The Missing. Part 11

I never thought I had it in me. Until now. No, I really didn't. But now . . . Nothing is the same. Not even me. Especially me. Who knows what I do or don't have in me? To kill someone. I didn't think I was capable of that. But maybe I was wrong. Behind the shed is an old oar. I go over and get it. Then I knock on the door.

36.

When I come to, I'm lying stretched out on a hard surface. My head aches, but in a different way from before. The pain is much more intense and focused on one side, and my scalp feels tender.

I instinctively want to reach up to touch my head, but I can't. My hands are bound, lying on my chest. With a sharp yank, I try again. The motion sends a surge of pain into my shoulder, as if it's being slashed by dozens of sharp knives. It hurts so much I almost faint.

I hear a sc.r.a.ping noise nearby. A shadow is moving on the periphery of my vision, and I can make out a low murmuring sound. Gradually, images of what happened before the world went black return. The woman outside. Her scream. The oar in her hand.

Again I move my wrists, but this time more carefully. I can feel the rope tied around them. My vision is blurry, and I'm having a hard time moving or s.h.i.+fting position. With an enormous effort, resulting in more searing pain, I turn my head so I can see more of the room. Where am I? Soon I've connected the hard surface with the closest objects in my line of sight: the lower part of a sofa and the legs of a coffee table. We're still in the cabin. I'm lying on the rug in the living room. She must have dragged me in here when I pa.s.sed out. The tenderness on my scalp makes me think she dragged me by my hair.

Hesitantly, I move my legs, not surprised to find that they too are tied. I close my eyes again, feel the pain throbbing in my head and shoulder. A lethargy bordering on surrender spreads through my body. Even if I wasn't bound, I probably couldn't move, much less get up and flee. There's nothing I can do. Nothing except wait and see what happens.

The sound of cupboards being opened and closed in the kitchen reaches my ears. A hissing noise, then the clinking of gla.s.s striking gla.s.s, and after that, the sound of liquid pouring. Firm footsteps approaching.

"Here," says a stern voice. "Drink this."

I force my eyes open, and at first I have a hard time focusing. Then I glimpse a gla.s.s held out to me. The hand holding the gla.s.s is thin and pale. The same hand that once closed around my wrist and held me back, forcing me to listen. Next time you encounter an overwhelming or surprising situation, the pattern will repeat itself. Things are going to get worse for you. And you risk being knocked off balance. In the worst-case scenario, that sort of state of mind could have very unfortunate consequences. For you, or for those close to you. My former psychologist. And Smilla's mother. They're the same person. The faceless wife, the woman in the wings who had never seemed more real to me than a cardboard figure. It's her. The whole time, it was her. It doesn't seem possible. It's crazy. But that's how it is.

Even if I'd wanted to take the gla.s.s, I couldn't. The woman grunts impatiently, as if it's my fault that I'm tied up. She sets the gla.s.s down, seems to realize that I'll need some help to drink. She grabs me under the arms and harshly pulls me into a sitting position. I scream from the pain in my shoulder, but it doesn't faze her.

She props me up against the sofa, poking at me until my body seems to achieve some semblance of balance. Like I'm a sack of potatoes. An inanimate object. Then she holds the gla.s.s to my lips.

"Come on, drink this."

My throat is parched from thirst, and I obey, opening my mouth and taking a big swig. I feel a burning in my throat and instantly realize my mistake. Why would she give me liquor? I reflexively turn my head away from the gla.s.s and spit in disgust, trying to get rid of every last drop.

"What . . . why . . . ?"

My tongue feels dry and swollen, and I can't control it. But the disjointed words I utter seem to set her off.

"I know all about you two. Alex told me. I even know about the baby. A baby. You're expecting his child. You must realize that's something I simply can't accept."

She leans closer, and I catch a whiff of shampoo. A sweet, floral scent. Like Smilla. She smells exactly like Smilla.

"All right. Now drink the rest."

Her words ricochet off the walls as she holds the gla.s.s out to me. I look her in the eyes. They're light blue, the pupils small and piercing. Were they like that back then? When she sat across from me in her armchair and patiently listened to my evasive accounts of what might be really bothering me? Every question I asked was countered with another question. She never told me a thing about herself. Now she's sitting in front of me again, the same woman, and yet she's infinitely different from the one I knew back then.

