The Missing. Part 13

The voice from the other side of the room sounds harsh. Mama's hands stop moving. The psychologist has turned to stare out the row of windows facing the deck. I signal that I need to lie down again, and my mother helps me. Then she goes back to washing my face, not stopping until I cautiously push her hand away. Again, she goes to the kitchen, and when she comes back, she has another gla.s.s of water. She hands it to the blond woman, who takes it without speaking. Mama crosses her arms and sighs audibly.

"This isn't the first time, this situation with Greta, is it?"

The psychologist drinks all the water in one gulp.

"No. But she's the first one to get pregnant. As far as I know."

So Alex has had other lovers before me. Or maybe even at the same time? Who knows. I look inside myself for some sort of reaction to this fact but find none.

"It was when my mother was in the hospital that I found out about the affair. I heard about the baby later, after my mother . . . after she died."

Mama goes back to the sofa and sits down on one end.

"I'm sorry."

The psychologist twirls the gla.s.s in her hand, staring as if it might contain answers.

"He wasn't sorry. Watching other people suffer, hurting them himself, that's the breath of life to Alex. He's good at it, and he does it every way he can. With his words, with his actions, with his hands."

This is her husband she's talking about. My ex-lover. Her words conjure up images in my mind, send shivers through my body. So I'm not alone in experiencing those repeated episodes of pain and humiliation. What has he subjected her to-this woman he's lived with so long? I think of the cardigans and jackets she used to wear when I went to her office. Rarely any bare skin, even though it was summer. Suddenly, I understand.

And yet, the thought races through my mind, and yet you married him and stayed with him. Why? The next second, I picture a little fair-haired girl with dimples. And I know why.

"It was worse in the beginning. Before I understood the codes and learned to submit. Nowadays he hardly ever . . ."

The psychologist raises her arm and clenches her fist, then slowly lowers her arm again to cup her hand over her mouth.

". . . grabs me."

"When did you realize you needed to submit? When did you start believing there was something wrong with you, that you were to blame for the way he treated you?"

At first, I think I've misunderstood. Surely Mama can't be the one saying things like that. I turn to stare at her, but she isn't looking at me. She seems to be calmly straightening her clothes, smoothing imaginary wrinkles. And the psychologist reacts. The hand clasped over her mouth drops to her lap, and she stares at my mother for a long moment. Then her eyes seem to cloud, and her face softens.

"I know exactly," she says. "It was the first time he said . . ."

She stops, pressing a hand to her throat. I see the gold ring on her left hand. I see how she's trembling. Mama leans forward and tilts her head to one side. Her voice is gentle.

"What did he say?"

"You're sick in the head. f.u.c.king sick. Something is all twisted up in there. I don't remember exactly when or where, or what I had done to annoy him that time. But I do remember how it felt when he said that. The words shot right through me, silencing me. I walked around all day in a daze. Everyone I met, the woman standing in front of me in line at the grocery store, the father who picked up his child at the same time I did from preschool . . . Today my husband said I'm sick in the head. What do you think about that? That's what I wanted to ask them. But of course, I didn't."

I see Alex's grinning face in front of me. Hear the words he spoke. I think you're a little crazy. Not exactly right in the head.

Supporting herself on the arm of the chair, the psychologist slowly gets to her feet.

"That night, when I laid my head on my pillow, I finally understood why those particular words. .h.i.t me so hard. Why I fell silent instead of defending myself. What he'd said . . . That wasn't some accusation grabbed out of thin air, not some dumb insult. I've never been . . . have never felt entirely . . ."

Standing there, she aims a small kick at the stack of newspapers and pieces of wood, scattering them across the rug. Then she takes off her white sweater and runs her hands up and down her pale arms.

"Deep inside, I knew he was right. What he said was true."

She shifts position, resting her weight on one leg. The blue fabric of her dress clings to her body, revealing a flat stomach and jutting hip bones. In spite of the heat, she wears her blond hair loose, the strands framing her face. She has no makeup on. We couldn't be more different. Or more alike.

"So that was the moment I understood. I knew that no one else would ever put up with me. Since then, he's done his best to remind me that without him I'm nothing. And I . . . Well, I've done what I can to . . . cooperate."

The psychologist turns so the sun streaming in the window lights up her left arm and cheek.

Mama's face is a mask of grim resolve.

"Until now," she says, managing to make it sound like a statement and a question at the same time.

The psychologist looks at her. Then her gaze shifts to the edge of the rug and the bulge over the ax handle. She looks at Mama again.

"Exactly," she says hesitantly. "Until now."

I sense a certain bewilderment in her. And I wonder what is going to happen next. Where do we go from here? Where can we go? Then I don't have time to think or feel anymore. Because at that second, there's a knock on the door.

41.

Someone gasps. Mama and the psychologist exchange quick glances. n.o.body moves. Another knock, harder and more demanding this time. Mama is finally the one who gets up. She smooths her hair and, moving stiffly, goes out to the entryway.

