A Nearly Normal Family(4)

* * *



On Friday evening I felt unusually worn down after a long week. I stood at the window and watched the end of August sink into the horizon. The solemnity of autumn had a foot through the door. The last of the grill smoke vanished up over the rooftops in curling columns and patio furniture was emptied of cushions.

At last I took off my clerical collar and I wiped my sweaty neck. When I leaned against the windowsill, I accidentally knocked our family photo to the floor.

A crack appeared across the glass, but I put the photo back anyway. In the picture, which is at least a decade old, I have a healthy glow and something playful about my eyes. I recalled that we laughed just before the photographer snapped the picture. Ulrika is smiling with her mouth open, and in front of us is Stella, with rosy cheeks, braided hair, and a Mickey Mouse shirt. I stood at the window for a long time, gazing at the photograph as the memories swelled in my throat.

After a shower, I made a casserole with pork tenderloin and chorizo. Ulrika had bought new earrings, small silver feathers, and we shared a bottle of South African wine with our meal, then rounded out the evening with pretzel sticks and a game of Trivial Pursuit on the sofa.

“Do you know where Stella is?” I asked as I undressed in the bedroom. Ulrika had already crawled under the covers and drawn the blankets to her chin.

“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.