The Missing. Part 1

The Missing.

Caroline Eriksson.

To my maternal grandmother and grandfather:.

For the summers at the cabin.

For the pancakes and meatb.a.l.l.s.

For your wholehearted support of my writing.

And for everything else.

1.

The little motorboat slices through the water with the precision of a knife. The sun is low in the sky; it's getting late on this evening at the end of summer. I'm sitting in the bow, closing my eyes to the water spraying up into my face, fighting against the nausea that churns inside my body and matches the movement of the boat. If only he would slow down a little, I think. And as if he has read my mind, that's exactly what Alex does. I turn around to face him. He's sitting in the stern with one hand on the tiller of the outboard motor. His whole being emanates masculinity and control. His shaved head, his clenched jaw, the furrow of concentration on his brow. Men aren't usually described as beautiful, but that's what Alex is. I've always thought so. And I still do.

Without warning, he shuts off the motor. The boat swerves in a small arc and then sinks back into the water. Smilla sways as she sits on the thwart between us. I lean forward and put my arms around her, holding on until she regains her balance. Instinctively she grabs hold of my hand with her little fingers, and a wave of warmth surges inside me. Now that the growl of the motor no longer fills the air, there is only silence. Smilla's fine, flaxen hair curls at the nape of her neck, less than an inch from my face. I'm just about to lean forward and bury my nose in the soft strands when Alex reaches for the oars.

"Do you want to try?"

Smilla instantly lets go of me and springs up.

"Come on, then," says Alex with a smile. "Papa's going to show you how to row."

He holds out his hand to her, helping her take the few steps to the stern. Once safely there, she sits down on his lap and happily pats him on the knee. Alex shows her how to hold the oars, and they slowly begin to row together. Smilla laughs, gurgling with delight the way only she can. I stare at the little dimples on her left cheek until my vision blurs. Then I turn to look out at the lake, losing myself in its expanse.

Alex claims the lake "probably has an official name in some public record," but around here no one calls it anything but "Malice." That's not all he says. He also tells stories, each one more gruesome than the last, about the lake and what locals say it's capable of doing. Tales warning that the waters have long been cursed and that their evil can seep into people, twisting their souls and making them commit horrific deeds. Children and adults alike have disappeared without a trace. Blood has been spilled. According to legend, that is.

An uncanny, plaintive sound echoes across the water, interrupting my thoughts. I turn toward it and notice out of the corner of my eye that Alex and Smilla have done the same. We hear it again. A low, throaty sound that rises to a hoa.r.s.e, hooting shriek. A fluttering and then a dark shadow hurtles toward the surface of the lake a short distance away. The next instant, it's gone without the slightest splash or ripple, seemingly swallowed up by the water. Alex puts one arm around Smilla, stretching out his other hand to point.

"A loon," he explains. "Sometimes thought to be a prehistoric bird. Probably because of the sound it makes. A lot of people think it's scary."

He turns toward me, but I'm looking at Smilla and refuse to meet his eye. For a long moment, Smilla stares hard at the spot where the loon disappeared. Finally, she turns to Alex to ask him worriedly whether the bird is ever going to come up to breathe. He laughs, strokes her hair, and tells her the loon can stay underwater for several minutes. She shouldn't worry. "Besides," he adds, "it rarely comes up in the same place where it disappeared."

Alex picks up the oars to resume rowing the rest of the way. Smilla goes back to the middle of the boat to sit down, this time turned away from me. I study her profile from an oblique angle, seeing the soft curve of her cheek as she keeps searching the surface of the lake. The bird. She can't stop thinking about the bird, wondering where it is now and whether it can really survive so long underwater. I lift my hand, wanting to stroke her thin back to rea.s.sure her. At that moment, Smilla s.h.i.+fts position so I can no longer see her face. Alex is smiling at her, and I understand that she's smiling back. Trusting him. Relying on him. If Papa says the bird will be okay, then it will.

