The Missing. Part 5

19.

It's over. She's gone. I sat there and held her as the life seeped out of her body. And afterward . . . afterward I was still sitting there. I didn't want to move from her side, didn't want to leave her there, but in the end, I had no choice.

She was my anchor, but when the mooring rope was cut, when the arms were ripped from their safe haven, everything fell apart. Now I'm drifting aimlessly. The solid ground on which my life rested no longer exists. The words that resound in my head are more true than ever. Without me, you are nothing.

As I drift, rocked back and forth on the swells of despair, I often summon up pictures of you.

Sometimes you come so close that I think I can stretch out an ice-cold, dripping-wet hand to touch you. I can feel you trembling.

Swift footsteps and low voices nearby, but I'm only vaguely aware of them. Something else feels much more urgent. Like the fact that the walls around us are about to cave in. I can see it, even though no one else seems to notice or understand. Everything is about to collapse, fall apart. First, her life. Now, mine.

I open my mouth, but the scream refuses to take shape. Not yet. But I know that it's there somewhere, that it's getting closer.

Something new will take over, a new voice, a different self. A clenched fist. A howl of fury.

Your life won't be allowed to stay the same either. You too will be shaken to the core. You too will be obliterated.

20.

My body is going somewhere, and I follow along. I walk down the narrow path to the dock. It's as if my feet sense that I'm having trouble keeping things together, as if they've taken control and are carrying me forward whether I like it or not. Rocks and tree roots, blueberry sprigs and ferns. It's all so familiar. How many times have I taken this path? When was the last time I was here? Wasn't it quite recently?

As I approach the lake, the ground gets marshier, and there's moss everywhere. Doesn't it seem like an unusual amount of moss? It covers the rocks, trails over roots, and blankets fallen tree trunks. It seems to be slowly but steadily in the process of swallowing up everything in sight. And there's something about the color, the moss-green hue that's awfully green. Almost shiny. It doesn't look natural. More like it's been manipulated by some computer program. What was it Alex whispered to me in my dream? Surely you don't think this is real? It's all in your head.

The nausea is creeping back. Alex. His voice, which is still echoing in my head. His hands, which are still burning on my skin. And the memories, all those memories piling up in a dark corner of my consciousness.

When Alex entered my life, everything happened very fast. The emotions that flared up were so intense that the edges soon turned scorched and sooty. We got close, but it was a different kind of closeness from what I'd imagined on those lonely nights when I sat at my kitchen table or in front of the TV. And it's true that he saw me, but with a different eye from the one I imagined that first time he gave me a ride home. We talked very little. The intimacy we shared was almost exclusively physical. I had nothing to compare it to, so I had to resort to what I'd heard and read. I a.s.sumed that's the way it is for most people in the beginning. I a.s.sumed that's what it feels like to be in love.

Yet I had a sense that I wanted something more, though I didn't know what that might be, was never able to put it into words. And Alex never asked. He was more interested in showing me what he expected. Like the time I woke up to find him trying to get inside me. Dazed with sleep, I screamed in alarm, but he simply put his hand over my mouth. He looked me deep in the eyes, held me close, and moved his body against mine.

"I see you," he said. "Don't be scared. I'm here, and I see you."

And I knew that was true. I was no longer alone. Not with Alex looking at me. It was as if I came alive under his gaze. He made me real. So I surrendered, allowing him to lead the way. And I complied.

I step down into the boat, feeling it rock under my weight. I manage to keep my balance, compensating for the swaying motion. I close my eyes in an attempt to quell the nausea.

It was the incident at the window that marked, in a painful way, the transition from blind pa.s.sion to something else. We were in the living room of my apartment, and I was naked. Alex had just undressed me. He was still fully clothed when he turned me around, took a firm grip on my upper arms, and dragged me through the room. At first I thought we were heading for the sofa, but then I realized he was moving me toward the window. The tall, narrow window with no sill or curtains. It was twilight and dark both inside and out, but Alex switched on the ceiling light.

