Chapter 33
Sky
With a pounding heart and my fingers tightly intertwined with Kjell's, I ascend the stairs to the blue-painted front door. The frosty northern wind tugs at the scarf I've pulled up to cover my nose, and it creeps under my jacket, carrying away the misty breath that escapes from our mouths with every exhale.
I come to a stop in front of the door. Despite having had three days to prepare for this moment, I feel anything but ready. I can still turn back.
As if Kjell can read my thoughts, he squeezes my hand. "You can do this."
"What if she doesn't want to see me?" What if she still hates me?
"That won't happen," Kjell replies even though he can't be sure.
I take a deep breath and gaze out at the winter world of Abisko. Here in northern Sweden, every blade of grass is blanketed in thick snow. Every tiny twig is encased in ice, and the sun hangs so low that the trees cast gracefully distorted long shadows on the plain.
"Come," Kjell whispers gently. "Or do you want to freeze here on the porch?"
Despite my tension, he manages to elicit a smile from me. "Whatever happens?" I ask, looking deep into his eyes.
"Whatever happens," he confirms, giving me the courage to press the doorbell. I’m not alone. He'll be there for me, holding me and comforting me.
A bright chime sounds from inside the log cabin, and I hear footsteps approaching the door. My heart races, and when the door finally opens, I can hardly breathe.
Mother now wears her blond hair as a bob. Her azure-blue eyes are partially hidden behind her bangs, but I can still see the disbelief in her gaze.
"Sky," she says with a trembling voice.
"Hej." I dare not move. Kjell squeezes my hand. "May we come in?"
Mother's gaze flits back and forth between Kjell and me, then she steps aside and invites us in. Her knee-length woolen vest clings to her slender frame, and she leads us into a cozy kitchen. The warmth from the fireplace envelops me.
Silently, I sink onto the faux fur-covered corner bench while Kjell remains in the doorway.
His gaze asks if he should leave us alone.
So far, it has gone better than feared, so I nod.
"I'll be waiting in the hallway," he says and leaves the room.
"Tea?" Mother asks as soon as the door closes behind Kjell.
"Sure." I attempt to smile, but I'm unsure if it comes out genuine.
She turns her back to me and reaches for the electric kettle. "Why did you come?"
Even though I knew she would eventually ask this question, I flinch. The coldness in her voice sends shivers down my spine.
"To find out the truth," I say, fidgeting with the seam of the tablecloth.
She fills the kettle. "What truth?" Am I imagining it, or does she sound different from before? Softer, perhaps? Or maybe more annoyed?
"About the divorce," I reply because it's the easier of the two topics I want to uncover the truth about. I hold my breath, and my whole body tenses. "Was I the reason for it?"
Please say no, please.
Even though I've tried to get used to this thought over the years, suspecting something and knowing it are two different things.
"Did you separate because I was such a messed-up child..." Should I say "was" or "am"? They may seem like small words, but the difference is immense.
Mother snaps the kettle's lid open and shut. "That's all in the past," she eventually says, switching on the kettle.
"Still, I'd like to know," I say, sliding my fingers under my thighs to stop them from fidgeting. The bench's fur cushion feels so soft.
She turns to face me, leaning against the rustic kitchen counter with her arms crossed. Her scrutinizing gaze meets mine. "Since when do you dye your hair?"
No. This isn't right. "Please don't try to change the subject," I respond, surprising even myself.
This has never happened in our family, especially not from me. Maybe none of us has ever told the truth. Not the surface truth, but the one buried deep in the muck. Where it's always dark.
"So…" I hold her gaze steady. The kettle's hiss mixes with the crackling of the fire. "Why did you get divorced?"
Her shoulders sag slightly. "Because of you."
A sharp pain pierces my chest, stealing my breath.
It's true, then. Knowing it definitively feels like a part of me is dying.
Why the hell did I let Kjell talk me into this? Him and his damned truth—what good is it for?
"Okay," I force out and stand.
That's it. I don't need to hear any more truths. I've heard enough.
