The Missing. Part 3

He doesn't finish the sentence. Instead, he shoves me backward after one last meaningful look. Then he turns around, crosses the ditch, and heads for the sh.o.r.e without looking back. His underlings grin and take a few harmless swipes at me before they follow. I hear their laughter echoing off the trees and see them giving each other high fives. The girl and I are alone on the gravel road. Our eyes meet. Then I turn around and leave.

I walk as fast as I can without actually running. Only after I've rounded the next curve in the forest road and put some distance between me and the kids do I become aware that my heart is pounding fast, that I'm shaking all over. I collapse on the side of the road. I curl up in a ball, making myself as small as possible, all the while keeping an eye on the direction I've just come from. I want to be ready in case they change their minds. Not that it'll really make any difference. If they decide to come after me, I have no way of defending myself.

Squatting there on the ground, I lower my head and once again fix my eyes on my shoes. My pink sneakers. I think of the black shoe I found on the island. The girl by the ditch had a similar pair. A shapeless fear strikes me in the solar plexus, propelling me to my feet. Again I set off down the road, looking over my shoulder every few seconds. I keep expecting to see them racing toward me with their baggy and faded T-shirts flapping around their skinny bodies. But no one is following me. Even so, I run as fast as I can, until my throat is burning and my lungs wheeze. I have to get out of here. Right now.

12.

I don't understand where it's coming from, all this hatred inside me. How can my heart have room for so much darkness? Especially someone like me, who was conceived and carried and raised with love. Carefully, she held me in her hands, showing me the path into life. She was at my side, giving me everything, living solely for my sake.

And many years later, when it was my turn to receive the miracle of life, I did the same. Ten tiny toes, ten tiny fingers. Everything changed, and I bowed my head, asking for mercy. I sacrificed everything, not because I was forced to do so, but because I wanted to. I did it gladly. I did it out of love.

I lean forward and bathe her forehead. Even though beads of sweat have formed, her skin is very cold. I want nothing more than for her to sit up and talk to me. a.s.suage my pain with her love. The s.p.a.ce that is mine is so small, and yet I'm not allowed to be left in peace. There, sprouting in the cracks of what once existed, is hatred. Somewhere far away, a voice is speaking. It says: Without me, you are nothing.

I reach for her hand, clasp it in my own. Her fingers are limp. I'm the one who has to keep us together now.

I think how the only thing of importance is that she recovers, that she comes back to me. If only I'm allowed to keep her, nothing else matters. Then I shake off what I know and move on. I can forget. I can even forgive.

That's what I'm thinking, but it's not true. Because whatever happens, I will never be able to forgive you. Do you hear me? Never.

13.

The road divides, giving me the opportunity to loop back in the direction of the cabin without having to pa.s.s the spot where I met those kids. Somehow I manage to make my way home. By the time I get there, my hips and legs feel like jelly. The marks in the gravel on the road are no longer clear, as if someone has swept them away while I was gone. The one who stayed and the one who left.

I limp toward the front steps and root around until I find the key underneath. In the entryway, I'm confronted by my own face in the mirror on the wall. My eyes are like two big patches of soot, and garish pink blush shimmers on my cheekbones. But underneath the plastered-on layers of color and shadow I'm totally pale. I picture the knife in front of me, see the flash of the sharp blade as the young man cleans his fingernails. I feel the point pressing against the delicate skin under my chin.

I stand there in the hall for a long time. The fear slowly ebbs away, but the images refuse to leave me. In spite of what I went through, there's one image that lingers in my mind. It's the image of the long-haired girl leaning against Goatee Guy's shoulder with such trust, such compliance. And the way he responded by sweeping the knife in an arc over the back of her neck. I can't tear myself away from the mirror, and my face suddenly seems to merge with the girl's features there in the gla.s.s. Wasn't there something special about her gaze? Didn't I see something gleam in her eyes when she noticed the mark on my throat? Something naked, something familiar. I hear myself talking, see the girl watching me. My husband and my daughter, I said, they're at the cabin waiting for me. Did she see through me? Did she realize I was lying? I picture her standing on tiptoe, cupping her hand around Goatee Guy's ear. What was it she whispered to him?

I turn away, lean my back against the wall, and slide down to the floor. The minutes pa.s.s as the tension slowly seeps out of my body. I have no energy to get up. It feels like I'll never be able to move again. My limbs sag, go slack. Just as my head sinks to my chest, a sharp noise slices through the silence and jolts me awake. My cell phone is in the pocket of my capris. I can feel it vibrating against my thigh. It must be Alex. It's all over now. Thank G.o.d, it's over. I shove my hand in my pocket, pull out the phone, and raise it to my ear without checking the number on the display.