There are only about thirty feet to the island now. The small island in the middle of Lake Malice. That's where we're headed. I look down into the water, trying to pierce the surface with my eyes. With some effort, I can make out the bottom below us, overgrown with swaying reeds. The water is getting shallower. Algae floats upward, wrapping around the hull like long, slimy green fingers. Tall reeds rise up next to the boat and bend over our heads. When we run aground, Alex stands up and climbs past Smilla and me. His movements make the boat rock beneath us. I grip the gunwale and close my eyes until it stops.

Alex loops a mooring line around the nearest tree trunk and carefully ties it tight. Then he holds out his hand, and Smilla unsnaps her life vest as she totters past me. In her hurry, she manages to step on my foot and jab her elbow into my right breast. I yelp loudly, but she doesn't notice. Or if she does, she doesn't care. She's so eager to get to her father that nothing else matters. Anyone who sees them together can tell that Smilla loves Alex more than anything in the world. When we left the cabin and headed for the dock, she insisted on walking, or rather skipping, next to him. The slanting rays of the sun broke through the spruce branches along the narrow forest path; Smilla was happily chattering. Soon she and Papa would be going ash.o.r.e on a desert island! Just like real pirates. Smilla was the pirate princess, and Papa could be . . . maybe the pirate king? Smilla laughed and tugged at Alex's hand. She couldn't get to the lake fast enough, while I walked several paces behind.

Now I glance up at them as they stand next to each other. Smilla is leaning against Alex with her soft little arms wrapped around his leg. An unbreakable unit. Father and daughter. The two of them on sh.o.r.e while I'm still sitting in the boat. This time, Alex holds out his hand to me, raising one eyebrow. I hesitate, and he notices.

"Come on. This is supposed to be a family outing, sweetheart."

He grins. My gaze s.h.i.+fts to Smilla, and our eyes meet. There's something about the way she's jutting out her little chin.

"You two go ahead," I say brusquely. "I'll wait here."

Alex makes one more halfhearted attempt to get me to come, but when I shake my head again, he shrugs and turns to Smilla. He makes a silly face, and her eyes s.h.i.+ne with excitement.

"Watch out, everybody on the island! Here come Papa Pirate and Smilla, the pirate princess!" Alex shouts.

As Alex shouts these words, he picks up Smilla, throws her over his shoulder, and starts running up the slope. One side of the island is steeper than the other, and that's where we've come ash.o.r.e. But Alex refuses to let the incline slow him down. I can almost feel the lactic acid in his legs. And the dizzy feeling in Smilla's tummy as she hangs upside down. Then they reach the top of the hill and disappear from view.

I sit and listen as the sound of their voices slowly fades away. After a while, I lean forward and gently ma.s.sage the small of my back, which feels tender and stiff. Something makes me bend even farther forward to look over the side. The water is now almost motionless under the boat; the lake has closed up before my eyes. I can no longer see what's below the surface. The only thing staring back at me is my own splintered reflection. Finally, I allow the thoughts to come, the thoughts of what happened last evening and during the night. I go over every word, every movement as I keep staring at the reflection of my own eyes floating below me. With every remembered fragment, my stare seems to grow darker down there in the water. Involuntarily, I reach up and wrap my hands around my neck. A moment pa.s.ses. Several minutes. An eternity.

Then I blink, and it's as if I'm waking up from a stupor, as if I'd lost all sense of time. How long have I been sitting here? I s.h.i.+ver and wrap my arms around myself. The sun is sinking below the treetops, sending bloodred streaks across the sky. A chill evening breeze sweeps in, and now I'm really feeling cold. I stretch my back and listen for any sounds, but I can no longer hear Alex's bellowing voice or Smilla's cheerful giggling. The only sound is the loon's desolate call, now from a distance. I shudder. Shouldn't they be done playing their pirate game and exploring the island by now? But then I think about how excited Smilla was. She probably won't be ready to give up this adventure any time soon. They're probably walking all around the island. Maybe they're playing hide-and-seek on the other side at this very moment. Maybe that's why I can't hear them anymore.

