Dandelion Girl

by Isa Hansen

  Alex responded, “Sweden is an important player in the world when it comes to cultural export.”

  “Oh, we could work with that,” Celia said. “What would we talk about specifically?”

  “Music, for sure,” Alex said.

  “And technology?” Celia suggested. “Like Skype? And Spotify? The last one even bridges back to music.”

  “Definitely.”

  “I like it. The influence Sweden has had on global culture through music and technology,” Celia said, nodding. “There should be tons of information available.”

  For the rest of the way, they discussed potential bands and tech companies to highlight in their presentation.

  It wasn’t until the car turned and slowed down that Celia looked around and realized where they were. She hadn’t noticed at first because they were driving in the dark, but they were turning into the long driveway: the one leading up to the mansion.

  The big house.

  “You live here,” Celia said, recalling the shape in the window that had her so unnerved.

  “Yes, I live here.”

  “I was here on one of my first days in Sweden.” Celia gazed out the window at the gnarled trees along the alleyway. “I went for a jog and ended up here.” They were rolling down the driveway, the mansion rising up as a sheer black mass at the end of it.

  “What were you doing here?”

  Celia drew her attention to Alex. His voice sounded strangely guarded.

  “Nothing,” she said. “I was just out jogging. But then realized I was in a private driveway and I was trespassing.”

  Alex swerved the car toward the back of the manor house where two cars were parked. To the side of the cars was a huge tarp, covering what appeared to be a large boat; quite possibly the infamous yacht.

  Gliding the BMW in between the two cars, Alex said, “Don’t worry about it. It’s not like in America where someone shoots you just cause you’re in their driveway.”

  Celia flicked him a glance. “Uh,” she said. “It’s not exactly like that there either.”

  Was it just her or was he acting kind of weird?

  Alex’s parking was sloppy with the car slightly diagonal and hanging out behind the other cars. He hopped out, slamming the door shut. Celia jumped out and hurried to fall into step with him.

  Instead of walking round to the front, Alex took her to a less formal door at the back. A dim light from a wall lantern cast a streaky sheen upon the entrance.

  Alex pulled open the door and motioned for Celia to go first. Upon entering, she stared about the place.

  Everything around her was regal and austere. High ceilings with crown moldings, muted paintings on the walls, a cascade of soft and chalky whites throughout. The decor was a blend of ancient and modern in a style that Celia had learned was Gustavian. It all worked together so seamlessly that she suspected the hand and eye of a highly skilled interior designer.

  Alex led Celia into a sitting room, furnished with a few sleek armchairs, a coffee table in light wood, a bar cart in one corner and a ceiling-height ceramic fireplace. The place gave off a sense of stateliness, but also a feeling of cold and discomfort.

  A door creaked and a broad-shouldered man entered the room. Behind him, darkened by his shadow, stepped a slight woman with fair hair pulled back.

  The man approached first. He had a larger build than Alex, was tall and staunch with dark hair that was graying around the temples. He walked with the stride of someone who perceived himself as very important. “You must be Celia, welcome,” he said and held out his hand. “Alexander has told us so much about you.”

  “Celia, my father—Thomas,” Alex said, his arms in a tight cross.

  The man stepped back and guided the woman toward her. Alex’s mother, she presumed. The instinctive and practiced gesture signaled that Thomas was in the habit of maneuvering his wife. This wasn’t a woman who made her own decisions; this was a woman who was led.

  Alex said: “Mor, Celia.”

  Celia shook hands with her as well.

  The woman peered at Celia, wide-eyed and unblinking, her eyes being the only large feature on her. Everything else about her was dainty and birdlike. “I’m Eva,” she said in a low, hushed voice.

  Both Alexander’s parents smiled, but they were smiles that never reached the eyes. Added to that, there was something strange about the way Alex was introducing Celia. Like he was irritated. But Celia couldn’t decipher if he was irritated with her or his parents.

  She shivered. The temperature in the house was cold. She knew houses to be toasty warm in Sweden—well insulated with efficient heating systems. Of course she had never been in a Swedish mansion like this before.

  They exchanged pleasantries for a while. Thomas and Eva asked her questions, the standard stuff: where she was from, if she was enjoying Sweden, how she was finding her coursework. She in return told them their home was beautiful.

  “All right, we’ll get started,” Alex said, with an air of impatience.

  “Would you like anything to eat?” Eva called after them.

  “No, it’s good,” Alex replied without looking back. “This way,” he said to Celia.

  Celia peered into the rooms they passed along the way. If it hadn’t been for some of the contemporary furniture, she would have thought she’d stepped straight into the past. Celia knew very little about architecture but guessed the house was built sometime in the 16th or 17th century.

  Alex led her through several double French doorways. The cream colored walls held paintings of old portraits and landscapes, lit up by discreet light fixtures in the ceiling. Celia passed a painting that looked like a big map, but when she slowed to glance at it, she realized it was a family lineage tree. At the bottom of the family tree, Alexander’s surname was written in a cursive old style of lettering: Rosensköld.

  Her eyes scanned upward to a family history spanning back hundreds of years.

  Alexander stood down the hall, waiting and scowling.