"Greta?"

Mama again. My head falls back, thudding against the wall behind me.

"h.e.l.lo? Greta . . . are you there? Is everything okay?"

I mutter something unintelligible in reply.

"What'd you say? I can hardly hear you, Greta. Where are you? I know you're not home because I phoned several times, and you didn't . . ."

I think to myself that I can't stay here in the cabin even one more minute. I need to get in the car and drive away from here. Go to the police. Or home. You could drive home.

"I can't talk right now," I manage to say. My voice is somewhere between a wheeze and a whisper. "I have to go."

But Mama is not to be put off so easily.

"What's going on with you, Greta? You're behaving so strangely. These last few days . . . I don't know what you're up to, but I have to say that . . ."

Whatever she was on the verge of saying, whatever was so important, fades to silence. The thought crosses my mind that maybe for once it will be my mother who ends our conversation in a fit of anger. Maybe she's finally had enough. But I hear her take a deep breath, preparing to say something more.

"It's no wonder Katinka's worried about you."

Katinka? Worried about me? I feel hot and cold at the same time. What did Katinka say? And why has Mama been talking to her?

"I was at the mall today and dropped by the shop to say h.e.l.lo. But you weren't there. They told me you were on vacation. I had no idea you were planning to take time off right now."

"Mama, I . . ."

"So I ran into Katinka in the shop. As I understand it, the two of you are close friends."

Mama falls silent. All I can hear is her breathing. Is she waiting for me to say something? To offer some comment about my relationship with Katinka? Or is she thinking about the best friend she once had?

I used to eavesdrop on their phone calls, all those long heart-to-hearts. Of course, Ruth was the one who did most of the talking. Mama would mostly sit in silence, hunched over in bed or at the kitchen table.

No, he's not here, as usual. Who knows where he is tonight?

Then she would listen intently, in a way she never did with anyone else. Sometimes she was silent for so long that, if I held my breath, I could hear Ruth's voice on the phone. I couldn't make out what she was saying, but I understood that, whatever it was, Mama considered her words wise and consoling. She would always say something like: "What would I do without you, Ruth? Thanks for listening. I have no one else to turn to."

As I understand it, the two of you are close friends.

Is there something ominous, even menacing, in Mama's words? After what happened, did she lose faith, not only in Ruth but in female friendships in general? Is she afraid Katinka will betray me the same way that Ruth betrayed her? There's nothing to worry about on that score. That's what I'd tell her if she asked. I know better than Mama did. I know better than to confide everything, reveal everything. Katinka may think we know each other well, but that doesn't mean we're close, at least not in the sense Mama and Ruth once were. Definitely not. I did learn something from Mama's mistakes, after all. I hear her clear her throat.

"At any rate. According to Katinka, you haven't seemed quite right lately. Apparently you've called in sick a lot, and . . . well . . . That's actually how she phrased it: that she's worried about you."

I raise my hand to rub my forehead. Again I'm thinking about what happened in the woods. Those kids, the knife pressed to my throat. What about you? I want to ask. Are you worried, Mama? You should be. But when I open my mouth, something totally different slips out.

"I'm pregnant."

I don't know why I tell her. Maybe to shock her. Or maybe because I'm not myself at the moment. To be honest, I haven't been myself for a long time. Katinka's right. I hear my mother gasp.

"Pregnant? My G.o.d!"

She sounds horrified. Then I can hear her pulling herself together. Her voice takes on a new tone. A certain harshness.

"Who's the father?"

I can't do this anymore. I simply can't. I hang up and stumble into the bedroom. I turn off my phone before plugging it in, then fling myself across the double bed. Apathy spreads through me, blocking out all feeling. Just before my eyes fall shut, I see my mother's expression of displeasure. How could you, Greta? How on earth could you?

14.

Alex's voice wakes me. It's all in your head. That's what I think I hear him whisper. Surely you don't think this is real? You're just imagining everything. The duvet underneath me is crumpled and damp, and I shiver. Then I feel something next to my leg, something warm, and when I look down I see Tirith curled up against me. I reach down to slip my hand under his soft belly and pull him up to my chest. I slide my finger under his pink collar and scratch the back of his neck. He yawns, giving me a long look through narrowed, sleepy eyes. Smilla's cat. Maybe he's thinking the same thing I'm thinking: The two of us don't really belong together. Yet here we are, left to our own devices.

