The One Day You Were My Husband (76)

My heart seems to stop at this point. Maya’s velvety voice has always been impossible to mistake.

“…No?” she tries. “Well, yes. Sorry, Johan. Please don’t blame this on Carrie. I had a couple of cocktails, and I was looking at your cabin…”

I want the world to end.

“Maya,” he says. “Wow. This is a surprise. Are you with Carrie?”

“Yes,” she mutters. “I’m so sorry. I’m a bit drunk. But, for the record, I’m so, so happy you got out of prison. I hear it’s a miracle to get a royal pardon. But I’ll stop talking now. Sorry. Bye.”

And then she hands the phone to me. Just gives me the phone, with Johan at the other end, as if this is my problem.

Terrified, I put the phone to my ear. He’s laughing. Not belly laughing, just chuckling quietly. It’s as if he’s right here next to me, mouth near my ear.

“I’m so sorry,” I say, because there is absolutely no hope of styling this out. “I had no idea. I was making toast…”

“It’s not a problem.” There’s something about his tone that makes me think he may have had a few drinks, too. “I’m out. And there was no way I believed you wanted to rent my cabin. So I thought, fuck it, I’ll call.” I hear him smile. “Anyway. Hello, Carrie Cole.”

I can’t process this. I can’t process being in Stockholm, on the phone to Johan, everyone with alcohol in their system.

“It won’t happen again,” I say.

“No, it won’t,” Maya calls. “I’m really sorry. Just a bit carried away by being here in your city.”

After a long pause, Johan says, “In my city? Carrie, what does she mean?”

It’s unbearable. Just for a moment, I hate my sister even more than she hates herself.

“Yes,” I sigh. “I’m in Stockholm again. It’s a work thing. Obviously I had no intention of getting in touch. I can’t apologize enough.”

“OK…?”

I don’t know what to say, so I remain silent.

“Am I allowed to know what the work thing is?” he asks. His voice moves cautiously across this new landscape, its crevasses and buried explosives.

I take my phone to the tiny, uncomfortable sofa. Maya is cramming buttered toast into her mouth, ashamed yet enthralled.

I turn away from her. “I’m shadowing Yanika. She works at Karolinska Hospital. I…it’s a long story, but I quit surgery a few years ago, and I’m going back. So I came out here for a placement.”

He remains silent. I can hear the distant sound of music; he must be outside a bar.

“Anyway, sorry again. I’ll cancel the booking request and leave you to your evening.”

I hear him exhale. “Was it because of me that you quit surgery?” he asks. “Did you lose your job?”

“No. I had extremely premature twins a few years ago. Nothing to do with you.”

“Oh. Good.” His voice is soft. “And, for the record, I’ve a friend who had a baby at seven months, it was frightening.”

“Mine were born at six.”

He whistles. “Jesus, Carrie. Well—that’s a whole other conversation.” He pauses for a moment and I know he’s imagining me as a mother. “What I was trying to say was that I’m glad it wasn’t because of me. That would have been awful. You were born to do that job.”

For a moment, I allow myself to smile gratefully. Nobody has really wanted me to go back. Even Mum, who’s far more interested in careers than she is parenting, has been doubtful, and Robin’s still worried I’m going to have a breakdown. He’s been calling every morning at six o’clock to check in.

“Carrie…” Johan’s voice is close, quiet.

“Yes?”

“I’m—I’m glad this is happening. Us speaking. I’ve thought about you a lot since January.”

I’m not sure I’m breathing.

“I’ve been wanting to…” He stops, and I hear him rubbing a hand over his face. He always did that in times of uncertainty. “Have you been OK? Since we met?”

Maya is quite literally on the edge of her seat. There is no point in me taking the phone into the bathroom. The walls are made of fiberboard; she’d hear every word.

“Yes and no.”

He remains silent, as if inviting me to continue, so I do. “I spent years thinking you’d been trafficking drugs. Sleeping with other women, leading a double life. So it’s blown my universe up a little, discovering that that wasn’t the case.”

“This is what I keep thinking about. You dealing with that on your own, day after day, month after month, year after year. No closure, no explanation, nothing.”

I shake my head. I won’t be derailed by concern and kindness. It’s far too little, far too late. “You say that, Johan, and yet an explanation is the one thing you still refuse to give me. You thought someone else had explained the whole thing to me and yet you won’t tell me who that someone else is or why they haven’t spoken up. And so here I am. Still in the dark.”

I wait for him to say something, but he doesn’t.

“Look,” I say. “I need to know: Was it Dad?”

“Was what your dad?”