When I have counted the money in the till and filled in the daily report I go into the office and knock on Stina’s door.
‘Come in,’ she shouts.
I open the book and put the report on her desk.
Stina looks up over her reading glasses and smiles so that her blotchy skin folds like a dry old hide over her cheek bones.
‘Thank you, dear,’ she says. ‘See you tomorrow.’
‘Yes, see you,’ I say and smile, turning around to leave.
‘Wait,’ Stina says, ‘how did things go with your son?’
I freeze mid-step and consider my options.
How honest can I be?
Stina is nice and means well, I am sure of that. But she is also curious, like most people working here.
I decide to compromise. A halfway that doesn’t make me seem too buttoned-up, but also won’t supply her with juicy gossip for the staff room.
‘He’s gone,’ I say. ‘We had a disagreement and I threw him out. Well, that was Monday and now I can’t get hold of him.’
‘What are you saying?’ Stina says and her eyes widen. ‘That must be so hard for you. But I am sure he will be home soon. Björn disappears sometimes too. I guess it’s part of being young.’
Even though Stina is past sixty she has a son Samuel’s age.
I got started early, Stina started late.
She pauses. Takes her glasses off and lays them on the table next to the cash ledger. Then she continues: ‘Was that why the cops were here?’
I hesitate.
‘Yes,’ I say. And manage to keep myself from elaborating even though the words are impatiently waiting at the tip of my tongue.
I feel my cheeks flush.
It is crazy that, at age thirty-six, I can’t lie without feeling deeply ashamed. I can’t manage even a little white lie without thinking of Jesus and the Final Judgement.
I can tell that Stina would like to know more, but instead of asking further questions she smiles again and says: ‘It will all work out, you’ll see. Now go home and get some rest.’
‘I will,’ I say, but end up standing on the floor in front of her unable to move.
I feel tears run down my cheeks and blink in surprise.
‘Oh, sweetie.’
Stina gets up and comes over to me. Puts a hand on my back and assertively leads me over to the chair in front of her little desk.
‘How are you?’ she asks and resolutely pushes me into the broken wicker seat.
I look at the piles of paper on her desk. Catch the smell of cigarette butts in the ashtray.
Then it all comes out. All the words that have been waiting to be said rush out of me, unfiltered. I tell her about Samuel’s disappearance, the bald man who scared me half to death in the stairwell, and what I have found out about Mother. I even tell her about the pastor: how he took advantage of my body in the congregation hall while Jesus watched from the cross.
‘Oh, sweetie,’ Stina says again and shakes her head. ‘Oh, sweetie.’
And suddenly it feels good to hear her say that. As if her words alone could heal me.
‘Let’s deal with one thing at a time,’ she says with authority.
She gets up, walks over to the worn old grey metal filing cabinet and pulls out one of the drawers.
I watch her broad back, see how her arms sort of overflow from her blouse, notice the frayed red hair that fans like a halo around her head.
The paper rustles as she digs around in the folders and the shiny synthetic sweater strains across her shoulders.
Then she closes the drawer again and returns with a flask and two small glasses.
‘Are you kidding?’ I say. ‘Surely we can’t sit here . . . ? I mean, technically this is working hours. Even though we’re closed. But we’re still getting paid. And we are in the shop. So. Even though there are no customers who . . . Well, what if someone . . . ?’
‘Hush,’ Stina says, raising her liver-spotted hand at me.
Then she unscrews the lid and pours the amber liquid into the glasses. Hands me one and gives a quick nod.
‘Drink!’
I do what she tells me.
My throat burns as the alcohol makes its way down to my stomach.
‘Now listen,’ Stina says. ‘It’s terrible that your father denied your mother access to you, but there’s nothing you can do about it n—’
‘Father saved me,’ I interrupt. ‘He loved me even though I sinned and he helped me raise Samuel. I would never have made it without him.’
‘It sounds to me like he was very controlling towards you,’ Stina interjects, empties her glass in one swig and puts it on the table with a thud. ‘That hit the spot,’ she mumbles and inhales.
‘But it was in my best interest—’ I begin.
‘Nonsense,’ she growls. ‘You should see yourself when you talk about your dad. You’re like a dog afraid of being hit, scared and submissive. All men like that want is to control us women.’
I think of Father when we prayed for Mother’s soul. How he laid his big dry hands against my cheeks and whispered: ‘God created woman from a rib so that she would complement man. Not from the head, so that she would lord over him. Not from his feet so that he would step on her. No, from a rib, so that she would be protected. Close to his heart, to be loved.’
‘There’s nothing to gain by confronting him now,’ Stina says. ‘As for that pastor, I don’t think you should be too upset that he revealed himself to be a horny old goat. It is just as well that you saw his true nature, don’t you think? It might be time for you to re-evaluate him and the congregation too.’
‘But he has helped me and Samuel so much.’
‘How so?’ Stina snorts.
‘He has lent me money. And I have been given various responsibilities in the church.’
‘And you think that’s a coincidence?’
My cheeks burn when I understand what she is saying. And she may be right because the pastor has always picked me first for all activities and often chose to speak with me in private. And when we spoke in private he would always touch me. Not in a sexual way, but still – a hand on mine, an arm around my shoulder when we went to the pantry to get coffee. Stroking my cheek with the back of his hand.
At the time I took his ministrations to be fatherly, but in light of his recent actions I too can see the pattern.
‘Obviously he has been planning it for a long time,’ she says as if she can read my mind. ‘He’s no dummy, that’s for sure. He wanted to get close to you. And he wanted you to be indebted to him. But forget him.’
