Punished

15. Marge

MARGE

1985

Marge had dressed Estela in a long-sleeved white sweater with a pastel pattern on the front, pale pink pants, and white tasseled loafers. They walked up Kyrkogatan, the red wooden church visible not far down the street. Marge imagined they would visit there soon enough. It said in Estela’s papers that she really liked music, especially singing, which prompted Marge to wonder about a children’s choir. But the orphanage had been described as a religious institution, and maybe it would be wrong to take her to a church; the emotional notes of the organ might raise upsetting memories. Or what if it made her feel homesick? Marge knew far too little about her child’s homeland. After the doctor’s appointment they would go to the library. She would borrow books about Colombia, something she should have done long ago.

Estela tightly grasped her hand and looked around warily. Marge smiled and tugged gently at her arm, prompting her to look up and smile back. Estela glanced her way, but her face was sullen.

Marge had tried to explain their errand this morning, demonstrating with gestures what the doctor would do. Estela had been thoroughly examined before coming to Sweden, so she should be used to it.

“Hospital,” Marge said, pointing down the hill where they’d just taken a left. “Doctor.”

It had been a few weeks now, and Marge felt like there’d been no progress at all. She would have to lie to the doctor, but he’d surely see from their body language that something was wrong.

Estela stopped short when they walked through the doors. She sniffed the strong smell of disinfectant. “No,” she said, shaking her head. “No.”

Marge crouched down and tilted her head. “You’re safe. I’m here with you.”

Estela let go of her hand, her gaze grim. Marge could tell she felt betrayed. She had believed they were just going on one of their daily walks, looking for a new playground. Marge reached for her again, but Estela hid her hands behind her back.

“The doctor is nice.”

Estela took a step back; she glanced at the door, swept her eyes over the corridor, then ran off before Marge could stand up. She had spotted a bathroom. Marge followed her but the door slammed in her face and the lock tumbled.

“Estela! Please, Estela, open up.” She knocked softly. “The doctor is nice, I promise.”

The girl should understand more words by now. Marge thought she did, but it felt hopeless, not knowing for sure. She had taken a pedagogical approach, bringing home fruit and placing it on the table, pointing at the apple and slowly articulating the word. Then the banana, and as she pronounced the long a her mind had gone to Manne the Clown, whom she’d watched on TV with her nieces and nephews. Her daughter had listened in silence, without imitating her.

“Estela, you have to open the door. I’ll stay with you. It’s going to be okay.”

Marge glanced at the time: their appointment was in just ten minutes. She had given Estela a colorful Swatch watch and tried patiently to teach her the numbers.

“The doctor is waiting. We have to go.” She spoke softly, falling silent each time someone passed by in the corridor.

“I’m going to walk away now. You’ll be on your own. But I have to find someone who can unlock the door.” She hurried to the information desk, keeping an eye on the bathroom as she went. The woman behind the glass offered a welcoming smile. “My daughter has locked herself in the bathroom,” Marge said, “and we have an appointment with the doctor. Can you help me?”

“Oh no, poor kiddo. Which bathroom?”

Marge pointed, trying to hold her hand steady.

“Is she scared?”

“Yes, she’s never been to the doctor before. Oh, you mean because she’s locked in. Yes, yes, of course.” She couldn’t bring herself to say that Estela had locked herself in on purpose. The woman would judge her, decide that she was an incompetent mother. Which, of course, she was.

“I’ll call Bosse, he can fix this. Take it easy now, you’re pale as a ghost.”

Marge had to look away, this unexpected kindness was too much.

The woman had brought the phone to her ear and was dialing the number with a pen, then stopped: “Why, look at that, the door is open!” Her face radiated joy and Marge spun around to find Estela in the corridor, her wide eyes searching.

“Here! I’m right here!” Marge waved and dashed over, her steps light. She so badly wanted to embrace Estela, but she stopped right next to her. The woman at the reception desk must have wondered why. Traces of tears lined Estela’s cheeks, but Marge didn’t dare to wipe them. Her daughter gazed at her with a look of resignation.

“The doctor is nice,” Marge repeated, offering her hand. Estela didn’t take it. “We’re going that way.” She pointed and began to walk, and Estela followed her.

The nurse was already standing in the doorway at the end of the corridor. She didn’t look annoyed, did she? Marge wondered if they should run to her.

“I’m so sorry, but she locked herself into—or, I mean, she got locked in the bathroom,” she said when they reached the nurse.

Her expression softened and she looked down at Estela, patted her cheek. “Oh, sweetheart. I’m glad you got out again.”

Estela allowed the hand to caress her face. Was it that simple?

“The doctor will be right in. I’ll just weigh you and get your height first.” She stopped and looked over Estela’s head. “Does she understand Swedish?”

“Not much.”

“You have to practice with her all the time.”

Marge nodded—what else could she do?

The nurse bent down and placed a hand on her chest. “Ulla.” And then she placed her hand on Estela’s chest. And did her daughter recoil? No.

“Estela,” she whispered.

Ulla stood on the scale and demonstrated how the indicator moved to the right. “Oh dear, so many kilos,” she said with a laugh. “Your turn.”

