A Nearly Normal Family(100)

At first, I considered the bond that developed between Adam and Stella to be entirely a good thing. Stella was Daddy’s girl. I might come home late, my brain full of statutes and precedents, to find them cuddled up in a sea of pillows, having bedtime stories in pajamas. Stella held her Dad’s hand through all of life’s little forks in the road. It was an Astrid Lindgren world, and I felt tiny leaps of joy in my heart every morning when our daughter’s miniature feet came romping across the bedroom floor.





* * *



The transformation happened very slowly. I can’t say when it began, but things that had once warmed my heart were soon sending cold shivers down my spine. I found new triggers for irritation everywhere. When someone pointed out what a wonderful father Adam was and what a lovely relationship he seemed to have with Stella, I no longer experienced pride; rather, I felt alienated. When Adam related long, colorful descriptions of his fairy-tale days with Stella, I welled with guilt and shame and envy.

We spoke early on about expanding our family. I suppose our desire for another child was grounded in a vague disappointment that neither of us would ever have given voice to. Against all reason, I convinced myself that my relationship with Stella would benefit if she had a sibling.

We tried to conceive again for over a year. We never talked about why it didn’t work. I suspect this was due to some sort of mutual but utterly misplaced respect. Sooner or later, the test would be positive and until then all we could do was try as often as we could manage, and, in Adam’s case, perhaps also pray to God for some sort of aid.

On Walpurgis Night the year Stella was four, we finally broke the silence. We were lying in bed and the whole world spun as soon as I opened my eyes. The bonfire smell had penetrated our skin.

“Honey,” Adam whispered. “Something must be wrong.”

“Wrong?” I repeated, although I knew what he was talking about.

“What should we do?”

I couldn’t produce a single word. Tears stung behind my eyelids, but I kept fighting them back.

“I love you,” Adam said.

I was unable to respond.





91


“Does the prosecutor have any questions for the witness?” the presiding judge asks.

“Yes, I do.”

Jenny Jansdotter confers briefly with the assistant prosecutor before turning to Adam.

“How was your state of mind on the Friday in question?”

I think I glimpse a shrug, but Adam doesn’t have time to formulate a response before Jansdotter continues.

“You said earlier that you felt tired and worn out. It had been a tough week. You had just had to bury a young man.”

“That’s right.”

“And yet you couldn’t sleep that night?”

“Well, sometimes that sort of exhaustion has the opposite effect,” Adam says calmly. “You can’t fall asleep, even though you feel dead tired. I was also worried about Stella, of course. Terribly worried. I don’t like going to sleep before she gets home.”

Jenny Jansdotter picks up a pen and twirls it between her fingers.

“So you claim you were awake when Stella arrived home that night?”

“Yes.”

“And what time was that?”

“I said that already.”

“I’d like you to repeat it.”

“Quarter to twelve,” Adam says, annoyed.

Jenny Jansdotter tilts her chin up and juts her head out over the table like a bird of prey.

“Curious,” she says.

There is an alarming hint of triumph in her voice.

“Very curious,” Jansdotter says, unfolding a piece of paper on the table in front of her.

What is this? Is there something we missed?

“I have here a list of your text messages, Adam. Each text that was sent from your phone on the night of the murder, and each text you received, is included. Two messages were deleted from your phone, but the evidence technicians were able to recover them. I’m sure you are aware that deleted texts can be recovered?”

Adam bows his head.

Dammit, this cannot be true. How could Michael have missed the phone records? We knew the police had taken Adam’s cell phone into evidence, but it never occurred to me that there could have been any compromising information on it.

“At eighteen minutes after eleven, the following text was sent from your phone to Stella’s number: Are you coming home tonight?”

The prosecutor holds the list up and points with the tip of her pen.

“Okay?” Adam says.

“Do you recall sending such a text?”

His shoulders squirm and he looks thoroughly uncomfortable.

“Yes, I suppose I could have. My wife said Stella might be spending the night at Amina’s. That’s why I texted her to ask.”

“Are you coming home tonight?” Jansdotter repeats. “Did you receive a response from Stella?”

Adam scratches his chin. I try to catch Michael’s attention, but he refuses to look in my direction. Sweat is running down his face and he tugs at his tie as if he can’t breathe.

“I don’t remember,” Adam mumbles.

“Are you sure? You don’t remember whether you received an answer?”

Adam swallows hard and shakes his head rapidly.