Barely conscious of what I'm doing, I raise my other hand to my throat, touching the dark patch there. Then my fingers move up to my chin. The feeling of that knife is still fresh in my mind. I picture the young man with the goatee. I see his indifferent expression and hear his threats. Hurriedly, I dismiss the image and return my attention to Tirith. I stroke and caress his fur until he luxuriously stretches his black-and-white body across my chest. He meows, a long, drawn-out sound. Guess we'll just have to stick together, I imagine him saying. But for some reason, it offers me no consolation. For some reason, it makes me uneasy.

I push the cat away and sit up, a little too quickly, grimacing when I feel the burning inside my throat. Yet another symptom, according to the doctor. Nine weeks along, she told me. Since then, another two weeks have pa.s.sed, and the change in my body is already noticeable. Nausea and vomiting. Lack of appet.i.te. Aching in my hips. And fatigue. A weariness that seems to have totally taken over. Hesitantly, I place my hand on my stomach, on top of the growing bulge. And then I try out the thought again, the one that has occurred to me many times since I sat in the clinic and heard the news. But no, I've made up my mind. To be or not to be, that is the question. This time, the course is set. I want this baby. In spite of everything.

Who's the father? The memory of my mother's words pierces like a sharp blade through my bleary consciousness. Suddenly, I'm wide awake. I turn on my phone and see that I've received three new voice-mail messages. My pulse quickens, but of course, they're all from my mother.

"I'm so sorry, sweetie. I was just so shocked, and . . . We'll solve this somehow. Call me back and let's talk!"

"Or should I come over? Just tell me where you are."

"Please, Greta. Don't do this. I just can't . . ."

Mama's voice breaks. Is she crying? For my sake? I listen to her last message again, and the door that was about to open slams shut. I just can't.

The phone slides across the floor when I push it away. Once again, it's all about my mother's needs and how she feels, what she can or can't do. Just like back then, after Papa. Just like it's always been.

I get up, then pause for a moment, staring at my phone. I should really leave it lying there on the floor. Alex isn't going to call.

I gather up the essentials and slip my purse over my shoulder. Then I kneel down, retrieve my phone, and slip it into my purse. My eyes are automatically drawn to the smaller bedroom as I pa.s.s, and my feet carry me inside. I sink down on the edge of the bed and clumsily stroke the duvet cover, printed with a fairy-tale princess. Smilla loves princesses. Just like I did when I was her age. We're alike in so many ways. With dry eyes, I press my face against the pillow, breathing in the fading scent of baby shampoo.

"I never got a chance to tell you the good news," I murmur. "You're going to have a little sister or brother."

Far down, deep inside my stomach, I sense a gurgling movement. The fetus moving? No, that can't be. Not yet. Or? Suddenly, I'm seized with shame. An adult who fails, who gives up. Is that the sort of role model I am? The mother that I'm on my way to becoming? No, I have to believe it will turn out fine. Everything that has happened and what I've decided. I get up from the bed and leave Smilla's room.

As I'm pa.s.sing the hall mirror, I stop and stare at the image confronting me. My mascara is smeared, my eye shadow blotchy, and my hair is standing on end. I look like a madwoman. Quickly, I repair my makeup and comb my hair. Then I dash out the door and down the steps.

The car starts on the second try, and all I can think about is getting away from here. There's nothing keeping me in Marhem anymore. Only fear and confusion remain. With every pa.s.sing hour, I'm getting more and more ensnared in something I don't understand, something that's becoming scarier. With a little distance, I'll be able to see better what happened and understand everything that now escapes me, everything that is evading and eluding me.

The car rolls along the narrow gravel road, past other summer cabins very similar to the one I've just left. They're on both sides of the road, looking empty and lifeless. Not a single car is parked outside. Not a soul in sight. There's something unnatural about this absence of life, an entire vacation area deserted and abandoned. The whole place seems unreal. A dizzy sense of being trapped in limbo comes over me.

In spite of the desolation, I suddenly feel that I'm being watched. I glance in the rearview mirror, worried I'll see a bunch of kids in ragged clothes looming behind the car. But there's no one there. And when I think about the girl in the ditch, the young man with the knife and his minions, they no longer seem real. Their shapes fade away, dissolving into thin air. Like phantoms. Did I even meet them? Was it real?

My hands grip the steering wheel harder, and I step on the gas. What's happening to me? Am I losing my ability to separate dream from reality? Madness from reason? Somehow I have to find a way to confirm that what I'm experiencing is real, that I'm not just imagining things or about to go . . . I dismiss that thought from my mind. Grit my teeth and keep driving. I catch a glimpse of something above the treetops in the distance. What is it? Smoke. I can clearly see wisps of smoke rising into the sky. That can only mean one thing.