I close my eyes and think about how they roughhoused with each other in the kitchen this morning. I think about Alex's energy and his patience, which allow him to keep playing for such a long time. Long after other fathers would have grown tired. Come on, honey, let's go back to the boat. Mama's waiting. Alex would never say that. He's a good father. I open my eyes. Again I lean over the side and feel my gaze drawn to the darkening surface of the water.

Good father.

Good father.

Good father.

When I straighten up, there's still not a sound. No voices, no laughter. Not even a loon. I sit there for a while, not moving, just listening. Then, suddenly, I know. There's no need to take an anxious walk around the island, no need to go searching or to desperately shout their names. I don't even have to stand up and get out of the boat to know.

Alex and Smilla are not coming back. They're gone.

2.

Of course I go look for them, in spite of my conviction that it won't do any good. Alex's dark-blue sweats.h.i.+rt is folded up and lying in the stern. I grab it and stand up to pull the boat in. Uneasiness slithers down my spine. With a clumsy movement that's halfway between a step and a jump, I go ash.o.r.e. I shout Alex's name, then Smilla's. No answer. My arms feel stiff as I pull the sweats.h.i.+rt over my head. The fabric has a masculine scent that envelops me. It smells like Alex.

I feel a sharp stab in my gut but ignore the pain and start heading up the slope. I haven't gone more than a few steps when my chest tightens and I'm breathing hard. It's steeper than I thought. My body feels heavy and sluggish, refusing to cooperate, but I grit my teeth and force myself to continue, climbing upward. My foot slips in a muddy patch, and I have to put out my hand to keep from falling and sliding backward down the hill.

Finally I manage to reach the top. I try shouting again but can muster only a hoa.r.s.e croak. My throat burns, protesting the strain, and my chest feels two sizes too small. Even though I make a great effort, my lungs are unable to supply the air that's needed. It feels like I'm trying to scream in the middle of a nightmare. My stomach cramps convulsively, wave after wave. I make another attempt to yell, but my body doubles over. Bending down, I emit a loud belch and then a dirty yellow sludge comes pouring out of me. My legs tremble and I totter to one side, then the other before dropping to my knees.

I wipe my mouth on the sleeve of the sweats.h.i.+rt. I stay on the ground for a moment, as if felled by some superior foe. I push the thought away. Foe? Superior? No! I get back on my feet. My body still feels weak, but at least it's obeying. Instead of trying to shout again, I focus on surveying the island. There aren't many open s.p.a.ces. Between scattered leafy trees and juniper bushes, I see waist-high gra.s.s and underbrush. There's no place that would allow easy pa.s.sage. Especially for a four-year-old girl. I don't see Alex and Smilla anywhere.

I stumble forward, knowing what I have to do, but not sure which way to go. In one spot the gra.s.s has been pushed aside, and the ground looks trampled. So I head in that direction, following what I imagine are the tracks of a man and a little girl eager to play. Once in a while I pause to call their names, though not really expecting an answer. A perfunctory feeling comes over me, as if I'm acting in accordance with some preordained plan. I'm simply behaving the way I know I ought to behave, doing what I have to do. As if I'm playing a role.

The silence hovers, heavy and ominous, among the trees until, suddenly, there's a rustling in the gra.s.s just a few feet away. I flinch and instinctively clench my fists. Then I catch sight of a hedgehog scurrying away as fast as its little legs can go. When I look up again, the gra.s.s in front of me no longer shows any sign of being pushed aside or trampled. There's no indication that a man and a little girl have gone this way. I spin around to look behind me. Then forward again. And off to the sides. But there's no trace of people having pa.s.sed this way, or even of my own path. I'm standing in a sea of tall gra.s.s. Silent and motionless, it surrounds me on all sides.