Enough to realize once again that I'm a terrible person. Enough to know that Kjell was wrong. And enough to feel that this wound will never heal.
Trembling all over, I stumble toward the door.
"Wait," I suddenly hear my mother say before I place my hand on the doorknob. "That's not all."
But I don't want to know more. "I shouldn't have come," I reply, still facing the door.
"You wanted the truth, didn't you?" There's weight in Mother's tone.
I turn to face her, catching a hint of despair in her face. A dose of guilt. And more concern than I've ever seen before.
Do I want this?
Do I really want to hear the truth?
The kettle's click breaks the silence of this moment as we stand wordlessly across from each other.
"Okay," I say, driven by the hope of finding the peace Kjell so fervently fights for.
She gestures for me to sit again, fills two cups with the steaming water, and brings an assortment of tea to me. Silently, she slides my cup across the table. I choose green tea; she goes for rosehip. Some things never change.
"So?" I let the tea bag sink into the steaming water, watching as delicate green swirls form in the clear liquid.
She clears her throat. "The reason was indeed you, but not in the way you might think," she replies with a hoarse voice. " You were not the problem; I was. And it had been that way your entire life."
Surprised, I raise my eyes and see Mother wistfully turn up the corners of her mouth.
"I don't know how to explain it, Sky." She shrugs.
"Only the truth matters," I reply, and even just by saying that, I feel a bit stronger, though I have no idea where she's going with this.
She clasps her cup with both hands. "To me, you were an absolute blessing. When I finally became pregnant after countless attempts, I could hardly believe my luck."
What? "I ruined your modeling career." More than once, I've heard her complain to Father about it. I remember it vividly. I didn't make that up.
She raises her hand. "Please, Sky, let me finish. It's hard enough for me to say this."
To say what? Nausea grips me, but I nod. I'll remain silent until she's done.
"Your father and I imagined what it would be like once you were with us. How your eyes would sparkle, and how your laughter might sound. How it would feel to see a new person united with a part of each of us." Her expression is wistful as she indulges in the memory. But now her face changes abruptly, becoming remorseful and desperate. "Then you were born."
I don't understand. My birth alone disappointed her?
Her upper body stiffens. "That day was supposed to be the happiest of my life. I wanted nothing more, you have to believe me." She looks at me intensely. "Yet your first cry marked the beginning of the end."
Once again, there's that pain in my chest, even more intense than before.
As my thoughts whirl in my head like a roller coaster, Mother reaches her hands out toward me. Hesitantly, I take them.
"I wanted to be happy, but my world turned dark. After your birth, I was trapped in a deep depression for months," she says, squeezing my fingers, perhaps hoping for a response. "Gustav didn't understand. He thought I was too lazy to take care of my own baby."
There's profound sadness on her face, and I can empathize with that. After all, I know Father. I know how unacceptable weakness is to him. Now, I squeeze her hand as a sign that I'm here.
She smiles sadly. "I overcame that dark phase, but a part of it has always remained with me."
She had been depressed her entire life?
I try to remember. So often, she was as uninvolved as a beautiful statue in the midst of a lively world. As a child, I was convinced she simply had no interest in playing with me. I thought she didn't like me. And that I had to make an effort to change that.
"I'm so sorry," she says, looking at me earnestly. "I couldn't be there for you, not in the way you needed."
So that's why we had nannies even though she never worked. Not because she didn't want me, but because she couldn't be there for me!
"I felt so ashamed," she admits. "Unbearably ashamed."
"And Father wanted to keep it a secret at all costs," I add, as that's evident. "So much so that I wasn't even allowed to find out."
Did he ever think about what he was doing to me?
She nods solemnly. "I wanted it that way too. We were supposed to be a happy family, and I did everything to create that world for you."
Should I tell her that she didn't succeed? That I always felt that distance between us? That I constantly had the feeling she didn't see me, while Father—sometimes even with pride in his eyes—was there for me?
No, it would only hurt her more.
"I wanted the best for you. I wanted you to have a good life, to be happy, and to fulfill your dreams." She releases her fingers from mine and strokes my forearm.
