“No, no, not that. I mean, why do you have a kid?”
“What?” she exclaims.
“Or was it a mistake? A broken condom?”
“It was not a mistake.” She smiles. “It seemed like a good time. I … I really don’t know.”
I roll my eyes.
“I have a theory, Shirine.”
“Go figure,” she says, and sighs.
“I think a lot of people have kids for their own sake. Kind of like how when everything seems gray and boring you pop downtown to buy a new lipstick just to feel a little better for a minute.”
“Are you comparing bringing a child into the world with buying lipstick?”
“Sure, maybe it’s not the best analogy, but you know what I mean. People have kids to make themselves feel good, brace up their own identity, kill the boredom—you know, whatever.”
“Or because it’s the greatest thing that can happen to you, the most beautiful form of love that exists. The meaning of life?”
“Come on, Shirine! The meaning of life? Seriously.”
She shakes her head with a smile.
“Are you going to have more?” I ask.
“More what?”
“More kids. Are you and your husband going to have more kids?”
“I think so. I think it’s good to have siblings.”
She still isn’t looking at me.
“My parents felt the same way. They went at it like rabbits for years so they could have another kid. It didn’t work. I don’t know, maybe God wasn’t really happy with how they were handling the one they already had. Anyway, sometimes it feels like half my childhood revolved around this sibling that never actually appeared.”
Shirine looks uncomfortable.
“That sort of thing can certainly be a tragedy.”
“I mostly just wanted us to move on. We were already a family, you know?”
“I understand.”
“Don’t do that to your little girl, to little Lovisa,” I say quietly. “Promise me.”
“I promise.”
* * *
When Shirine has left I think about Michael Blomberg’s idea, to place the blame on Linda. An “alternative perpetrator,” as he put it. He has discussed it with Mom. He must have.
I know how it works in Sweden. If there are two potential perpetrators, it must be proven beyond all reasonable doubt which of them did what, or that both are equally guilty—otherwise neither one can be convicted. I’ve always thought this was messed up and ought to be changed.
My heart aches when I think of Amina. I miss her so much. Amina. Mom. Dad.
I think about when I was little and my dad was my favorite person in the world. Can it go back to being like that? Is it even possible? Or is everything ruined?
Maybe it would be best to confess everything. It would be simplest. For me to tell the whole story to the police and end this shit.
Then I look around. The smell, the walls, the boredom. Time that never passes, the nights that kill me. I’m not going to be able to handle it; soon I won’t be able to deal with it anymore. I thump my head on my pillow and scream. I have to get out of here!
64
“This is just nuts,” Amina said when I told her what had happened. “What if she’s right? How can you be sure it’s Linda who’s the psycho and not Chris?”
“Come on. If there’s anyone who would recognize a psychopath, it’s me.”
We were walking our bikes through the park as a big group of middle-aged women in running tights and colorful sneakers did fire hydrants on the nearby lawn.
“Did she seem … off?”
Amina looked at me and I didn’t know what to say.
“Isn’t it pretty ‘off’ to track down a girl who’s dating your ex?”
“Maybe,” said Amina. “But she said she wanted to warn you. If you don’t have feelings for him anyway, maybe you might as well…”
I shot her a look of annoyance.
“I know Chris.”
“You’ve known him for what, three or four weeks?”
“Long enough to know he isn’t a psychopath.”
Naturally I was curious what was in the drawer Linda had been talking about. But I decided not to mention it to Amina. It would only give her more fodder.
“Are you going to tell Chris?” she asked. “That Linda came to H&M?”
“I’m not sure.”
I knew I should. But then again: one person’s ignorance was another person’s power.
“Promise you’ll be careful,” Amina said before we parted ways outside the arena. “You’ve got your pepper spray, right?”