I froze, gave an embarra.s.sed laugh, and whispered that someone might see us. He didn't reply, and when I looked over my shoulder and saw the expression on his face, the laughter died in my throat. I tried to resist, but it was too late. He was considerably stronger than me, and soon he was pressing my naked body against the cold windowpane, fully exposed to the neighbors across the street and to pa.s.sersby below. Alex grabbed the back of my neck with one hand and my wrists with the other, and I remember standing there with my b.r.e.a.s.t.s raised and flattened and my nose twisted painfully to the side, trying to understand why this was happening. Why was he doing this? What was the point? If this was just another one of the games he found so amusing, why was he digging his fingers into my neck so hard?

As I recall, it wasn't a conscious decision on my part to give up, to stop fighting him. I remember only that my body went limp and ceased all attempts to get away. As soon as Alex noticed this, he pulled me backward, shoved me down on the sofa, and pulled down his pants. He didn't look me in the eye. Maybe that's why he didn't notice that I was crying until it was over. I remember he seemed almost surprised by my tears, didn't understand why I was so upset. He said he found it arousing knowing someone might see me. He said someone with a beautiful body like mine shouldn't feel ashamed. He said nothing about wanting to humiliate me or hurt me. But maybe he noticed something in my eyes, a trace of revulsion or doubt. The next day, a delivery boy came to the store bearing the biggest bouquet of long-stemmed red roses I've ever seen. The accompanying card said: From someone who loves mysteries. Yes, loves. Don't ever leave me.

The water is calm, the surface smooth. It seems wrong to shatter the silence with the sound of the outboard motor, so I decide to row instead. I make sluggish progress. It feels like the water is resisting me, as if it only reluctantly yields to the oars. Dark waves lap against the side of the boat, hissing and whispering. I lean forward, working so hard that sweat trickles down my back. The cut on my hand stings, but I ignore the pain. That's something I'm good at, after my time with Alex.

Finally, I near the island, planning to pull into the same place as usual. The spot where Alex moored the boat before he and Smilla went off on their adventure. The place where I pulled in when I came back to search for them. How many times is that now? My thoughts whirl; everything blurs together. It feels like so long ago that I was last here, and yet . . . and yet it seems like just recently.

The first things I see are the boats. Two rowboats are bobbing in the water close to the island, but on the opposite side from where I was planning to go ash.o.r.e. The next instant, I notice the group that has gathered, their bodies sticking up like dark shadows from the tall gra.s.s between the trees. I know at once who they are, and I freeze midstroke. My boat glides forward in one last, slow movement, and then comes to a halt in the bewitched waters. I can make out their hoa.r.s.e voices as they talk, interspersed with a laugh or a cough. And then, suddenly, a shrill scream.

My heart lurches. I should turn the boat around and go home. Get out of here before they see me. But I don't. My arms and hands seem to move of their own volition. Cautiously, I begin rowing toward the island again, hunching over the oars. My pulse quickens with every stroke. The words he said, that man in the big brown house, echo in my mind. 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. A bright glow tells me that the kids have made a bonfire. I think of the primitive fire pit I discovered when I was searching the island and about the green tarp and the stained mattress. The empty beer cans, the cigarette b.u.t.ts, the used condom. And the eviscerated squirrel.

I'm close now. If any of those kids glance over, they'll see me. I hear another scream. This time, it's louder, more piercing. It's a scream of pain. And panic. It cuts right through me, releasing a flood of images, all of them violent. They pour out, jumbled together, flashing past at furious speed, and I can do nothing to stop them. Images of myself and of Smilla, and of that long-haired girl. Images of hands, alternating between tender and rough. And pictures of objects, relentlessly sharp and treacherously soft. Hands and objects that are used to subdue and to harm.

"Stop!" I cry as loudly as I can. "Please, stop!"

I'm on my feet, standing up in the boat, without knowing how that happened. Someone gives a shout. Several kids pop up from the gra.s.s or appear from behind the bushes. Only now do I see how many there are. In the middle looms a figure with his hands on his hips. He doesn't move, and his face is hidden in shadow, but I know he's staring at me. I have his full attention.

"Where is she?"

