The grass around the yellow wooden house almost reaches my knees and the borders are in full bloom.
I pull the rusty old gate shut behind me and walk up the gravel path to the entrance as I take my keys out of my pocket.
It is hot, really hot, and birdsong and the sound of buzzing bumblebees surrounds me.
I unlock the door and step into the familiar hall.
There’s a slightly musty smell along with something that could be mould, but everything looks the way it used to. Father’s shoes are lined up in two neat rows on the shelf and the clothes hang on identical hangers under the hat shelf.
I put the stack of mail and newspapers on the chest of drawers under the mirror. Leaf through the letters to see if anything looks urgent and tuck some bills into my bag.
I don’t have Father’s bank details, but I think they’re in his green chest of drawers. I decide to see if I can find them. If not I guess I will have to pay the bills myself, even though I have almost no money left in my account.
Father would hate it if the bills weren’t paid on time.
I kick my pumps off and go into the kitchen.
Everything looks as usual.
Through the window I can see the blue water on the lake glimmer in the sun. The tall rose bush, the one that should have been cut a long time ago, covers almost the entire right-hand side of the windowpane.
I go up to the fridge, expecting to find mouldy food, but it is empty and switched off. A faint scent of detergent hits me and when I run my finger over the glass shelf it is so clean that it almost squeaks when I touch it.
Father has already emptied the fridge and cleaned it.
I look around.
The oven door is open and the baking sheets are arranged on a gingham tea towel on the counter next to it. Next to them is an opened package of steel wool.
Typical Father, he has apparently already done the estate cleaning, so that I won’t have to.
When I realise what trouble he has gone to for my sake I am immediately hit by a mix of grief and guilt. The feeling adds to my already subdued state of mind and I think of Samuel, who has vanished, and the pastor’s breath against the back of my neck when he pressed up against me.
I move on into Father’s bedroom.
The sun is shining in and it is hot, almost stifling. Small particles of dust float in the rectangle of light that cuts straight through the room; seemingly weightless they appear to strive up, up, up.
The double bed is neatly made and the big quilt that Mother made when I was little lies folded at the foot. There is a Bible on the bedside table, the 1917 translation, Father’s favourite, although he uses newer translations in his sermons. Around it are medicine jars in various sizes.
I go up to the green chest of drawers by the window. Crouch down and pull out the top drawer.
Empty.
The next drawer is empty too, but when I pull out the bottom drawer I find a large brown envelope.
It says ‘Pernilla’ in Father’s large, shaky handwriting.
I take the envelope and close the drawer. Go up to the bed and sit down, unsure of what to do. It is obviously intended for me, but I don’t know what it is. Father might not want me to read it right now. On the other hand it might contain bank information and other practical details that I may need.
In the end my curiosity wins out and I open the carefully sealed envelope with my finger.
There are five letters inside, all unopened and addressed to me. I look at the postmarks. The oldest was sent a few days before my tenth birthday.
I open it carefully and fish out a brittle sheet of writing paper with yellow flowers in the right-hand corner.
Dearest Pernilla,
I hope that you are well and that you and Father are happy! As I wrote to you earlier I miss you very, very much and long to see you. Please ask Father when we can meet.
Now you are turning ten – a big day. I would have loved to celebrate it with you, but I know that you are well cared for by Father and the others in the congregation.
There is so much I would like to explain to you, but I think it is better to wait until we see each other. Some things take a while to understand, and this one of those things.
As I wrote before I want you to know that I love you very much and miss you every day, but your father and I simply could not live together.
It has nothing to do with you, my little bumblebee!
Now have a nice birthday, and I hope that we can see each other soon. I have sent you a gift in the mail as well.
If you would like to write me you can. The address is on the back of the envelope.
Lots of love and kisses,
Mum
My stomach contracts as if someone had punched me. I double over and have to hold on to the bed so as not to fall.
What is this?
Mother didn’t want any contact with me; she chose not to be with me. And the few, distant relatives that I had on Mother’s side did the same.
Did Mother send me letters?
Why did Father never mention that? Was his plan that I obtain these letters after he died?
The letter, the handwriting and the sunlight that paints the familiar old rag carpet in warm tones bring up memories that I have long since forgotten.
Mother’s scent: a mix of cooking, sweat and perfume. Her long hair that she almost always wore up and the far too beautiful, almost doll-like face.
And that expression: little bumblebee.
When my eyes fall on those words again it is almost as if I can hear her voice, as if she is standing close to me, whispering in my ear.
Little bumblebee, dearest little bumblebee.
The tears come and I don’t do anything to stop them. They run along my cheeks and down onto my neck.
I tear open the other letters and read them one by one.
The next three are a lot like the first. Mother wishes me a merry Christmas, congratulates me on my birthday, writes that she loves me and wants to see me. But in the last letter, written just a few weeks before she died, I sense an increased desperation and assertiveness. She asks why I haven’t been in touch, even though she has written so many letters, even though she has sent presents and wants to see me. She asks if I am angry with her and intimates that Father may have something to do with that.