She waves her hand a little and continues: ‘What we have to focus on is Samuel. It sounds as if he’s running with a bad crowd. Have you spoken to his friends?’
‘Not all of them.’
‘Do it. Let’s not get ahead of ourselves and assume you won’t be able to find him, but I still think you should go to the police and report him missing. Because even though they came here asking about him they don’t know he is missing. For real, that is.’
She pauses and looks me up and down.
‘I’ll go with you,’ she says. In a way that leaves no room for argument.
‘Perhaps we should wait a few days?’
Stina runs her index finger under her chin and looks pensive.
‘Yes,’ she says, hesitating. ‘Let’s wait a few days. But now you should go home and get some sleep, Pernilla. You need to rest. Call if you need anything. It doesn’t matter if it’s the middle of the night. You shouldn’t have to deal with something like this on your own.’
‘OK,’ I say and get up.
The alcohol has made my legs soft and warm and my cheeks burn.
‘And thank you,’ I say.
Stina stands, comes up to me and gives me a long hug.
‘We have to stick together against the odds,’ she says briefly, with her mouth against my ear.
My eyes fall on the photo of Björn, her son, on her desk.
He has thick, strawberry blonde hair and freckles. His eyes are pale grey and his lips are full. The long hair and the generously proportioned mouth make him look like a young Liv Ullman.
Stina takes a step back and sees my gaze.
‘It will work out, you’ll see,’ she says. ‘It always works out.’
And for a moment I actually believe her.
*
I carry those words with me into the summer evening. But even as I walk towards the station the anxiety comes creeping and my thoughts start chasing each other at warp speed.
I think of Mother. Of that day she died on her way to our home. The tears come again, but now I am thinking of Samuel. I say a short prayer.
‘God, watch over Samuel and show him the way. Let him come back to me and I promise I will do everything in my power to help him sort his life out. In Jesus’ name. Amen.’
But God doesn’t answer this time either.
God is as quiet as Samuel and the cool summer evening.
There is something else that is bothering me.
When Samuel was three years old Isaac showed up like Jack-in-a-box. As if everything were forgiven and forgotten.
I don’t know what he had imagined – that he would just be able to waltz in and assume the role of Samuel’s father?
Of course I explained that would not be possible, that I’d already told Samuel and all of our friends that his father was dead and that we had built ourselves a functional life in which there really was no space for him.
This upset Isaac and he nagged. At one point he even tried to kiss me at a café.
I was very close to giving in, because he was still just as handsome as when we were together, even though he had cut his hair and got a job and a record shop on Södermalm.
But this time I restrained myself. Surely I’d learned something?
Regardless, Isaac was very persistent and began talking about going to social services and demanding some kind of visitation rights.
That scared me.
After all, he was Samuel’s biological father and who knew what could happen if he began to make trouble?
So we made an agreement.
I promised Isaac that he could come and visit Samuel every year on his birthday and on Boxing Day, and in return he promised not to reveal that he was Samuel’s father.
And that’s what we did.
I told Samuel that Isaac was an old friend of mine, who was very lonely and didn’t have any family. And Isaac visited punctually, twice a year, from when Samuel was three until he turned fifteen. Then he moved to Gävle and his visits became more sporadic.
As far as I know he never married or had any other children.
They say it is important for boys to grow up with a male role model. I guess that is especially true for boys like Samuel – boys with problems. I can’t help but wonder if he would have turned out differently had Isaac been more of a presence in his life.
But I was just doing what I thought was in Samuel’s best interests – much like I assume my father did for me.
Maybe there really is an original sin in our family, but a completely different one than what I thought, one that has to do with denying our children contact with people who don’t live up to the strict standards we have imposed upon ourselves.
One that robs our children of those closest to them.
The train rolls into the station, doors open and I step in. I sit down by the window and look out at the summer evening.
I could leave the congregation.
I don’t know where the thought comes from, I have never thought that before and am immediately horrified.
I can’t do that.
Why would I do that?
But the answer comes to me in the same instant I articulate the question: all these rules and the condemnation of those who don’t measure up are one of the reasons that Samuel and I are where we are today. That, and my reluctance to accept that Samuel might have problems that are so big they can’t be cured with prayer and fish oil.
And now there is nothing to keep me in the congregation anymore. Other than friends.
And God.
But surely there is nothing to say that I have to abandon God just because I leave the congregation?
I don’t dare follow the thought further – I am far too afraid of where all those rebellious thoughts might lead me if I decide to go with them. So I take out my mobile and call Alexandra, Samuel’s girlfriend, or whatever she is.
I don’t really dare ask.
She answers after three rings. Her voice sounds happy, but when she hears who it is she immediately becomes subdued.
‘I don’t know where he is,’ she says quickly. ‘Haven’t seen him since Monday.’
‘Have you spoken with him on the phone?’ I try.
There is a brief pause. The train slows down at Telefonplan and the woman sitting across from me gets up and leaves.
‘No,’ she says. ‘We got into a bit of a fight so . . .’
She leaves the sentence unfinished and I can hear music in the background.
‘Do you have any idea where he might be?’
‘No. The police were here and asked the same thing. Apparently, they’d been to Liam’s too. I have no idea what Samuel is involved in, but he might be lying low for a bit. If the cops are after him, that is.’
I ask her to tell Samuel to get in touch if he calls her and then we hang up.
My anxiety grows, my insides ache and I feel sick. Images of Samuel, Father and Mother play for my inner eye.
Dearest Samuel.
My little bumblebee.
Why does everything end up so wrong when all we want is to do right?