My voice is so hoa.r.s.e it doesn't carry properly. The young man with the braided goatee doesn't reply. Maybe he doesn't hear my question. Or else he just doesn't care. Suddenly and unexpectedly, I find myself on the verge of tears.

"Please," I shout again, fighting to keep my voice from breaking. "Don't hurt her."

Goatee Guy turns to one of the kids standing next to him. I hear him speak in a low voice, but I can't make out the words. Whatever he says prompts hoa.r.s.e and derisive laughter. An arm waves in the air. The next moment, something whizzes past me and lands with a splash in the water behind the boat. A rock. And then another. This time, it strikes the bow.

My eyes shift from one kid to another, taking them all in. Searching for the face of a girl. I know she's there somewhere. I have to save her! Soon, more rocks are flying over the boat and raining into the water, and I'm forced to raise my arms to protect myself. I think I see one or more of the dark figures heading toward the two rowboats, and I realize I no longer have any choice. My hands move swiftly, and the motor starts up with a roar. I steer away from the island, heading back across Lake Malice.

"Stay away from here. Otherwise, the same thing will happen to you that happened to . . ."

I don't hear the rest of the threat hurled after me, because just at that moment, something hard and sharp strikes my shoulder blade. A burning pain makes me double over. I speed up, feeling my pulse hammering against my eardrums.

It seems to take an eternity, but finally I make it back to the dock. I tie up the boat and rise up on wobbly legs, only to sink down again. I stare at the rock lying in the bottom of the boat. It's big and sharp edged. If it had hit me in the head . . . If that was their intent . . . A shiver ripples across my skin.

What I should do is hurry back to the cabin, lock the door, and hide.

No one seems to have followed me, but if those kids do come and find me here . . . My misgivings fade into nothingness. I refuse to let fear take hold. So, is it over? That's what races through my mind instead. Is it finally over?

The next second, another thought intrudes. My hands automatically touch my stomach, protecting the life growing inside. A couple of weeks ago, I left the clinic with the doctor's words ringing in my ears. I remember my exact thought: This isn't like it was with Smilla. This is something different, something completely new. Emotions surge inside me. Elation. Guilt. Dread.

I didn't tell Alex. Not until we got to Lake Malice. We were eating dinner, and I said no to wine, then gave him a meaningful look. Alex stared at me for a long time, his face impa.s.sive.

"I understand," he said at last and took my hand.

His expression was so tender at that moment, so I thought maybe, just maybe it would work out. Maybe if I didn't- "Have you made an appointment?"

It was his tone of voice that made me realize at once what he meant. He wasn't talking about an obstetrician appointment. An abortion. He wanted me to get rid of our child. I bowed my head and swallowed the food in my mouth without chewing.

"Not yet, but I will," I told him. "As soon as we get back."

Alex gave me a kiss and quickly changed the subject as he helped himself to more food. After dinner, he gave me his orders, took me into the bedroom, and closed the door behind us.

Later that night, I lay awake, my body hurting too much to sleep. All my nerves and muscles ached. I heard the car rumbling outside and the voice screaming. I heard Alex carry Smilla inside and put her to bed in the room next to ours. Even though I was wide awake, I didn't get up to go to them. And when Alex crept back into bed, I pretended to be asleep. But by then, I'd already made my decision. It was perfectly clear in my mind.

I stroke my throat, cautiously touching the skin. Then I bury my face in my hands and bend forward. After a while, my fingers fall away on their own, and my gaze is drawn over the gunwale. I peer down into the water lapping against the side of the boat. I stare into the lake's impenetrable darkness. Even here, so near sh.o.r.e, it's impossible to see the bottom. Staring into Lake Malice is like being sucked into a black hole, a vortex. I'm whisked through the tunnel until I encounter a circular light at the other end. An opening. And there, in the middle of the light, the contours of a man's face appear. Alex! A gasp escapes my lips.

I lean forward, closer to the water, closer to the image. That's when I realize it's not a tunnel, but a well. And from its depths, I'm staring up at Alex, who is looking over the edge. Behind him, I glimpse a shadow: someone is sneaking up on him. Someone whose stealth will soon be channeled into a single swift and violent act. Two hands rise up, the palms hurtling through the air to strike Alex on the shoulder blades. With no time to turn and meet the eye of his a.s.sailant, he plunges over the edge and plummets toward eternity, toward the bottom of the well.

