I don’t understand why Michael is asking this question. To forestall the prosecutor?
“No,” Amina says.
But she doesn’t sound nearly as convincing anymore.
Michael wipes the sweat from his brow.
“Does the defense have any further questions?” G?ran Leijon asks.
“No, thank you.”
“Then I give the floor to the prosecution.”
I bring my hand to my heart. I can’t feel my heartbeat anymore. Adam is looking at me, wide-eyed.
* * *
Jenny Jansdotter takes her time. She does it on purpose—it’s a technique to throw Amina off balance. She places documents in stacks before her, meticulously straightening their edges, and stretches slowly.
Michael and Stella observe her in suspense.
When I found Stella’s cell phone on her desk that Saturday, I was immediately struck with desperate alarm. How could she have forgotten her phone at home?
I’ve actually never been the type to snoop. Gossip and juicy secrets seldom interest me. I’m someone who finds appeal in cold, hard facts and reliable proof. If anyone was spying on Stella, and to a certain extent even infringing on her right to a private life, it was Adam. I don’t know what would have happened if he had been the one to find her phone.
As the hours passed and we didn’t hear from her, I decided to go through the phone. It wasn’t to snoop. I was beside myself with worry. And when I read the messages, it dawned on me that something really had happened, something truly terrible. I immediately attempted to contact Amina, but she refused to speak to me. She had closed herself up in her room, claiming to be too sick to talk. I knew she was lying.
Now she is sitting before the prosecutor, testifying under oath. Jansdotter’s voice is sharp as a scalpel, and Amina recoils.
“What do you mean when you say that Christopher Olsen and Stella were not a couple?”
“I … I mean exactly that. They weren’t a couple.”
“Can you define their relationship? Describe who they were to each other?”
Amina looks at Stella, as if she’s asking permission.
“According to Stella, Chris was a summer fling.”
“And what did you think about that?” Jansdotter asks.
“About what?”
“About the situation. That Stella was having a sexual relationship with Christopher Olsen, even though she wasn’t seriously interested in him.”
Amina bows her head. The seconds tick by in silence.
“How did you really feel about Christopher?” Jansdotter asks.
“I liked Chris. He was charming and cool. It was fun to spend time with him.”
“Were you attracted to him?”
“Maybe.”
I look at Stella. Her expression is vacant. What thoughts are going through her head right now? I don’t even know how much she knows.
I feel sick. What kind of mother puts her child through this? There must be something seriously wrong with me. An emotional dysfunction? Some sort of failure to bond? I view myself from the outside and see a person I don’t want to be.
Would I have done the same if the roles were switched, if Amina were the one in jail? I’m far from certain. Presumably I would have just let Amina decide from the start. I should have listened to her. We should have done as she suggested. Now it’s too late.
Jenny Jansdotter squeezes Amina with her gaze.
“Did anything sexual happen between you and Christopher Olsen?” she asks.
Amina’s shoulders slump.
Everything is spinning, going blurry.
“Yes,” Amina says. “Things happened.”
96
It became clear to us early on that Stella liked to be in charge. She often played Adam and me against each other. The first to capitulate was showered with love, while the other wasn’t worth a fig. It could turn on a dime—one second you were the best mom in the world; the next, a pariah for who knew how long.
Happily, Amina was always present as a neutralizing force, an intermediary between our obstreperous daughter and the rest of the world.
Handball, too, functioned as a way for Stella to vent. On the court she had an outlet for all the energy bubbling and fermenting insider her; her pigheadedness and explosive nature were enormous assets on the six-meter line.
Handball was good for Adam too. As a pair, he and Dino became well-liked coaches who soon attained great success with their team. It often seemed as if Adam forgot himself on the sidelines of a sizzling match. He was thoroughly consumed by the game—the shouting, cheering, and gesticulating.
One Saturday a few years ago, as I sat in the bleachers at Borgeby watching Stella pelt in goal after goal, I experienced something that still affects me. My thoughts had wandered off, but suddenly Amina was lying on the court and writhing in pain—I had completely missed whatever had caused her injury. But since Alexandra wasn’t there, it seemed natural that I should be the one to trot down to the court and prop Amina up as we went to the locker room.