After She's Gone

by Camilla Grebe

  Perhaps it’s because Max sounds so harsh, or because all that talk of car crashes makes me think of Kenny again.

  “So you don’t think he should have got anything?” I ask, still running my finger over the cold, steamy windowpane.

  He explains that that wasn’t what he meant, but that he works for an insurance company, not some sob-story TV show. And besides, do I have any idea how many of these so-called invalids fake their symptoms? How many people receive compensation every month and then tear off their neck braces and go home to jump on their trampoline with the kids?

  I draw a heart on the window. And then another.

  “What a shitty job you have,” I say.

  “Pardon?”

  Yes, he says “Pardon?” Max had a fancy upbringing and would never say “What?” when he doesn’t catch what you said. It’s one of the many small things that divide us, and probably something that attracted me in the beginning.

  “I said you have a shitty job. You sit behind your posh desk with all your legs and arms intact and wheedle money out of people who can’t even pee by themselves.”

  An awkward silence sets in.

  “What the hell,” he says finally. “When did you turn into a socialist?”

  “Maybe when I met you.”

  I hang up and look down at the phone without really understanding what just happened. I regret it immediately. I insulted and hurt Max for no real reason, and he’s absolutely right that he’s just doing his job.

  I know I need to call back and apologize. Explain how tired I am and how much pressure we’re all under. Tell him about Azra and Nermina and Peter. About my fear of finding my colleague dead or the equally terrifying option: not finding him at all.

  And then about all the rest, everything I’ve never really tried to tell him: about how little he truly knows and understands my family and the people who live here. It doesn’t matter how well he and Mom get along when they meet. Max will always return to his pedantically clean turn-of-the-century Stockholm apartment, with its expensive Italian furniture and brass bathroom fixtures. To his horsehair bed that cost a month’s salary—a month’s salary for him, not me; mine would never suffice.

  Could he ever understand what it’s like to have your legs crushed by a bus or lose your job at TrikåKungen and never get a new one because every company’s gone under and the county doesn’t have the money to support the ones who are left behind, even though the refugees get food and housing and education without doing a goddamn thing?

  What does he know about the darkness of Ormberg?

  And maybe more important: How could he ever understand me?

  But I don’t have it in me to call him. Not now.

  Instead, I look at the hearts on the window. Wipe them away with my hand.

  Love just isn’t my thing.

  Jake

  Snowflakes whip against my face as I ride away from home. The moped struggles forward down the unplowed country road. The darkness and falling snow make it difficult to see, and I drive so slowly I’m afraid I’ll roll at the turn. I try not to think of what might happen, because if I roll over out here, nobody can help me.

  But today it feels like that doesn’t matter.

  Nothing matters anymore.

  I think of Dad sitting in the police station in Örebro. And then I think of Melinda, of the expression on her face when she saw me in bed wearing a dress and lipstick. The surprise and the fear in her eyes was a painful reminder of who I am, or rather what I am.

  Aberrant.

  As soon as Melinda disappeared, I changed clothes and left.

  I have my backpack balled up in the moped’s seat. Inside it I stuffed Hanne’s diary, my phone, a frozen loaf of bread, and two cans of Coke.

  When I get to the main road, I turn off toward what everyone around here insists on calling downtown, even though it’s just a few ramshackle houses in a field.

  Or that’s what Hanne thinks, anyway.

  I drive onto the small road that leads to Saga’s house. Park my moped outside, run up the small staircase to her door, and ring the bell. I can hear shouting coming from inside.

  Saga’s mother opens the door wearing pink sweatpants. Her long dark hair sits in a ponytail on top of her head. In her hand she holds a damp dishrag.

  “Jake? What are you doing out in this weather? Come in!”

  She opens the door, and I step into warmth, pull off my boots, and hang my winter coat on one of the hooks in the hall.

  Saga’s mom keeps her house very clean. It’s basically her main hobby. Everyone in the family has a hook with their name on it, and a spot on the shoe rack. There’s even a special spot for guests, too, so I put my boots there.

  I can hear the TV blaring from the living room.

  Bea, Saga’s little sister, who’s twelve, wanders out of the kitchen carrying an iPad. I notice right away that she’s angry, and I realize I must have interrupted some kind of argument.

  “He was the one who hit me!” she yells.

  Saga’s mom turns to Bea and crosses her arms over her chest.

  “You’re still not allowed to hit back. I don’t want to have any more conversations with your teacher about this. Do you understand? It’s embarrassing. You’re a girl, Bea, you should know better.”

  “But he hit me. Really hard!”

  “He probably hit you because he likes you—boys do that. They’re incapable of saying it when they like you. When you grow up you’ll understand.”

  Saga appears in the doorway of the kitchen.

  Her hair is now a darker shade of pink, almost cerise. Long threads hang from her ripped black jeans and her soft, pale skin peeks out through the holes on her thighs and knees.

  Her face breaks into a smile when she sees me, and she takes a few quick steps toward me.

  “Hey!”

  “Hi,” I say, suddenly very aware that I don’t have a good reason to be here.