And toward me? No, I'm no longer there. I'm up above now, standing in the same place where Alex was standing. I lean forward, c.o.c.k my head to one side, and squint down into the well, as if I'm searching for someone who disappeared. Then I study my hands, brushing away a thread from Alex's sweater that got snagged on my skin. And I feel a slight ache in the palms of my hands, at the very spot where they just slammed against hard shoulder blades.

My body feels heavy and wobbly as I flee the boat. It rocks alarmingly under my feet, but then I'm once again standing on the dock. As I go ash.o.r.e, I keep my eyes fixed straight ahead. Unwavering. I refuse to allow my gaze to shift even for a second toward the seemingly harmless ripples in the water, afraid to risk losing myself again in Lake Malice's seductive darkness. I can't handle any more distorted visions.

As I stumble along the path up to the cabin, I'm filled with foreboding. What were those images my subconscious conjured up? My hands shoving Alex, pushing him into the well. Mere fantasies, of course. Compulsive thoughts. Yet all of it seemed so real. Like repressed memories. I think back to when I stared into the water while Alex and Smilla were playing on the island. I remember feeling as if I'd lost all concept of time. How many minutes had actually pa.s.sed when I regained my senses? Was it only minutes, or could it have been much longer? And what actually happened during that time?

I hadn't thought about that particular detail before, but now it turns me cold. I spot the cabin up ahead and start running. My body protests. I feel tired and weak and tormented, but I ignore all that and keep running. I run to avoid thinking about the fact that, as soon as I came to in the boat, I knew Alex and Smilla were gone. Without even having to search for them.

When I reach the door, I can taste blood in my mouth. I already knew. How could I have known?

21.

I wake up from a dream, a dream about a bush. Under the bush a leg is sticking out. A cold, pale leg that belongs to a four-year-old girl. It's a leg that is no longer bubbling with life, a leg that will never again do any jumping. I fumble for something on the night table, find an empty teacup, and throw up into it. This time it's mostly just spit and bile that come out of me. I don't need a bigger container.

My face is wet when I roll over in bed. I've been crying in my sleep. This time I don't bother to stretch out my hand, because I know no one is lying next to me. The numbers on the alarm clock glow faintly. It's the middle of the night. Dark on all sides, dark no matter where I turn.

I wipe my cheeks on a corner of the duvet and run my tongue over my front teeth, noticing the sour taste in my mouth. I lie there for a while, wallowing in self-loathing and disgust. As I stare up at the ceiling, other emotions surface, racing through my body, one after the other. One of them lingers longer than the others. Alone. I'm so terribly alone. Again. How did that happen?

I slide my hand down my nightgown, pushing the fabric aside to place my hand on the bare skin of my stomach. A rumbling under my palm startles me, but then I realize it's not the fetus moving. Just ordinary hunger pangs. I can hardly remember the last time I ate, much less wanted to.

I stretch my hand over my head to turn on the bedside light. When my eyes adjust to the glare, I notice the black streaks on the corner of the duvet that I used to wipe my tears. Did I crawl into bed without removing my makeup? I touch my clumpy eyelashes, confirming my suspicions. What did I do last night? It didn't include eating or washing, apparently.

I frown, trying to conjure up the night before, but to no avail. The last thing I recall is going out to the island, seeing those kids, and coming back here to the cabin. Everything else is hazy.

With effort, I sit up in bed and immediately feel heartburn. Your ninth week, I hear the doctor saying. You're in your ninth week. Did you really have no idea? No, I didn't. It was because I was so tired, I insisted. The constant exhaustion that never seemed to let up no matter how much I slept. That's why I came in. Well, now we've solved that mystery, said the doctor, giving me a polite smile. I left without telling her. Without showing her the marks on my thighs.