Estela climbed on and the needle didn’t move many ticks at all, but the nurse smiled just as kindly and made a note.

Ulla stood under the headpiece and Marge could see that she was 162 centimeters tall. All she had to do was gesture and Estela stood next to the height chart; the nurse pulled the wooden arm down to 112 centimeters.

“She’s small for her age,” she said. “How is her appetite?”

As if Marge were to blame for her height and low weight! Couldn’t she see, in her papers, that Estela had only just arrived? “It’s okay.”

“Okay?”

“She’s pretty picky.”

The nurse raised an eyebrow.

“I mean, I’m sure she’s just not used to our food yet.”

“Give her the kind of things all children like: pancakes, spaghetti and meat sauce, ice cream and cake. She needs to put on a little weight.”

As though Marge hadn’t already let her have ice cream. Neapolitan. Estela liked the vanilla and chocolate parts best. And Marge had made pancakes and more pancakes until the curtains were covered in a film of cooking grease.

“When will she start school?”

Was it really the nurse’s job to ask all these questions? Wasn’t it up to the doctor? Marge wanted to protest, but the nurse would surely record any quibbling in her notes.

“She’ll go to nursery school first. We’ll enroll her soon.”

“So there is another caregiver?”

That “we” had simply slipped out. No, there was no father, no other caregiver. She blushed. “I mean, the nursery school staff and me,” she managed to say.

The nurse turned to Estela. “Nursery school. That will be fun. Getting to meet other children.” She aimed a small smile at Marge. “And not just stay home with Mama.”

This was the first time anyone had called her Mama. The nurse had beaten Estela to it. Not to mention Marge’s own family.

There was a soft knock at the door, and a tall, slim forty-something man in a white coat entered. The atmosphere changed with his arrival, and Marge noticed Estela’s shoulders slumping as she made herself smaller.

He offered his hand—a firm handshake and authoritative look. She had seen such doctor’s eyes before.

“Krister,” he said curtly, and Marge gave her name.

He glanced through the nurse’s notes, and only then did he turn to Estela and point at the examination table, where the white paper guaranteed a fresh, clean surface. Estela sat down and the paper crinkled beneath her.

“Take off your sweater,” he said.

Estela looked down at her hands and Marge regretted painting her fingernails pale pink to match her own. But it had been a way to touch her. Gently holding that soft hand and letting the brush slide across her nails. She had taught Estela to blow on them to dry the polish. Her daughter had looked at her hands all day, holding her fingers splayed in front of her, trying to catch the sunlight from the kitchen window. Now it just looked unfortunate. A six-year-old with nail polish.

“She doesn’t understand,” Marge said, imitating like the nurse had done. She took hold of her own cardigan and tugged lightly at it, pulling it up over her belly as she pointed at her daughter.

Estela pulled off her sweater but got stuck with her arms up over her ears, and Marge gently wiggled it off. Her hair was full of static, like a crackly brown halo around her head. Ulla patted the girl’s head and smiled. She moved with such confidence. Marge saw goose bumps appear on her daughter’s chest and arms; she was cold.

“Now the doctor is going to listen to your heart and lungs,” Ulla said, placing a fist against her chest. “Boom-boom.”

The doctor ran the stethoscope over that skinny little chest, where her ribs cast shadows. Everyone was quiet. He listened with a neutral expression, then he moved the stethoscope to her back.

“Hold your breath,” he said.

Estela breathed normally. Ulla sprang to action. “Look!” she said, with her face close to Estela’s. She took a big breath and held it in her lungs as she widened her eyes. “Your turn.”

Estela filled her lungs with air and breathed out as Ulla blew air through her lips.

“Good girl.”

And there was that caressing hand on her head again.

The doctor shined a light in Estela’s eyes, stuck an instrument in her ears, and placed a tongue depressor in her mouth. He palpated her neck and indicated with his palm that she should lie down. Then she closed her eyes, lay there not even taking up half the examination table. Marge wanted to curl up next to her, protect her freezing little body.

The doctor rubbed his palms together.

“I’m a little chilly,” he said in an unexpectedly gentle voice. Ulla twittered in response. He tentatively placed his palms on Estela’s belly, and she jumped. He remained still, waiting for her to relax. “There, there.”

His fingertips followed the innards beneath her skin, pressing and looking for any reaction in her face. Nothing. He was satisfied.

“That’s that, then. Nothing too remarkable. A little undernourished, but that should work itself out. Let’s schedule another checkup in six months. She should eat a high-calorie diet; Ulla can send you off with some information.”

“Estela,” said the nurse, and the girl opened her eyes.

Up , she indicated with both hands, and Estela scrambled to sit. Marge saw the relief in her eyes. She should hug her, tell her that she’d done a good job. But she couldn’t let them see her daughter push her away. She held out the sweater, wanting to slip it over Estela’s head, touch her dark hair as Ulla had done. Her daughter stood still, awaiting further instructions, and Marge took her chance, gently pulling the neckband over her head, and together they worked her arms into the sleeves.

The nurse handed Marge a folder and opened the door for them. “Look, Estela. Hej d?!” Goodbye, she waved.

“Hej do.”