  But Saga just smiles, takes my hand, and pulls me into the living room. Pushes me down onto the couch next to their cat, Mouser.

  “How’s it going?” she asks, and places herself next to me cross-legged.

  “Good,” I lie. “What are they fighting about?”

  “Eh. Bea hit somebody in the face again.”

  I think of what Saga’s mom told Bea, that boys hit you when they like you, because they don’t have any other way to say it. As if all guys are, like, mentally disturbed monsters who talk with their fists. Bang—a fist to the face: You’re cute. Pow—a fist to my stomach: I like you. Poof—a kick in the back: Do you wanna be my girlfriend?

  Saga smiles crookedly and runs a hand over her hair.

  “I dyed it darker. What do you think?”

  “Really cute!”

  “Thank you. Mom thinks I look like a whore.”

  There’s a scrape in the hall, and Saga’s mom appears in the doorway.

  “Young lady! I absolutely did not say that! We don’t use that word in our home. And where are my black jeans, by the way?”

  “Don’t know. Why?” Saga rolls her eyes.

  “First of all, they’re mine. And secondly, I’m going over to Björn’s this evening, and I wanted to wear them. So you better go find them,” her mom says, then stalks off, away from us and back to the argument with Bea.

  Saga sighs, and my cheeks suddenly feel hot.

  Björn Falk.

  Saga’s mom’s new boyfriend. Who’s been convicted of assault. Who threw his girlfriend into a burning-hot sauna for so long she had to have a skin transplant. And I can’t tell anyone, even though I know I should.

  “Your hair is really pretty,” I say instead, and mean it.

  The color reminds me of the flowers that grow next to the ditches in the summer, the ones Mom liked so much.

  “It has
more attitude,” I add.

  “Exactly!” Saga says, looking pleased.

  I shiver.

  Saga places a hand hesitantly on my sleeve.

  “Oh. It’s wet. Wait, I’ll get you another shirt.”

  “It’s fine,” I say, but Saga’s already disappeared into the hall.

  A few minutes later, she returns with a T-shirt and a thick, warm, pink wool sweater. It’s almost the same color as her hair. A long loop of yarn hangs down from one sleeve.

  Saga puts her finger through the loop, raises her eyebrows, and smiles.

  “It gets caught on everything.”

  I take the sweater. Hesitate a few seconds, but then, because I don’t want to disappoint her, I pull it on.

  The pink sweater is long, reaches halfway down my thighs.

  “Really cute. You look good in pink.”

  I don’t respond.

  I’ve always liked pink, but I can’t say that.

  An awkward silence ensues. The argument seems to be over, and the only sound is the drone of a newscaster coming from the TV. Outside the black windows, large flakes swirl around in a dance that never seems to cease.

  Mouser stretches a bit, and when Saga pets the soft fur on his belly, her bracelets jingle.

  “So, do you wanna watch a horror film?”

  “Sure.”

  Saga puts on an old movie about some young people who go out into the woods searching for “the Blair Witch,” and end up lost. It looks homemade, but Saga says that was just a marketing trick.

  “The whole point is you’re supposed to think they filmed it themselves. Some people totally bought it. Back when the movie came out. Mom said she thought it was, like, ‘terrifying’ when it came out.”

  “Seriously?”

  “I know, right?” Saga says, and we both giggle.

  Her hand sneaks into mine; it’s warm and damp, and even though I’d like to readjust my arm a little, I don’t for fear of ruining this perfect moment. I want to float on the warmth spreading inside me, and keep those addictive butterflies in my stomach for as long as I can.

  “What if Ormberg’s become a super-dangerous place, even though it’s the most boring place in the world,” Saga says. “Mom told me some TV reporters wanted to interview her yesterday. But she didn’t have any makeup on so she said no. And now there are murder tourists here.”

  “ ‘Murder tourists’?”

  “Yeah, you know. People who are curious about crime scenes. She met a whole bunch of them downtown asking how to get to the cairn.”

  I shudder and think of Hanne’s diary, sitting in my backpack, waiting to be read.

  “Damn, that’s disturbed,” I say. “I mean, a woman died—she was a real person who lived and breathed. And walked around just like we do. Maybe she liked watching movies or had a family…And now she’s a tourist attraction. Like the outlet stores in Vingåker.”

  My voice fades away.

  “Mhmmm,” Saga says. “It is disturbed. Not that anyone thinks about that fact. Except for us, since we’re morally superior.”

  More giggles.

  “Do you remember the girl I was telling you about, who works as a clerk at the police in Örebro?” Saga asks.

  “Your cousin?”

  Saga rolls her eyes. “No. She’s together with Mom’s sister’s ex’s son, and she’s from Kumla. Anyway. She says the murder will soon be solved. The police have a suspect.”

  My skin crawls when I realize she must mean Dad.

  Saga examines her nails and continues:

  “She says she hopes they put him away forever, where the sun don’t shine.”

  Something inside me breaks when she says that. My stomach twists in knots, and my mouth goes dry.

  Dad. Locked in a dark room forever.