A wave of dizziness crashes over me, and I cover my eyes and stretch out one arm to keep my balance. Just as I take my hand away from my face and open my eyes, the last scarlet rays of the sun sink behind the treetops across the lake. I'm alone in an unfamiliar place, alone with the silence and the darkness that is now rapidly descending. I choose a direction at random and start moving through the inhospitable terrain.

A man and a little girl go ash.o.r.e on a small island and don't come back. What could have happened? I tell myself there could be any number of plausible explanations. Maybe they got caught up in a game and forgot all about the time, or maybe they simply . . . Frantically I try to come up with other possible scenarios. Perfectly natural reasons. Innocent and benign. But the problem is that none of them can explain why Alex and Smilla are still missing, and why they don't respond to my calls. I open my mouth to shout again, and I'm shocked at the hysteria I hear in my own voice.

As I stumble onward, I train my eyes on the ground and the trees. My feet move faster, and my movements become more disjointed. I proceed aimlessly, no longer aware in which direction I'm going or where I've come from. I'm so stressed that I can't orient myself properly. Nowhere do I see any trace of human life. A sob rises from my chest. Smilla!

At that instant, I catch sight of something. I stop, noticing a trembling that spreads through my whole body. I see a rock a couple of yards up ahead. And then, a short distance from there, something else. A dark object. Even though I don't immediately understand what I'm looking at, I know with every fiber of my being it's not part of the vegetation. It belongs to a person. Slowly, filled with dread at what I might find, I approach and crouch down in the gra.s.s. It's a single black shoe, tattered and worn. The tiny holes that once held shoelaces now gape. The tension in my chest eases a bit: I've never seen this shoe before. It doesn't belong to Alex or Smilla. That much I know. Not understanding why, I hold out my hand, sensing how it's slowly but surely being sucked down toward the shoe. As if my fingers are being controlled by some outside force, a force rising up from the ground beneath my feet.

With a gasp, I jerk my hand back and stand up. What are these strange ideas and notions that keep creeping into my mind? Remnants of Alex's ghost stories must be lingering in my consciousness. The stories about Lake Malice and its malevolent powers. Briskly I continue on, reminding myself that those tales are nothing more than supernatural nonsense mixed with old superst.i.tions. Yet I can't help looking over my shoulder several times. My feet cut through the gra.s.s faster and faster until I'm practically jogging.

I weave between the tree trunks, their shadows growing deeper, their scraggly branches reaching for me like long, malevolent arms. Something grabs hold of me, twigs sc.r.a.pe at my scalp like claws, and I scream loudly, unable to stop myself. The sound of my own terror is too much for me. Thoughts spring into my mind and race wildly, no longer under my control, whipping up greater and greater waves of emotion inside me. I'm not going to find them. I'm never going to find them.

But then-at that very moment-something occurs to me. Make a phone call. If I can't find them, I need to call. Of course. That's the first thing to do when someone goes missing. Why didn't I think of that before? I slow down and, breathing hard, shove my hand in the pocket of my capris. Empty. I check the other pocket, but my cell phone isn't there either. Where could it be? Did I lose it somewhere on the island? Or did I leave it back in the boat? Fragments of memory slowly coalesce.

I didn't take my cell with me when we left the cabin. It was an impulsive decision to set off on this excursion, and I actually hadn't intended to go along. Yet I did. My chest tightens again, but this time it's not from straining to breathe. Again I look around, desperately trying to see a tiny sc.r.a.p of pale-pink fabric, a flutter of blond hair. But she's no longer here. I know that. I can feel it. I left my phone back at the cabin, probably in my purse. There's only one thing to do.

Yet it doesn't feel right. How can I leave the island without having found Alex and Smilla? How can I simply leave them to their fate? To their fate . . . There's something terrible about those words. This doesn't make sense. Something is wrong. Very wrong.

No! I push away the sinister whispering inside me and start walking faster. Once I get hold of my phone, everything will work out. I'll be able to call Alex, or he'll call me. Who knows, maybe he has already tried to reach me. I pick up the pace even more, ignoring how exhausted I feel. I need to get my hands on my phone ASAP. The only question is whether I'll be able to find my way back to the spot where we tied up the boat.