When she comes back, two police officers are accompanying her. One is the woman I talked to the other day. She glances around the room, noting the torn-up newspapers and the demolished coffee table. She looks at me lying on the floor, then at Mama and the blond woman in the blue dress, and then back at me.

"What's going on here?"

When I don't reply, she turns to her colleague, a man with a receding hairline and a huge paunch. He puts his hands on his hips as he steps forward.

"We had a call from an elderly man. Something about an ax. A woman here in the neighborhood whose behavior seemed confused and threatening. Can you tell us anything about that?"

Something about an ax. I have to make an effort not to look at the bulge in the rug. Out of the corner of my eye, I see the psychologist retreat, taking such small steps that it barely looks like she's moving. She's now standing very close to the ax. Is she trying to use her body to hide the ax? Or is she preparing to grab the concealed weapon and take us all by surprise, if necessary? I force myself not to turn in her direction. Instead, I fix my eyes on the female police officer.

"The old man was out walking his dog when he ran into the woman," she says. "He told us that she was incoherent and seemed extremely upset. And she was carrying an ax, as my colleague just mentioned. So we're taking a look around the neighborhood. It's pretty deserted, but we're knocking on doors to find out if anyone has seen anything suspicious."

Again, she looks around the room, then at each of us in turn. No one responds. Mama's eyes keep shifting, narrowing as she thinks. It occurs to me that she doesn't know I'm the woman the police are talking about, that the ax was originally mine. She's only seen it in the hands of the blond woman. What's going through her mind right now? Will she accuse the psychologist? Is she considering telling the police what's really been going on here?

Part of me is screaming at her to do it, to save us both while she can. Another part of me is still acutely aware that the psychologist is within arm's reach of the ax. If she wanted, she could split my head in half before the officers reacted. If the situation got desperate enough.

Mama opens her mouth to speak, but then closes it again, shaking her head. The male police officer wipes his forehead and loudly clears his throat.

"Well, you're certainly a lively and talkative bunch."

"What exactly happened here?" says his colleague.

She casts another critical glance around the room before her eyes stop on me. She comes a few steps closer, tilts her head to one side, and squints down at me. I fight off an impulse to close my eyes and turn away. Instead, I steel myself and meet her gaze. I'm waiting for her to recognize me, to remember my irrational behavior the last time we met. But maybe because there are other people in the room, or maybe because she really doesn't recognize me with no makeup and in my current state, the only thing she says is: "How did you get those cuts on your face? And that bruise?"

Mama steps forward so she's standing between me and the officers.

"As you can see, my daughter isn't well. She's just escaped an abusive relationship. And to make matters worse, she's running a fever. You can feel her forehead for yourselves, if you like. I've been with her all day, and she's been in no condition to go anywhere since-"

"All day, you say?"

The policewoman straightens her back, fixing her eyes on my mother. The air is thick with tension. Something is clearly hanging in the balance. Mama seems to have recovered from her initial paralysis. With an unwavering gaze, she meets the eye of the female officer, who, after a moment, utters what sounds like a sigh of resignation. Then she turns to her colleague and raises one eyebrow.

"Well, who knows?" he says with a shrug. "n.o.body seems to have seen this ax lady other than an elderly man walking his dog."

He raises his hands to sketch quote marks in the air around the words ax lady. The gesture, combined with the expression on his beefy face, indicates he's not sure how much credence to give to the claims of a lonely old man.

The dark-haired female officer again turns to me, and this time I can clearly see that she recognizes me. She stares for a long moment. Her lips are pursed into a thin line.

"If someone has been hurting you, you should file a report," she says at last. "There's help available."

She gestures toward the shattered table behind us. Maybe she thinks it's a result of the violent relationship Mama alluded to.

"Take care of yourself, okay?" she adds.

Without waiting for a reply, she turns to face my mother, who nods emphatically.

"I'll make sure she gets the best possible care."

The officer stifles a sigh.

"Abusive relationships seem to be the theme of the day. We had another complaint earlier. A worried mother whose daughter was purportedly threatened with a knife by her boyfriend. I don't suppose you've-?"

Before she can finish her sentence, the male officer takes a step forward.

"It's a kid we've had our eye on for a while. The leader of some sort of gang that seems to specialize in mistreating animals."

A hint of annoyance in the policewoman's eyes reveals that she thinks it unnecessary for her colleague to give such a detailed explanation. I feel a hard knot form in my stomach. Mistreating animals? Wielding a knife? The girl, Greta. I want to shout, Is she okay? But the words fail to come out. In spite of the water I drank, my throat again feels parched. Mama puts her hand to her chest and takes a deep breath.

"Oh, my G.o.d. How terrible! That poor girl! And mistreating animals? What on earth for?"

Something black-and-white streaks past in my mind. I can almost feel an agile little body curl up next to me. Then the image dissolves, and the feeling of warmth fades, to be replaced by something sharp and cold. Tirith.