When I read the last lines I freeze, because I cannot believe it is true. I have to read the passage several times before I am certain I didn’t get it wrong.
Pernilla, my dear little bumblebee, you are old enough that you ought to be able to handle the truth. Your father was a demanding and manipulative husband. His words hurt worse than his strikes and in the end I saw no other way out than to leave him. He made me promise not to seek you out and I agreed, stupidly. I needed the money he gave me. But now I will not obey him anymore. I will come and congratulate you on your thirteenth birthday!
I fall back into the soft bed holding the letter.
Is it possible? Did father pay her to stay away or is that another one of her lies? Because everybody in the neighbourhood knew that she was capable of lying – if you can cheat on your husband with a neighbour then you’re comfortable with deceit.
Face like an angel, heart like a snake.
Then I go cold inside. Look at the letter again and try to digest what is in it.
I will come and congratulate you on your thirteenth birthday!
But that’s when she died, on my thirteenth birthday. And at once I understand why she was out driving in the vicinity of our house.
She was on her way to see me.
I bury my head in the quilt and cry in a way that I have not since I was a child. It is as if all the feelings that have been buried in my chest dislodge, become a deluge, gush out of my eyes and nose and into Mother’s old quilt in the form of tears and snot.
I am nine years old again and Mother is naked on the sofa with our neighbour.
I am thirteen and Mother has just been killed driving her car, a few miles away from here.
I am eighteen, single and heavily pregnant.
I am thirty-six and my father is dying, my son has disappeared and I have been let down by everyone I trusted.
Suddenly I miss Samuel so much it makes my heart ache. The sensation is so visceral, so physical that I groan as I lie there. Suddenly I am certain that it is wrong for me not to be in touch with him. All we have is each other and this is the only thing that matters.
I pull out my mobile and try to call him but it goes straight to his voicemail, as if his phone was off.
*
On my way home I try calling Samuel several times. When the train stops in Västertorp I text him, write that I love him and I want to hear from him.
I hit send and feel a strange sense of contentment from defying the well-meaning advice I have been given by the members of the congregation, by doing the exact opposite of what I promised the pastor and Father.
When the train stops at Fruängen the sky has begun to take on a deeper blue shade on the horizon.
I glance at my watch and hurry my steps. It is already late and I have a slot booked in the laundry room.
The evening air is warm and smells of dusty roads and lilacs in bloom.
My mobile dings and my heart leaps.
I pull my phone out of my pocket but it isn’t Samuel, it is Stina, the manager at the shop asking if I can take an earlier shift tomorrow.
I answer that I can and walk towards the entrance, still filled with the realisation of how much I miss Samuel, how much I need him. It is as if all this with Mother and Father has set something in motion inside me, has made me re-evaluate what’s really important in life.
When I press the switch in the stairwell to turn the lights on nothing happens. I press again and again but note that it must be broken and walk up the stairs while looking for my keys in my handbag.
Maybe it’s because of the rattling of my keys that I at first don’t hear the steps down the stairs from the floor above.
Maybe it’s because I am thinking of Samuel.
Then everything happens fast.
Somebody grabs my arm. Hard.
I glimpse the silhouette of an enormous man with a shaved head and let out an involuntary scream.
The man tightens his grip as he hushes me.
‘Are you Samuel’s mum?’ he hisses.
He has a very heavy accent. It sounds like he is from some Eastern European country, maybe Poland or some Baltic state.
‘Yes,’ I say with my heart in my throat. ‘I am Samuel’s mother.’
The grip on my arm loosens a little and the man straightens up.
‘Where is he?’
‘I don’t know,’ I say truthfully. ‘I threw him out. Well, not literally, but I told him to leave. That is, we had a disagreement and . . . Well, Samuel hadn’t really been behaving and . . . I thought it was best we take a time out. That is—’
The man lets go of my arm and slams the palm of his hand into the wall with such force that it makes me jump.
‘Where?’ he roars. ‘Where is he now?’
‘I don’t know,’ I whisper. ‘I have tried messaging him and calling him but his phone is off and naturally now I am full of regret since none of this would have happened had I not thrown him out. Or, well, if I hadn’t said that he couldn’t—’
He interrupts me again: ‘He has something that belongs to me.’
I don’t answer, because I don’t know what to say, but of course my mind immediately goes to the little plastic bags with white powder that I threw out.
The man grabs hold of my arm again, but not hard this time. It is more like he wants to make sure that he has my attention than that he wants to scare me.
‘Tell him I was here,’ he says, then he lets me go and walks toward the stairs.
‘Yes,’ I say.
And then: ‘Who should I tell him it is?’
I regret the phrase the moment it leaves my mouth. Why did I say that? As if he were an ordinary person who had knocked on my door asking for Samuel, not a ‘career criminal’, as the police who visited me at work said.
‘He knows who I am,’ the man says without stopping or turning around.
His steps disappear down the stairs and I’m alone in the half-light.