I take another step forward and I'm falling into the dark. The ground disappears from beneath me. At the last second I manage to stay on my feet, but my stomach lurches. When I calm down, I stand still for a long time, staring at the sight in front of me. It's the hill I came up. The hill that, from this direction, is more like a treacherous precipice. How could I be back here already? In my confused state I could hardly tell which way I'd been heading. But here it is. Below I can see the outline of the boat, rocking among the reeds as if nothing has happened. I stare at it with mixed emotions. Clearly Alex and Smilla aren't down there waiting for me, but at least the boat is still there. The next second it occurs to me what a strange thought that is. Why wouldn't the boat be there?

Something is nagging at me. A certain uneasiness. Or is it regret? If I could turn back time, do things differently, undo what was done . . . I shake off the feeling and once again glance over my shoulder. It's dark now, everything immersed in shadow. I picture two silhouettes, one tall and one short, emerging from the dim light and rus.h.i.+ng toward me with loud shouts and laughter. But no one is there. No one's coming.

A bird flutters past, so close that I think I can feel the rus.h.i.+ng of its wings. I glimpse the contours of a sleek body and a dagger-shaped beak. The loon dives for the water. For a moment I stare after it. Then I step over the edge.

3.

Somehow I manage to make my way back. I get the boat moving and go as fast as I can away from the island and across the lake to the slightly rickety dock. A large number of skiffs and small fibergla.s.s boats are already there, bobbing at their moorings, but all of them are empty. My hands are shaking and I can hardly make my fingers obey as I tie up the boat. My body feels stiff and tense and I'm breathing hard as I stumble up the narrow path leading away from the lake. A tree root sticking out of the ground makes me lose my balance and trip. The old pain in my thigh flares up, but I grit my teeth and keep going, keep climbing. The cabin is silently waiting, the last in the row of houses on the road. It's protected from view by a hedge of arborvitae on one side and a steep mountain wall on the other. The key is right where we left it, under the front steps.

My fingers are ice cold as I fumble with the key. I have to take several deep breaths before I succeed in unlocking the door. Just as I'm about to close the door behind me, I see a furry creature slink past my legs and into the cabin. I hear a furious meowing, as if Tirith has been waiting ages to come inside and wants to tell me how indignant he is at such neglect. Paying no attention to the cat and not bothering to take off my shoes, I rush inside to turn on the lights and check all the rooms, yelling as I go. I shout for Alex and Smilla, but no one answers. The cabin looks exactly the same as it did when we left. As if time has stood still inside while we've been gone. In the kitchen I see a pile of newspapers on the table, next to a dirty yogurt bowl. Smilla's Barbie dolls are scattered across the floor. When I think about how she was sitting in this very spot, playing with the dolls earlier in the day, the tight feeling in my chest gets worse.

Then I notice the mark on the floor. A single footprint. Dark and sticky, with a clear impression from the sole of a shoe. Did someone break into the cabin while we were gone? Has somebody been inside? Is it . . . ? I look up and feel the hairs rise on the back of my neck and along my forearms. Is someone here right now? Is somebody hiding under a bed or in a wardrobe, just waiting to attack me? An icy s.h.i.+ver races through me. Then I notice another footprint, and another. They're all coming from the same direction. From me.

I look down at my feet and catch sight of my pink sneakers-the shoes that I was in too much of a hurry to take off when I came inside. One shoe is still more or less decent-looking, but the other one is covered with brown splotches. I lift my foot and see how dirty the sole is. When I tentatively sniff at the air, a clammy smell fills my nostrils. Mud. I must have stepped in it somewhere. Then I remember slipping in something as I climbed the slope. Could it be mud from the island that is now tracked across the cabin floor? Mud from that island, the island where Alex and Smilla . . . Again I run my eyes over the footprints, as nausea takes hold. How could I leave the island without them?

