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Chapter 16 - The letter

Chapter 16:

Agnetha stepped into her empty house, the silence echoing around her. The children were with Björn, leaving her alone with her thoughts. Inside of her a mix of determination and dread. She was finally going to write the letter, to put an end to the feelings that had haunted her for years.

She kicked her shoes off her feet as she walked and threw her jacket on the stairs, having no energy left to put everything in place now. And the little bit of strength she still had, she would now use for the letter. Agnetha slowly walked into her living room and sat down at the table, staring at the blank sheets of paper which always lay there and was mainly used as a shopping list. She wished she could now use the paper for something as mundane as the weekly grocery shopping again. But this was important and she wouldn't be able to avoid it forever.

Agnetha had never allowed herself to fully feel all the emotions swirling inside her, fearing they would eventually break her. The pain of Frida leaving so abruptly, abandoning her... There was so much hurt, anger, and frustration. Apparently Frida hadn't seen how special their bond was. Or maybe she had, but just didn't care.

With trembling hands, Agnetha picked up the pen and began to write, "Hey..." She crossed it out again and started again. "Good day" No, she crossed it out again. How should she even start? "Dear Fr..." but her hand shook too much to continue. The fact that she still struggled to even write Frida's name after all these years made her even angrier. She threw the pen to the floor in frustration, crumpling the paper in her hands. Almost ready to give up before she had even started.

In a rush of desperation, she grabbed a bottle of alcohol from the cupboard and poured a large amount into a glass. She drank it down almost in one gulp, feeling the burn as it went down her throat. She poured another glass, took a deep breath, and picked up the pen again, determined to push through with the newfound energy boost from the alcohol.

She sat back down at the table, the alcohol dulling the edge of her pain but not the depth of her resolve. She knew that she needed to finish this letter, no matter how hard it was. And she also knew she would never send it. No one would ever see it. Maybe she would burn it when she was done.

The sun was beginning to set, and the room grew darker. As she began to squint her eyes to see well, she decided to get up to switch on the light, but everything spun, and she almost stumbled. Maybe she had enough alcohol for today. Sitting back down, she started writing again. And now that she had got through almost the hardest part, her name, the words began to flow out of her like waves crashing against the shore over and over again. Completely raw and unchecked. She didn't care about grammar or sentence structure. She just wrote, holding the pen almost aggressively pressing the words vigorously into the paper. Every memory, every moment they shared, everything that had been between them spilled onto the paper.

As she wrote, she noticed on the one hand how she felt a little lighter with every word, but on the other hand a lump began to form in her stomach that threatened to get bigger and bigger. It was the very lump that had always existed. Ever since Frida left the door and never came back. But Agnetha had somehow more or less managed to keep the lump small, to pay it no attention. But now she could no longer stop it. She was okay with the pain, the frustration, and especially the anger. Anger made things easier. But this new lump of feeling terrified her. These walls she had worked so hard on began to quiver and it threatened to ruin everything she had built around herself.

She missed Frida.

The realisation hit her like a wave, nearly knocking the breath out of her. She missed Frida with an intensity that she had buried deep inside. Admitting this feeling felt like opening a wound that had never really healed. She missed the way Frida made her laugh, the way they could talk for hours about nothing and everything, the way Frida looked at her as if she were the most important person in the world. She had been her friend. Her best friend. And yet, that word still didn't feel big enough for how much she missed her now that she was gone.

Her vision started to blur as she continued to write, her emotions spilling out with the ink. She wrote about the nights she lay awake, thinking about her, wondering if Frida ever thought about her. She wrote about the songs they had sung together, the dreams they had shared. She wrote about the hurt, the abandonment, and the ache that never really went away.

Despite the light, the room grew darker, but Agnetha barely noticed. She blinked, trying to refuse any tears to spill over. She continued to write until her hand cramped. A few hours ago the paper lay naked and clean in front of her and now it looked as if it had centuries of years behind it.

Agnetha leaned back in her chair, closing her eyes for a moment. The darkness outside mirrored the emptiness she felt inside. She wasn't done yet but she needed a break.

Suddenly her mind jumped to the phone call again. She still hadn't completely allowed herself to really think about it. It had felt so strange, fake, and unlike anything she had imagined for their first contact after such a long silence. That call had left her feeling even more unsettled. Dialing Frida's number had been an impulsive decision, born out of a secret hope that talking to her once again might bring her some kind of closure for good. But instead, it had only deepened her confusion.

Frida had seemed distant and unaffected,. And it hurt Agnetha more than she wanted to admit. Agnetha had buried her so deep inside that sometimes she almost wondered if that woman and their time in ABBA had only been a dream. Whether Frida was just an absurd creation of her mind and didn't really exist. But reality reminded her every single day that ABBA wasn't a dream. And even if she had the choice, she would never want to forget or erase Abba. She was certain of that.

Agnetha's head was now repeating the sentences Frida had said to her during the call, burnt into her memory. How she had acknowledged that she hadn't handled things well when she left, that she should have explained more. But it was too late for that now and what would any explaining even change. Agnetha couldn't decide if she even wanted to hear an explanation at all. And why had Frida mentioned her songs? She didn't have to. She shouldn't have.

Agnetha hadn't realized how late it had become. It was completely dark outside by now. She was still sitting at the table, her head slightly red from all the emotions and the alcohol. Agnetha rested her arms on the table and let her head fall into her hands, then she continued writing, then she ran her hands through her hair again, reached for her glass for the umpteenth time only to realize it had been empty for a while now. She put it back down... and then, a knock.

She jumped in fright and was sure at the same moment that she had only imagined it. Definitely. She was tired and exhausted and the alcohol didn't help. Who would come around at this time of night anyway and not just call? Then came the brief thought of her children and whether something had happened to them. Or whether it could be one of the women who were now coming to haunt her because she had never contacted them again. She was probably no better than Frida. And yet that was completely different. These women had had no significance whatsoever. Otherwise she would never have done that.

She stood up carefully, holding on to the chair as she was still slightly dizzy. Slowly, she walked to the door and waited. And then again. Clearly and loudly at her door. Now she felt queasy and her pulse quickened. She was alone, it was dark and late. And then another thought. What if it was a crazy fan? Ever since Australia, with these masses of fans that had threatened to suffocate her, something inside her had changed. But now everything around her was quiet. Perhaps the fact that she wasn't sober also contributed a little to her inhibitions dropping and curiosity prevailed. Maybe it was important.

She carefully opened the door just a small crack, so that she could slam it shut again immediately in case it was someone who didn't mean her any good. Her heart sank and she clutched the door handle to keep her footing. She looked into green eyes and short white-blonde hair. And although she had had fiery red hair the last time they had seen each other, Agnetha recognized her immediately. Standing in front of her door: Frida Lyngstad.