  “Wonder if that old lady they found in the forest will recognize him,” Saga continues without noticing my reaction. “The one who lost her memory. Anyway. It’s so crazy that she’s living with Berit behind the church now. A super-old lady taking care of another super-old lady. Mom says it will all go to hell in the end. Even though Berit used to work with that kind of stuff. Taking care of the disabled and retarded people.”

  “I didn’t use those words!”

  Saga’s mom is in the doorway again. But she doesn’t look angry, just amused. She’s swinging the dishrag back and forth in her hand.

  “Jake,” she says. “Maybe you better start heading home?”

  I look down at the carpet, panic washing over me when she says those words.

  Saga’s mom observes me silently, wrinkles her forehead. Then she says:

  “Or you can sleep on the couch if you want. That’s fine by me.”

  Saga smiles, but says nothing. She just pulls on one of the long threads hanging from her jeans until it breaks, and then sits there with it in her hand like it’s a worm.

  * * *

  —

  I’m lying on the couch under an old musty blanket Saga’s mom took out of storage.

  Saga’s mom is nice—she didn’t have to let me sleep here.

  I think of what Dad always says: People around here take care of each other; it’s one of the advantages of living in a small town. And maybe he’s right.

  I take out the diary. Hesitate, but then turn on the floor lamp and start to read.

  We’re not friends at the moment, Hanne and me, but I still have to find out what happened. If only so I can find the real killer and save Dad.

  Maybe I’m the only one who can.

  ORMBERG, NOVEMBER 30

  At the office.

  The weather is terrible, almost a storm.

  The rain is pouring, the wind lashing against the building. It’s ice cold in here and the ceiling is leaking, even with the floor heater on full blast.

  We just had our morning meeting. Summarized the state of the investigation, reviewed time lines, hypotheses, technical evidence, & witness statements. We’ve received more pictures of Nermina from the Bosnian police as well.

  We enlarged them and taped them up.

  Death stared at me from the wall. I stared back.

  Manfred was frustrated. Asked me what kind of perp we’re dealing with here.

  I told him I saw three options: (1) Someone killed Nermina by mistake (e.g., a traffic accident) and hid her body in the cairn. (2) Azra killed her daughter, which would also explain why Azra disappeared afterward. (3) An unknown person killed Nermina. The motive could have been sexual.

  After that we went through the personnel at the refugee camp in the early nineties. Most had nothing suspicious in their backgrounds. One person had been convicted of assault. Only two of the employees lived in Ormberg: Rut Sten, the former director, and Berit Sund, an old woman who lives between the church and the old mill.

  According to Malin, Berit is completely harmless.

  She wouldn’t hurt a fly.

  I wake up because I’m freezing.

  The blanket has slipped onto the floor. Dim light from the kitchen has made its way into the living room. Something crunches under me on the couch as I reach for the floor—maybe an old chip.

  That’s the sort of thing Saga’s mom detests—chips in the couch. If she knew it was here, she’d definitely come down with her vacuum cleaner, even in the middle of the night.

  I pull up the blanket, then stop, turn and look at the floor again.

  The diary is gone.

  I get off the couch and down onto my knees, look under the couch, but the diary isn’t there. Nor has it slid between the cushions.

  * * *

  —

  She’s sitting in bed with the diary on her lap, her cheeks streaked with tears. Her pink hair falls over one eye.

  “Hi,” I try.

  Saga shakes her
head as if she wants me to go.

  “Please, Saga.”

  “It’s her book, right? The woman who got lost in the woods?”

  I nod.

  “You should have told me,” she says quietly.

  I stand as if stuck frozen to the cold floor, and feel a cold breeze at my ankles. The glass panes rattle as the wind starts to press against the window.

  Yes, I should have told her. But I didn’t. And now I can’t even tell her why.

  “You should have told me that you found it, you should have told me Björn Falk is a fucking disturbed piece of shit. What if he tries to kill Mom, too? What if he throws her into a sauna? Maybe you didn’t even think of that?”

  “I…”

  “Why didn’t you tell me? I thought we trusted each other.”

  Her voice is a whisper.

  “Cuz. Cuz…”

  Saga shakes her head again and wipes away a tear.

  “Because your dad might have killed someone?”

  “No. No!”

  “Because you wouldn’t have a mother or a father if they locked him up?”

  “Dad would never…”

  “You don’t know that,” Saga says with a dry laugh. “You can’t know that kind of thing. And besides, what would you do about it? You surely weren’t going to go there by yourself?”

  “Go where?”

  Saga snorts.

  “You haven’t even read it all, have you?”

  Then silence. Saga rocks back and forth in bed with her eyes turned to the wall.

  “Saga,” I say. “Don’t tell anyone. Please!”

  Saga turns to me. Her eyes look like black metal balls. She squeezes the diary so hard her knuckles turn white.

  “Is that all you care about? Me keeping my mouth shut?”

  “No, I…”

  “Leave now,” she screams, and throws the diary at me.

  The pages flutter and rustle as the diary flies through the air. It lands on my left foot with a thud, but I feel no pain, just a horrible emptiness as I realize I’ve probably lost Saga.