A movement in the room catches my attention. Tirith is standing in front of me. The fur on his neck fluffs over the thin pink collar he's wearing. His tail swings slowly from side to side as he stares at me, his eyes narrowed. As if he's wondering what I'm doing here, alone, wearing a sweats.h.i.+rt that belongs to his master. We stare at each other. The cat's yellow eyes s.h.i.+ft to look at the footprints on the floor and then back up at me. I imagine that he's demanding an explanation. What do you mean, missing? How could they just disappear? I bury my head in my hands, stifling a scream. Thoughts whirl through my mind, sucking me into a perilous maelstrom.

Somehow I manage to get hold of myself. I picture myself from a distance, standing there, doing nothing, a defeated and pitiful figure in every way. Get a grip on yourself this minute!

"I have to call Alex," I say out loud, taking my hands away from my face. "That's why I came back."

I feel like I'm explaining things to both the cat and myself. The words-spoken firmly and clearly-are my defense against the silent and treacherous thoughts. Those thoughts are not trustworthy. If I allow them to take charge I'll end up plunging into the dark. If I look up and try to take in the whole picture, fear will paralyze me. It's important to look at one detail at a time, to focus on one thing at a time. That's the only way I can hold on to my sanity.

There's no landline in the cabin, so the first thing I need to do is find my cell phone. I take off my shoes and carry them back to the front entryway. Wiping up the floor will have to wait. Resolutely I head for the bedroom at the end of the hall.

The room that belongs to Alex and me is dominated by a big double bed. My heart lurches when I think about the last time we were in that bed together. With an effort I manage to quell the dizziness and calm the anxious fluttering in my stomach.

Everything is nice and tidy on Alex's side of the room. His clothes are hanging in the wardrobe or neatly folded and stowed in the dresser drawers. He has even made the bed on his side. The side where he usually sleeps. Where he slept last night. But where is he now? My side of the mattress is covered with summer dresses, jeans, and tops. My purse is on the bedside chair along with a pile of paperbacks and two lipsticks. Draped over the back is my lacy red bra, the one I bought when we decided to go on this trip. That was the same day I bought Alex the black silk tie. I swallow hard, an almost reflexive action. Don't think about that now. Don't think at all. Just focus on doing what has to be done.

Quickly I rummage through my purse, turning all the pockets inside out, and finally turning the whole thing upside down. But no cell phone falls out. How strange. Where could it be? I hurry back to the kitchen. Tirith darts past, heading for his bowl, hoping I'll feed him. He circles it a few times, then sits down in disappointment and licks his lips.

"Everything's going to be fine, I just have to find . . ."

I keep chattering-mostly to calm myself down-as I rush around the kitchen, sweeping the newspapers aside and moving the dirty dishes on the table. I check under Smilla's Barbie dolls, behind the coffeemaker, and on the shelf above the stove. No cell phone. I even open the fridge and scan the shelves inside before heading to the living room.

As I search the room, I imagine what I'll say to Alex. What our conversation might be like. And how he'll laugh when I call him.

You'll never guess what happened!

I can almost hear him telling me how he and Smilla disappeared. Giving me an absurd and yet completely natural explanation. Because there must be some explanation, there has to be. The only problem is that right now I can't for the life of me imagine what it might be. This is crazy. That's the thought that crosses my mind as I run my hands over the springs under the sofa cus.h.i.+ons. They're gone. But it's not possible to simply disappear like that. Not from an island.

I tear open the curtains to look on all the windowsills. In my hurry I knock over a little gla.s.s figurine. I see it tumble through the air as if in slow motion, hit the floor, and shatter into a thousand pieces. The rational and focused approach that I've fought so hard to maintain slowly slips away. Desperation is nipping at me from all sides. A shrill ringing in my ears propels me back to the bedroom. Again I rummage through my purse but find nothing. Feverishly I toss aside the clothes on the bed, along with the books and the lipsticks on the chair. My phone's not there.