Cautiously, with one hand supporting my back, I haul myself to my feet. I really should try to go back to sleep, but then I risk being overpowered by another nightmare. Instead, I go to the kitchen for a gla.s.s of water, then to the bathroom to pee. I splash water on my eyes and cheeks. When I raise my head and peer into the bathroom mirror, I think at first that I'm looking at my mother. I cringe and take a step back. Then I notice the dark shadow on my throat. I place my hand over it and turn away so I won't have to look anymore. How alike are we, Mama and I? Could this have been her? If so, what would she have done?

I sink down onto the toilet lid. Mama . . . She called a few more times, but when I saw the familiar number on the display, I didn't answer. Because what is there to say to each other? Nothing. Maybe, to be honest, she feels the same way I do. At any rate, she hasn't left any more messages.

Other than my mother's sporadic attempts, I've had no calls these past few days. No one. I lean forward, wrapping my arms around myself. Alone. Always so alone. Then I straighten up, forcing myself to lift my chin. Why would anybody contact me? I'm on vacation, after all.

I haven't called anyone either. Except for Alex. Even though I've repeatedly told myself it's pointless, I keep trying to phone him. Not that I expect him to answer. Not really. By now, I've more or less accepted the fact that he's never going to pick up. That his phone is someplace where no one can hear it ringing.

Finally, I leave the bathroom and tiptoe through the dark. Like an intruder, a stranger. I don't belong here. The cabin seems to know that, as if the walls have come alive and are anxiously leaning toward me. Anxious or hostile. I approach the living room. In the dim light, it looks different, with menacing shadows lurking along the walls, dark figures huddled in the corners. Quickly I reach out for the switch and the room is instantly bathed in light. The hunched and threatening shadows take the shapes of furniture. The same sagging sofa, low coffee table, and mismatched armchairs as usual.

In the big windows facing the deck and yard, I see a mirror image of the room. Like its own illuminated universe, enveloped in darkness. I see the lighting fixture on the ceiling and the worn-out furniture. I can even make out the abstract paintings on the walls. And in the middle of the room, I see myself, my own reflection. A blurry figure wearing a white nightgown, and two dark, tense patches where the eyes should be. And then I see her too. The other one.

I can tell from the shape that it's a woman. But she's thinner than me, more angular. And though I'm standing in the glare of the light, she is cloaked in darkness. I stare at her, realizing who she is. She's me. A younger, innocent version of me. She's the girl who was left behind when Papa disappeared, the young woman I was before Alex. For a brief moment, the image of my young self in the windowpane seems real, and somehow rea.s.suring.

Then my mind wakes up. Look around you, it says. I obey. The furniture, the paintings, the room are all brightly lit. I am too. But that woman, the other, is visible only as a dark shape. It's because she's not standing under a light. She isn't here in this living room. She's standing outside. On the deck. Looking in.

22.

I was always the spectator. The one who stood outside and looked in, who eavesdropped whenever Mama cried on the phone to Ruth, who secretly listened to Mama and Papa when they fought. But on that night, the last night, I finally became a partic.i.p.ant. Instead of tiptoeing back to my own room, I went into my parents' room, drawn by a force stronger than any I'd ever experienced in my eight years of life.

"I know what you did to Greta. Hit your own child? How could you?"

The hurled accusation carried me back to the event I'd tried so hard to suppress. I had been urged not to speak of it. Now it was suddenly a weapon in my parents' battle. Mulle stayed on the floor where I'd dropped him. They were still arguing. But the slap, the fact that one of them had raised a hand to their daughter, was no longer the focus. Now the fight was about something else, someone else.

How quickly my parents had moved on, how easily they'd left behind my shock, pain, and humiliation. Everything I'd been forced to bear was now reduced to only a few seconds of their time and attention. As I stood there in the hallway, emotions flooded over me, took possession of me. I was-there's only one word for it. I was furious.

It took a while before they noticed me. Or rather, when they noticed, it was already too late. Papa was too busy flinging truths in Mama's face to pay any attention to me. Mama had partially turned away. I saw her stony face gradually dissolve until only a gaping mouth and two desperate eyes remained. Even then, Papa kept at it, spewing more poison, firing off more damaging shots.