I've now reached the crossroads. The road on the left leads to the entrance to the highway. The road on the right continues on past more cabins and yards to another part of Marhem. To the area where the smoke is coming from. My foot presses down on the clutch. My hand is resting on the gearshift. I signal to turn left. And then turn right.

15.

Slowly, I drive along the winding road that takes me deeper into Marhem and farther from the highway. The thin coil of smoke against the sky is my guiding star. Wherever it's coming from, there are bound to be people. Real people. The kind I can see with my own eyes, who will talk to me and convince me that what I'm seeing actually does exist. That what's going on is real.

In this part of Marhem, the cabins are larger. Most of them are more like houses than cabins, and there's more s.p.a.ce between the yards. But here too, everything looks closed up and deserted. I drive at a crawl, letting my eyes sweep from one side of the road to the other, looking for fire. For any sign of other people. Even so, the sound is so unexpected that I flinch. I slow down, listen. A series of muted, fitful sounds. When I realize what I'm hearing, I pull over. My heart is hammering excitedly. A dog barking. That must mean I'm close.

I get out of the car and proceed on foot. On the right side of the road, I see dark trees and flashes of sunlight glinting off a big picture window. The yard is huge but a lot of it is hidden behind a tall fence surrounding the property. As I approach, I crane my neck to peer at the house. It's several stories tall and painted brown, an unusual color around here. I catch a glimpse of glorious flowerbeds and a neatly mown lawn. On the highly polished deck, a charcoal grill is smoldering.

My ears are on high alert, but the only thing I hear now is the rustling of the trees and several birds screeching down by the water. Otherwise everything is quiet.

At that second the barking starts up again, and a black streak comes racing around the corner of the house. It's a big dog with a shiny coat, his tongue hanging out. He's batting a yellow ball with his paws, chasing after it, then stumbling over it. The dog seems so immersed in his game that he's not aware of me standing there, hesitating just outside the fence. Or maybe he's too well trained to bother with strangers.

Out of the corner of my eye, I see something move, making me look up. My gaze is automatically drawn to the top floor of the house. Inside a partially open window, a thin curtain billows. Is someone there? I stand still, not sure what to do. I should stop here, try to make contact. Isn't that why I came? But the thought of having to talk to another person makes me uneasy. What if they can tell by looking at me?

I whip around and begin heading back to the car.

"h.e.l.lo there! Can I help you?"

I spin around and almost fall over, I'm so stunned by the voice. Behind me, an elderly man is standing at an open gate. In spite of the heat, he's wearing pressed trousers and a sweater over his shirt. His hair is thinning, and his expression is friendly, though a bit wary. At his side, standing very close, is the dog. The man has a tight hold on the dog's collar.

"Did I scare you? I didn't mean to."

I shake my head, murmuring something about being fine. But my heart is beating fast, and I have a hard time getting the words out.

"I apologize for sneaking up on you. I have to admit that I'm extracareful right now. There aren't many people left in Marhem this late in the season, and you never know what those kids might get up to. You have to be on guard, that's all there is to it."

I stare at him. Those kids. So they really do exist. I'm not going . . . I shake my head, putting on an expression the man seems to take for agreement. He relaxes and smiles, apparently having decided that I'm no threat.

"It's certainly not pleasant," he goes on. "Some nights, they make a huge racket. Down by the water, sometimes out on the island. I try to keep my distance as best I can."

Out on the island? I think about Alex and Smilla. About the black shoe I found when I was searching for them. I shiver. The man introduces himself, but a second later I've already forgotten his name.

"Do you live around here?"

I manage to nod and muster what might pa.s.s for a smile.

"In one of the cabins above the dock over that way," I tell him, giving a vague wave of my hand.

"Alexander," he says at once, startling me. "Are you with Alexander? It's been a long time since I last saw him, but I thought I caught sight of him the other day, along with a little girl. I a.s.sume she's your daughter?"

"Smilla?" I whisper.

There's something wrong with my voice. It sounds hoa.r.s.e and raspy. Hollow. But the man doesn't seem to notice. He pats the black dog, who has stuck his wet nose in his hand.

"Smilla. What a lovely name. So you're her mother, Alexander's wife. Actually, I think we've met before. But it was only very briefly."

I lower my eyes. Am I nodding again? Yes, I think I am. But my thoughts are elsewhere. This man says he's seen Smilla. With Alex. The other day. What exactly does that mean? In spite of the heat, goose b.u.mps rise on my bare legs.