she turned around and fended me off, her arms straight out.

  “Wait here. I’ll be right back!”

  Taken aback, I stood in the doorway, counting the seconds. Soon Ulrika returned and shoved past me.

  “What did you do?”

  Once again I saw Stella’s face before me. The toothless laugh, the little dimples in her soft cheeks. And I thought about everything I’d wanted for her that had never come to be.

  It’s so easy to believe that the best is always yet to come. I suspect that’s a deeply human fault. Even God instructs us to yearn.

  Why don’t we ever think about how quickly time passes, while it is passing?

  Stella’s first word was “abba.” She used it for both me and Ulrika. These days, most Swedes associate the word with pop music, but in Jesus’s language, Aramaic, it means “father.”

  I had four lovely autumn months of paternity leave with Stella, and I watched her personality emerge day by day. The other parents at our congregation’s children’s group often remarked that she was the very definition of a daddy’s girl. I don’t think I understood the significance of this until it was too late. To some extent, my whole life has been one big esprit d’escalier. I haven’t managed to capture a single moment. I’ve always had terrible timing.

  I am doomed to yearn.

  10

  We were standing in the entryway. My hand on the lock. Ulrika’s whole body was shaking.

  Why had Michael Blomberg called? What was Stella doing at the police station?

  “Tell me,” I said to Ulrika.

  “All I know is what Michael said.”

  Michael Blomberg. It had been several years since I’d heard his name. Blomberg was well-known in more than just legal circles. He had made a career as one of the country’s foremost defense attorneys and had represented defendants in a great many high-profile cases. His picture had been in the evening papers and he was called upon as an expert on TV. He was also the man who had once taken Ulrika under his wing and paved the way for her success as a defense attorney.

  Ulrika was breathing hard. Her eyes were darting like frightened birds.

  She tried to squeeze past me and out the door, but I caught her, held her in place between my arms.

  “Stella is in police custody.”

  I heard what she said, the words reached me, but they were impossible to comprehend.

  “There must be some mistake,” I said.

  Ulrika shook her head. A moment later, she collapsed against my chest and her phone crashed to the floor.

  “She’s suspected of murder,” Ulrika whispered.

  I stiffened.

  The first thing I thought of was Stella’s stained top.

  * * *

  Ulrika called a taxi as we hurried to the street. Outside the recycling station she dropped my hand.

  “Hold on,” she said, stumbling in among the recycling bins and containers.

  I stayed put on the sidewalk and heard her coughing and throwing up. Soon a black taxi appeared.

  “How are you feeling?” I whispered as we put on our seatbelts in the back.

  “Like shit,” Ulrika said, coughing into her hand.

  Then she typed on her phone with both thumbs as I rolled down the window and bathed my face in the fresh air.

  “Can you go a little faster?” Ulrika asked the driver, who grumbled a little before stepping on the gas.

  My mind turned to Job. Was this my trial?

  Ulrika explained that Michael Blomberg was waiting for us at the police station.

  “Why him?” I asked. “Isn’t that an awfully big coincidence?”

  “He’s an extraordinarily talented attorney.”

  “Sure, but what are the chances?”

  “Sometimes things just happen, honey. You can’t control everything.”

  I don’t want to say I disliked Blomberg. I don’t like speaking badly of others that way. Experience tells me that when you dislike someone on s
uch vague grounds, the problem often rests with you.

  I tipped the driver and then had to jog up the stairs to the police station, where Ulrika was already pulling open the door.

  Blomberg met us in the lobby. I’d almost forgotten what a big man he is. He came lumbering over to us like a bear, his jacket flapping around his stomach. He was tanned and wearing a blue shirt and an expensive suit, and his slicked-back hair curled at the back of his neck.

  “Ulrika,” he said, but he stepped right up to me and shook my hand before he embraced my wife.

  “What’s going on, Michael?”

  “Take it easy,” he said. “We just concluded the interrogation and this nightmare will be over soon. The police have come to an extremely hasty conclusion.”

  Ulrika sighed heavily.

  “Stella was identified by a young woman,” Blomberg said.

  “Identified?”

  “Perhaps you heard that a body was found on a playground over by Pilegatan?”

  “And Stella was supposedly there? On Pilegatan?” I said. “There must be some mistake.”

  “That’s exactly what it is. But this girl lives in the same building as the man who was murdered and claims to have seen Stella there last night. She thinks she recognizes Stella from H&M. That seems to be all the investigators have.”

  “That’s ridiculous. Can she really be in custody on such flimsy grounds?”

  I thought back to the night before and tried to remember the details. How I had lain awake, unable to sleep, waiting for her; how Stella finally came home and showered before slipping into her room.

  “Is she detained?” Ulrika asked.

  “What’s the difference?” I asked.

  “The police have the right to take someone into custody, but in order to keep them there a prosecutor must order detention,” Blomberg said. “The lead interrogator just has to brief the prosecutor on duty and then Stella will be released. I assure you. This is all a mistake.”

  He sounded far too confident, just as I remembered him, and that worried me. Anyone so free of doubt is certain to lack attention to detail and engagement as well.