A Nearly Normal Family(12)

Ulrika came down the stairs at a jog.

“The prosecutor has given the order to remand Stella,” she said.

“Remand her?”

My heart was pounding. I broke out in a sweat.

“They’re holding her in jail.”

“How is that possible? There’s no evidence!”

“It may have to do with the investigation. Things the police want to check up on before she is released.”

“Like an alibi?”

“For one.”

I didn’t know what we should do. My body was in an uproar. I could only manage to sit down for short periods, then I had to get up and move around. I walked through the house like a zombie, all around the house in my stocking feet.

As the sun sent its first tentative rays across the eastern horizon, we still knew nothing. The lack of sleep had made my brain fuzzy.

At last Blomberg called. I stood across from Ulrika in the kitchen and held my breath.

Her answers were brief and mumbling. She stood there with the phone pressed to her ear even after the call had ended.

“What did he say?” I asked.

Ulrika was looking at me and yet her gaze was elsewhere.

“We have to leave the house.”

Her voice was thin as a spider’s silk, about to break.

“What? What’s going on?”

“The police are on their way. They’re going to search the house.”

My thoughts went immediately to the stained blouse. It couldn’t be blood, surely? Of course there would be a sensible explanation. It must be as Blomberg had said, rash decisions and misunderstandings.

Stella could never … or could she?

I stole into the laundry room and lifted the pile of clothes I’d shoved the top under. My hands stiffened.

It was gone.

“What are you doing?” Ulrika said from the kitchen. “We have to get going.”

I desperately dug through the other piles of clothing but didn’t find a thing. The clotheslines were empty. The top was gone.

“Come on!” Ulrika called.





12


The future was always bright, but in a glistening, almost blinding way, like the winter sun through billowing mist. There was no worry, even if our paths weren’t yet laid out before us. I recall tiny Stella, with baby teeth and pigtails.

And then I recall a very uncomfortable parent-teacher conference at preschool when Stella was five.

The teacher, whose name was Ingrid, first reported on all the activities, crafts, and educational games they had done during the autumn and winter. Then she took a deep breath, paged through her papers at random, and seemed unsure of where to focus her gaze.

“A few parents and children have approached us with concerns,” she said without looking at us. “At times Stella can be quite dominant and she gets … angry. If things don’t go her way.”

This sounded familiar, of course, although I suppose we had been hoping it wasn’t as obvious at preschool as it was at home. I immediately felt both embarrassed and defensive when I learned that other parents had aired opinions about my daughter.

“I’m sure it isn’t that bad? She’s only five.”

Ingrid nodded.

“A few parents have brought it up with the school director,” she said. “It’s important for Stella to receive help for this, both at school and at home.”

“What? Who are those parents?” Ulrika said.

“Could you give us an example?” I asked. “What is it that Stella does wrong?”

Ingrid paged through her documents.

“Well, in role-playing games, when the children play pretend, Stella very much wants to control the others.”

Ulrika shrugged.

“Isn’t it sometimes good that someone takes on the role of leader?”

“We know Stella can sometimes seem domineering,” I said. “The question is how much we should try to stifle it. As Ulrika said, leadership qualities can be a very good thing—that she’s direct, a driving force.”

Ingrid scratched intensely at her right eyebrow.

“Last week, Stella said she was like God. The other children had to obey her, because she was like God and God is in charge of everything.”

I felt Ulrika’s eyes boring into me from the side. Stella had spent quite a bit of time at church with me; she had shown interest in my work and was already asking existential questions, but I would never dream of providing her with neatly packaged solutions or clear-cut answers. Furthermore, I would never touch upon God’s omnipotence even in my daughter’s absence.

“We’ll talk to Stella,” I said curtly.

In the car on the way home, Ulrika pointedly turned off the radio, one finger poking at the panel on the dashboard.

“It’s crazy, the opinions people have about other people’s children.”

“It’s nothing to worry about,” I said, turning the music back on. “She’s only five.”

I had no idea how quickly time would pass.





13


On Sunday afternoon I was sitting in a spartan interrogation room at the police station, waiting to be questioned. I was given strong coffee in a mug; the minutes passed slowly, painfully, and my skin felt itchy.

The chief inspector finally arrived; her name was Agnes Thelin and she was wearing a conciliatory expression. She claimed that she knew exactly how I must be feeling. She had two sons around Stella’s age.