I stood there, staring at them, and at that moment, something happened, something that changed my worldview. My father. The man who gave me lovely presents and played with me, who said I was sweet and roughhoused with me in the kitchen while he made breakfast. That father was still there somewhere, under the layers of scorn, lies, and betrayal. But I couldn't see him anymore. The man sitting on the sill was somebody else. A horrible man. A cruel man. Someone who tormented Mama. Who made her life h.e.l.l. And when I thought again about that slap, I had a different feeling inside.

I took a step forward and joined my parents in their violent shadow play. Who made the first move? Who did what? It escapes me.

Afterward, I sat in my room and waited. Numb from shock and shame. The paramedics came and went. The police came and went. Before they left, I heard them say to Mama that it would be good if she asked someone to come over and stay with her, that they would gladly call someone for her. I didn't need to hear my mother's reply to know what she would say. There was no one to call. No one. The uniformed officers closed the door behind them, leaving me and Mama alone in the apartment. Since Mama was no longer wailing or crying but lying quietly in her room, they probably thought she would take care of me when they were gone. But she didn't come. I sat there alone.

The darkness lasted an eternity. It got light outside and then dark again. And suddenly, finally, Ruth was standing in the doorway. She said a few words to me, I can't remember what exactly. Then she went to stand in front of the closed door to what was now only Mama's room. I saw her back straighten as she took in a deep breath and knocked. I couldn't hear what they said to each other in there. But after a while, Ruth came back out, pale as a ghost. She ran past my room, gave me a horrified look, and disappeared. That was the last time I saw her.

A little while later, Mama appeared in front of me, leaning on the doorjamb. I blinked. I could hardly believe it was true. Finally, she was here with me again. Moving stiffly, she came over and took me in her arms. I closed my eyes, knowing what would come next. We would talk. We would talk for a long time about guilt and remorse, about responsibility and reconciliation. About justice. And about punishment. I dreaded it. I was already crying. At the same time, I understood there was no avoiding it. There was no other way.

"So," whispered Mama. "It's over now. We will move on, you and I. And we'll stick together. You can count on me."

I waited, but that was all she said. Surprised, I raised my head and looked into Mama's eyes. She stared back, her expression somber, until I realized that was all she intended to say. And she didn't expect me to say anything either. What had happened would remain our secret, hers and mine. There would be no request for forgiveness, not here or in any other context. Silently, my mother lifted her hand, palm up, and held it out toward me.

I stared at it, filled with conflicting emotions. As if I were being pushed down and flying free all at once. Weighted down. But also relieved. I was only eight years old, too young to have any choice. Yet I did choose. I placed my hand in Mama's. From that moment on, it was just the two of us. And we would stick together, just like Mama said. At all costs we would stick together.

23.

Wispy bright clouds cover the sun, and a light haze hovers over Marhem. I shove open the gla.s.s door to the deck and take a good look around before going out in the yard. The gra.s.s is damp. It must have rained in the night. It's pointless to look for tracks, but that's what I do all the same. I'm chewing on a stale cracker to counter the nausea. As my body moves around the property, my eyes search the lawn. Yet it's as if I'm watching myself, surprised I can behave so calmly, so normally, considering everything that's happened over the past few days.

Part of me thinks my agitated brain could have easily misinterpreted what I saw last night. That sort of thing happens when a person is under stress. What I saw outside the living-room window could have been a deer, or even the shadow of a tree. But another part of me knows. It knows exactly what I saw, who I saw. And somehow that makes me feel relieved rather than scared.

I redo my makeup, applying extra powder to my throat, and manage to eat half a bowl of yogurt. I tear off a piece of paper and start writing a grocery list. Milk, fruit, bread. Then I put down the pen and stare at the ba.n.a.l words on the page. If I'm planning to buy food, it must mean I intend to stay here. The thought leaves me surprisingly unmoved. All right, I think. All right, then that's what I'll do. I feel something stirring inside me. Something is about to happen. An itching sensation, as if I'm about to slough off my skin. Soon I'll shed the old husk and step forward as my true self. As the person I've always been but have tried to hold back.