So I run over to Smilla's room and ransack all her belongings too. Dolls and teddy bears, activity books, and stickers. I move fast, my actions bordering on manic. I know that I'm looking for something, but by now I've forgotten what it is. All I can think about is Smilla. Sweet little Smilla. My thoughts are whirling, running wild. I lose control and feel myself drawn helplessly down into the vortex I was fighting to avoid. Missing. They're missing. But that's impossible! A grown man and a four-year-old girl can't just get swallowed up by the earth.

No, not by the earth, but by the lake, by the water that is laced with evil.

People have disappeared, blood has been spilled. Alex's words echo in my head, panic races up my spine.

Out of the corner of my eye I see something move, followed by a loud bang. I spin on my heel and yell. The sound of hundreds of tiny beads rolling across the floor fills my ears, and at the same moment I catch sight of Tirith. My shout makes him freeze midstride. He looks both alarmed and guilty. As silence returns to the room, his gaze s.h.i.+fts from me to the jar of beads that has toppled over. He must have followed me in here, padding soundlessly into the room. Maybe he mistook my search for some sort of game and wanted to play too. Maybe he knocked Smilla's jar of beads off the shelf by accident.

I fan out the fingers of one hand and press them to my chest as I take several deep breaths. Then I reach out my other hand toward the cat. After a brief hesitation, he approaches. I stroke his back slowly, steadily. An attempt to calm both of us. He rubs against me, and on impulse I pick him up in my arms, pressing his warm body close. Hot tears fill my eyes, and my vision blurs. A sob rises in my throat and spills from my lips.

"She'll come back," I whisper. "You'll see. She'll be back soon."

I can hear how phony those words sound. And it's obvious I don't believe them myself. Does the cat notice too? I bury my face in Tirith's fur and hear him start to purr. When I lift my head, he narrows his eyes and pokes his nose toward me. Then he licks my cheeks, running his rough tongue over my face. As if he wants to console and encourage me. We sit like that for a while until he slips out of my grasp and onto the floor, where he begins grooming himself. I get up and go back to the living room, my hands clenched at my sides. Where is that d.a.m.n cell phone? I need to find it now! If only I could get hold of Alex, everything would be fine. Not if, I instantly correct myself. When. When I get hold of him.

I search the living room again, looking in every conceivable spot, every nook and cranny, both around and underneath all the furniture. But the phone seems to have vanished into thin air. My pulse is pounding in my ears. All I want to do is scream hysterically. Then I hear a sound and freeze. A second pa.s.ses, then I hear it again. The muted and distant but unmistakable sound of a phone ringing. My phone. It sounds like it's coming from the bedrooms. I run, or rather stumble, back down the hall, stopping outside the bedrooms. I stand still, my heart hammering, and listen for the next ring. Don't let it switch to voice mail! I can't let that happen!

It rings again, clearly coming from the bedroom I share with Alex, from the bed itself. I rush inside. Strangely enough, the sound is coming from Alex's side. I grab the duvet he spread so neatly and yank it off. I'm staring at an object lying on top of the smooth white sheet. My cell phone. Hidden under the duvet on Alex's fastidiously neat side of the bed.

I can't understand how it ended up there, but I can't waste any more time thinking about that. The phone lights up and rings again. Fumbling, I pick up the phone and stare at the display. An all-too-familiar number. Not now! I don't know why I take the call. All I know is that, as I answer, I shut my eyes tight.

4.

It's my mother. She's breathing hard, and my stomach clenches with the constant, nagging dread from my childhood. Did something happen? It only lasts a moment. That calamity has already occurred, it took place a long time ago. There could be any number of reasons for Mama's rapid breathing. Maybe she just came in from her evening walk, although I don't know whether she's still fond of taking walks. And I don't care. I think about Alex. About the fact that by this time he might have left a message on my voice mail. Maybe he's trying to call me at this very second.