  She hurried to catch up but continued to glance into the rooms they passed.

  Every room looked like its own little chamber, distinguished with flowing curtains and petite corner tables, antique lamps and handcrafted vases, old Nordic artwork over tall bookshelves. They passed a room with a dining table, the walls a deep burgundy in contrast to the lightness of the other rooms. A crystal chandelier hung from the ceiling, casting a jagged shadow.

  Celia was relieved to find that Alex’s living quarters held a warmer, more comfortable temperature. Alex lived in an apartment on the far western side complete with a bedroom, bathroom, a general living space, and a small kitchen. It looked more like a regular apartment—albeit a swank apartment—compared to the rest of the manor.

  Alex and Celia parked themselves on a sofa in the living area and resumed the discussion they’d had earlier. They concluded that Alex would work on the music side of their presentation and Celia would research tech companies.

  The more they talked, the more Celia liked the topic. These types of studies—the ones that linked cultures together, that traced broader global movements and mapped out waves and patterns and trends across nations—validated her decision to be studying in Sweden. She realized that perhaps she’d let herself get too wrapped up in the Liv affair. Maybe she was allowing it to take up too much space. To study and experience Sweden was the point of her trip, after all.

  “What’s it like living here?” Celia asked, when they hit a lull in their work. They had both been sitting and reading from their laptops.

  Alex snapped his response: “It’s just a house.”

  “OK…” Celia said.

  They were quiet for a moment. Celia tried to go back to her reading but was having a hard time concentrating.

  “Are you still mad?”

  “About what?” Alex didn’t look up from his screen.

  “The other day when you told me to have a nice life. I thought that was it, that we wouldn’t be friends.”

 
; “Don’t overrate yourself. I was never that upset.”

  Celia slammed her laptop shut. It made a louder sound than she expected, but neither of them budged.

  “What’s up with you?”

  “Nothing. I’m just tired.”

  “You know what,” she said, “I’m going home. This isn’t going very well.” His tone had been off ever since they arrived at the house. She began to gather her notebooks and papers.

  “I’m sorry.” Alex leaned over and put his hand on hers. “I’m being a dick.”

  She wasn’t going to contradict him on that one.

  Alex moved a little closer to her. “I’m not good with people.”

  “You seem pretty charming when you want to be,” Celia said doubtfully.

  “Oh, on the surface I’m everything anyone wants me to be,” Alex said. “I know the right things to say and do, and I’m very comfortable with small talk, but I don’t know what to do when it gets real.”

  “When it gets real?”

  “I mean you. You are…” Alex looked up at the ceiling, then back over at Celia. “You’re so real.”

  She wasn’t sure what he meant by that. Wasn’t everyone real?

  “I want to get beyond the surface with you, but I don’t know how to do that. I’ve been trained to keep it contained, formal.”

  “Oh.”

  “You see what my home environment is like.” Alex gestured outward. “Those people who are my parents: they’re not exactly warm and cuddly.”

  Celia responded with a cautious nod.

  “My older brothers live in Stockholm. I barely see them. When we get together, with the family or with relatives, it’s all fake. Nothing feels genuine or sincere.” Alex leaned back into the sofa. “I think you told me before that you don’t have siblings?”

  “Yeah, no I don’t,” Celia said.

  “But my guess is you’re close with your parents?”

  “Yes.”

  Alex nodded. “Please help me, let me practice. I’ll try really hard to not be sarcastic or condescending.”

  Celia felt sorry for Alex although she didn’t understand why. He had everything handed to him on a silver platter. Life had to have been so easy for him and would continue to be easy with his money and his connections. And yet there seemed to be such an unhappiness within him and his family.

  She didn’t want to seem ungenerous, so she accepted his apology and set her things back on the table.

  “There’s something else that’s been bothering me,” he said. “If I’m going to be really honest.”

  “Yeah?”

  “I can tell there’s stuff going on with you. Sometimes you seem so distant. You’re always huddling in a corner with Oskar and Ebba, keeping secrets.”

  “Mmm,” Celia mumbled.

  “Will you tell me what’s going on?”

  For a second, Celia stalled, but once she started it all flowed out.

  About Liv, about the fire, about Katja and Hans, about the mystery of the house that she had inherited. Of course he already knew about the stranger at the airport. She told him everything.

  Alex sat back and listened. He was quiet for several moments before commenting. “Wow,” he said. “I’ll never look at Hans the same way again.”

  “We don’t know Hans was involved,” Celia said.

  “He sounds pretty suspicious.”

  “But why then tell me that Liv was killed?”

  Alex eyed Celia. “Maybe he wants to scare you?”

  “Why, though?”

  Alex shrugged.

  “So you know Hans?” Celia asked.

  “I had him in a class or two in my first year. I wouldn’t say I know him. He’s always been pretty unobjectionable. Not boring maybe, but kind of whatever.”

  Celia smiled. Sometimes Alex sounded American, more so than Ebba or Oskar.

  Alex was different from the boys back home, just like Oskar was, but the two of them couldn’t have been more opposite from each other. Celia thought if a gust of wind big enough would come along, it would blow Alex away while Oskar would stay rooted. That was the difference between them.