"But I never wanted to be a model," I say, as that's what she wanted to make of me. I remember her suggesting it to Father more than once.
"I know." She tilts her head. "You always wanted to follow in your father's footsteps."
"But if you..." I understand nothing now. Why did she persuade me to model if she knew that Touch av lyx was my big dream?
She sighs, withdrawing her hands and taking her tea bag out of the cup. "I wasn't sure if the company was right for you. You've always been enthusiastic about fashion, but the business side was a struggle for you."
I bite my lip. "They go hand in hand."
"That's exactly why I thought if you model, you could have fashion without the numbers and facts." She smiles at me, almost apologetically.
A strange thought. "I only modeled for you. So that you..." I stop myself to avoid hurting her. " Touch av lyx has my whole heart. Always has and still does today." Well, the business part isn't enjoyable, but that's just how it is. Not everything can be fun.
She absentmindedly brings the tea cup to her lips. "Then I must have been mistaken, I'm sorry."
In the past few minutes, she has apologized to me more times than in my entire life. "It's not your fault," I say empathetically, and even though the conversation has taken a different turn, I'm sure she understands what I mean.
"All these years, I wanted to reach out to you so many times, but I was too ashamed." A tear escapes from the corner of her eye. "I don't deserve that you're such a wonderful person."
I quickly get up, circle the table, and pull my mother into my arms. "You were sick." Just like me when addiction made me do things I don't understand today. "And it was never your fault."
She sobs in my arms, her frail body shaking. "Your father and I argued a lot, always pretending it was about you, but it was really about us. Even during the divorce."
So I wasn't the reason after all. I bury my face in her neck, and for the first time since I came here, I feel like I can breathe freely. So this is what the truth feels like.
"Thank you," I whisper in a choked voice. "Thank you for telling me."
We hold each other until her sobbing subsides.
"I can imagine your sweet companion might be thirsty. What do you think, should we invite him in?" she whispers in my ear. Then she straightens up, wipes her nose, and smiles at me.
"Definitely." Without a doubt, especially since I owe this peaceful feeling inside me solely to him. Inspired, I walk to the door, open it—and collide with Kjell.
He stares at me wide-eyed.
Was he eavesdropping? Why else is he standing right in front of the door?
I size him up. "What are you doing here?"
He furrows his brow. "Waiting for you, of course."
No. If he had been waiting, he would have been sitting on the coatrack bench. It's much more comfortable there than in the doorway.
Suddenly, I remember the ransacked dresser in my parents' living room. Could he have been searching for a tissue back then, or was he snooping?
I suddenly hear Father's voice, reminding me in a harsh tone, how love makes me incredibly blind and stupid.
What if he's right?
What if my world is once again tinted so rosy that I can no longer recognize reality?
No. Those are his paranoid thoughts, not mine. Yet I can't seem to shake them off.
"Mm-hmm," I murmur, confused because I can't quite grasp what's happening here. Maybe nothing at all. Perhaps more than I want to imagine. "We should go."
I had originally intended to invite him into the kitchen but given his strange behavior, it's better that he doesn't meet Mother. And I probably shouldn't tell him about what we discussed.
He already knows so much about me. What if I've trusted him too much?
I quickly turn away. "Mom, sorry, we have to leave," I call into the kitchen.
In the next moment, Mother stands beside me. "But why?" Her disappointment is palpable, and my heart clenches.
"Appointments," I answer because it's the first thing that comes to mind. I slip into my jacket and kiss Mother on the cheek. "We'll talk, okay?"
She nods. "Is your number still the same?"
"Yes." One last time, I pull her into my arms. "Sorry, there's no other way," I whisper into her ear so Kjell can't hear. Maybe I'm just as paranoid as Father; I don't know. Right now, I can't think clearly.
Dumbfounded, Kjell also says goodbye to my mother and puts on his jacket.
We step out into the frosty winter world and trudge to our rental car. The crunch of the snow accompanies us, and I'm relieved that Kjell doesn't ask any questions.
However, as soon as I start the engine and steer the car onto the road, I notice from the corner of my eye that he's scrutinizing me.