"Who knows?" says the policeman with a shrug. "Maybe they're s.a.d.i.s.ts. Or maybe they're just bored. Kids these days-"

"Anyway," says the female officer, cutting him off. "We're not going to stand here speculating. But if you've seen or heard anything that might help us with the case . . ."

Mama shakes her head. Her face is pale.

"No. Thank G.o.d we just happen to be here on a short visit. And considering all the awful things that seem to be happening around here, I don't think we'll be back. Malice. What kind of name is that for a lake?"

The policewoman raises her hands, palms up.

"It's not the official name. But I guess it is a little off-putting. Not exactly the kind of name that attracts tourists. But I'm new here. It was only a few days ago I heard that's what the locals call the lake."

And with that, she turns and takes a few steps toward the front entryway. Are they leaving? Already? Anxiously, I shift position, unable to decide whether I'm more afraid of having the police here or seeing them leave. I think about the black object hidden under the rug. The big mess in the room must have distracted the officers from noticing the bulge.

The male officer is already out in the hall when the policewoman pauses. She turns to look at the psychologist. And the corner of the rug. I hold my breath. Follow the officer's gaze. I see Alex's wife, Smilla's mother, standing there in her blue dress, leaning against the wall as if she wishes she could disappear into it.

"And you? Who are you?"

The psychologist hesitates, doesn't speak. I seem to see her slide down the wall, and I imagine her reaching out a trembling hand toward the floor. It might be real; it might be my imagination. Yes, who are you? That's the question that races through my battered mind. Then I hear a familiar voice answer.

"A friend," says Mama. "She's a friend."

I see the police officer turn back to look at my mother. Maybe Mama hesitated a second too long. But when she did speak, there wasn't a trace of doubt in her voice. Now she nods to underscore her words. A friend. Yes. They look at each other. And I have a feeling my mother protecting the psychologist from the police isn't only about me. There's something else.

Both officers are now out in the front hall. I hear the door close after them. My mother and the psychologist study each other for a long moment. Mama breaks the silence.

"All right then. Give me the ax, and I'll put it away. Then we'll sit down and talk. You can ask me anything you like. I can tell you want to know."

Both Mama and the psychologist move slowly. I watch as something black is picked up and changes hands. I hear footsteps leaving the room, a door opening, a clattering sound, and then the footsteps come back. No more sounds after that, except for voices, speaking quietly. A rushing inside my head. My eyes fall shut. I'm tired. So terribly tired.

42.

I fall asleep and dream that Mama and my former psychologist are sitting across from me, at either end of the sofa, talking. And that, every once in a while, Mama leans forward to feel my forehead or straighten the pillow she has slipped under my head. In my dream, I hear the psychologist say: So your friend was in love with your husband? Was that why she told him about the slap? To make him leave you?

"Or else they were already having an affair," I hear my mother say, and then I realize that I'm awake. "Maybe she felt rejected since he was continuing to see other women. Who knows?"

There is no bitterness or hatred in her voice when she talks about Ruth. It sounds more like she's tired. At first I find this surprising. Then I think it's strange I would have this reaction. Because what is the basis for my perception of my mother's feelings or her view of what happened? I have never-never ever-curled up on the sofa beside her to discuss these things. Neither of us has ever made any serious attempt to initiate that kind of conversation. Mama may have tried when I was a teenager, but I brushed all her efforts aside. Then I moved away from home and withdrew even more, keeping my distance. And now we've ended up here.

They think I'm still asleep, and I let them, lying still and opening my eyes only a little bit. In the center of my field of vision, right in front of me, is a pair of slender legs. Not Mama's. The sunlight streaming into the room falls in such a way that I can clearly see the unshaven hair on her calves. One foot is bobbing up and down, wearing a loose-fitting sandal. I see the peeling nail polish, some sort of hopeless pastel color. She's sitting so close that I could reach out my hand and touch her. Caress her leg. Or scratch it.

"I have to ask . . . Afterward . . . Wasn't there anyone who . . . I mean . . ."

The fact that she's having such trouble saying the words makes me realize what she wants to know. Mama understands too. Of course.

"It was declared an accident. The neighbors in the apartments above and below had heard a man bellowing a while earlier and thought it must be the same man who came home late, making a lot of noise in the stairwell. The people who lived across the street told the police they'd seen the man smoking in the open window lots of times. They'd wondered how he dared, since he lived on such a high floor. The autopsy found alcohol in his blood, quite a lot. I think they even found pieces of the gla.s.s he'd been holding-"

I move abruptly, kicking out my leg so they can't miss seeing it. Mama stops at once. Her face peers down at me from the sofa.

"h.e.l.lo there. You fell asleep, and I decided not to wake you. Thought you could use a rest. I would have moved you, but . . . Well, you're a little bigger now than the last time I carried you to bed."

We look at each other. For a long moment. Until Mama blushes. She really does. She blushes, though only briefly. Then she hurries to regain control of the situation.

"How are you feeling?"