  “Do you have any idea if Liv knew anything—had information that would cause someone to go after her?” Alex asked.

  “There’s stuff there, but I don’t know what it is yet. I think both Hans and Katja are hiding things. I think they could have been involved with the fire.”

  “So, what are you going to do with all of this now?”

  “Not sure.”

  “Anything I can help with?”

  Celia thought about it. “Maybe,” she said. “I’ll let you know.”

  “Anything you can think of…” Alex said.

  “Thanks.” Celia brought her laptop back up to continue working on the project.

  When they were done for the evening, Alex offered to drive Celia home, which she happily accepted.

  On their way out, Celia thought back to Ebba’s prediction about Alex. She was glad Ebba had been wrong. Alex may have been acting in a sulky way, but he wasn’t trying anything with her. They really were genuinely studying.

  ***

  As soon as Alex was home from dropping Celia off, he went straight to the bar.

  He was pouring Scotch whisky into a heavy tumbler when his father emerged. He took a sip and held his father in a steady gaze.

  “Nice girl,” Thomas said.

  Alex responded with a murmur.

  His mind was turning everything over, all that Celia had told him. There were so many questions he wanted to ask his father. Yet he remained quiet, sipping his drink. Before this he’d failed to see the connection, but now one very essential piece had fallen into place.

  “Pour me one of those,” Thomas said, “if you would be so kind.”

  Alex reached for another glass, poured scotch into it and handed it to his father.

  Thomas held up his glass in a silent skål and Alex did the same.

  The quiet stretched between them.

  Alex knew to bide his time.

  There was no point in asking questions or pressuring his father. Thomas Rosensköld was en expert liar; could lie straight to your face and make you feel crazy for ever doubting him.

  No, Alex would rather work with a blank slate than get sidetracked by lies.

  Anyway, he liked it better whenever he was a step ahead and in control by his own devices. When those around him were left in the dark.

  Like that time six years ago.

  This was back when his middle brother Filip still occupied the apartment where Alex now lived, and he himself was in a small bedroom in the opposite wing. The room had a crappy, broken down desk, so he’d asked his parents for a new one. At that, Filip, who was home on break from university, had snorted, “Why? To have somewhere to sit with your crayons?”

  Alex hardly had to be reminded that he was the baby of the family. He was signaled that constantly, by his parents and two brothers, his seniors by eight and ten years. Never taken seriously. Always belittled.

  He’d been humiliated and furious over the crayon comment. But he was twelve, not helpless, so he’d gone to work.

  It took him a weekend.

  He set up a website dedicated to Filip, full of unflattering photographs and sweet little tidbits—like how Filip was cheating on his girlfriend and how he’d continued to wet his bed as an adult. Taking inspiration from an infamous online celebrity gossip site, he used the paintbrush toolbar to scribble little comments over the pictures. Then he sent the website via an anonymous email address to all of Filip’s contacts at Handelshögskolan in Stockholm where Filip was in his second year.

  Shit met fan, just as expected.

  Filip went stark mad, wildly accusing everyone around him of setting up the site, including his then girlfriend and his best friend. Of course no one even considered the real perpetrator: innocent little baby brother Alex.

  Filip was right, Alex had thought at the time, overcome by smug satisfaction. Playing with c
rayons was fun.

  Being in control and a step ahead had been such a pleasurable experience.

  If he could only get there again. Not that this situation was anything like that childish stunt.

  Now the stakes were far higher.

  He’d brought Celia home to gage his father’s response to her. Would he react the same way he did when he first saw her?

  Would Thomas show any sign of that same illogical panic he exhibited when Celia stood outside the house, in their driveway?

  But alas he didn’t; he remained cool and collected.

  No, it was Celia who did the revealing that day.

  Thanks to her, Alex was one huge step closer to understanding.

  He downed his drink.

  Standing around socializing with Thomas was pointless. Alex set his glass down and strolled out without looking back, leaving his father alone in the room.

  If he’d stopped, he’d have seen the look on his father’s face, where he bowed over his drink, transported back in time, static and contemplating.

  From the doorway of a darkened room, a small figure entered. She came into the light, Eva, standing still, observing her husband.

  He saw her but said nothing.

  Thomas remained in his spot, swirling his scotch. He stared down into his tumbler, then said quietly, more to himself than to her:

  “The likeness really is quite extraordinary, isn’t it?”

  CHAPTER 13

  August 5, 1984

  It’s late enough in the summer that the night sky is no longer a mere light blue pretending to be dark. Tonight the sky is a sheet of black with streaks of grays and blues and a smattering of silver stars across it. They’ve been sitting there long enough that their eyes have adjusted to the dark. The lights of a sleepy Björkby twinkle below.

  Liv Sörensson leans her head against Hans’s shoulder. The two of them, along with Katja, Lottis, and Petter, sit on the rock formation that overlooks their junior high school. The place they are done with, forever.

  Come autumn and they are all off to high school.

  “Good riddance,” Katja says.

  Lottis looks at her and nods. Lottis doesn’t say or do anything without first casting a glance toward Katja, and then another afterwards, making sure that Katja approves.