A baby. You're expecting his child. I simply can't accept that. She doesn't intend to get me drunk. She's planning something else. We stare at each other. The hatred radiating from her is so intense that it's almost palpable. Did she possess that hatred back then? Concealed beneath the calm facade?

"You are . . . ," I venture hoa.r.s.ely. "You said . . ."

Recognition. Everything depends on recognition. In spite of my dazed condition, I realize that I somehow have to get her to remember me. To see me, not just as the woman with whom her husband has committed adultery, but as a former client. Someone she had a professional relations.h.i.+p with, even a certain responsibility for. If I can just make her realize who I am, she won't be able to hurt me. Or the child inside me. I take a breath, tense my vocal cords, and find my voice.

"Psychologist. You're a psychologist."

Her face remains impa.s.sive. She doesn't even blink.

"Don't you remember me? I was-"

"Shut up and drink."

And suddenly I understand that she already knows. She recognizes me, knows full well who I am. But it doesn't matter. It's just an unlucky coincidence and has no bearing on her plans.

I slump, feel one side of my body slide a bit toward the floor. I want nothing more than to erase from my memory everything Alex ever said and did, everything that was us. And I want to do it this minute. I have no patience to wait. I want to rip him from my skin like a stubborn Band-Aid, not caring whether it's painful or whether the adhesive takes a piece of me with it. A piece of me . . . I swallow hard. What he left inside my body-if it's allowed to grow and live-is what truly has the power to remind me of him for all eternity. And yet. Slowly, very slowly, I move my head from left to right. No, I won't do it.

Hard fingers grab my chin and force my lips open. Before I understand what's happening, the liquid in the gla.s.s starts pouring down my throat. I can't breathe and have to swallow in order to get air. My eyes fill with tears, from pain and panic. My thoughts are whirling. The life growing inside me-I can't let her harm it. I fling my head so hard my chin strikes the edge of the gla.s.s and knocks it out of her hand. Then everything happens all at once.

My maneuver sends the pain shooting through my shoulder again, metallic and hard. What's left in the gla.s.s runs down my chest, soaking through my T-s.h.i.+rt. The alcohol stings as it spreads across my skin. At the same time, a hand slams against my cheek with a resounding slap, making my already-abused head feel like it's going to explode.

"Okay," she says. "Then we'll have to do it the other way."

Again she grabs me and more or less throws me onto my back on the floor. My torso lands with a smack. Blazing spears of pain pierce my head and shoulder. My vision splinters into scores of s.h.i.+mmering prisms, then slowly darkens around the edges. Somehow I have to stay conscious. I can't faint. That's all I'm thinking about.

I sense that she's moving away from me, heading for the front door. And suddenly, another thought occurs to me. The ax. If she finds the ax, it's all over. I whimper. Somehow I need to get up and defend myself, fight for my life. But I can't bring myself to move. Can't even roll onto my side. So let's get it over with, I think.

She slams the front door behind her. I don't hear a key turn in the lock, but it doesn't matter. I'll never get up off this floor. Darkness is creeping in. I look up at the ceiling again and pa.s.s out.

37.

Stomping footsteps. Someone muttering about gasoline. "I'm sure there was a can out in the shed." Then I hear Mama's voice. Surprised and wary at first, then worried and upset. Then it stops, abruptly, midsentence. Minutes pa.s.s. Again I lose track of time. Then my eyelids flutter open, and I glimpse a familiar outline. She's sitting some distance away from me, very still. Mama! You found me, you came! That's what I want to shout, but my voice refuses to obey. Somehow, I manage to move enough to draw my mother's attention. She gasps, leans forward. Her whole being emanates concern.

"Greta," she says. "I'm here now. Are you okay?"

Is she tied up too? Is that why she doesn't rush to my side? My lips form words, but nothing comes out.

"Please," my mother begs, turning her head. "Let me go to my daughter and see how she is."

"So she's your daughter?"

The voice drips with scorn. I wrench my gaze in the direction my mother is looking and see her. She's leaning against the wall, no more than a couple of feet from the chair where my mother is sitting. Long blond hair falls over her face in profile. A blue, flowered summer dress and a light cardigan. Ordinary, commonplace. She'd look like any other woman if not for the long black object in her hand. As soon as I realize what it is, my spirits, which had leaped at my mother's presence, sink again. She found the ax. The one I bought to defend myself. Now it's easy to see why Mama doesn't dare move without permission.

"Let me go to her."

The psychologist feverishly runs her hand through her hair. When her fingers get caught in a tangle, she yanks hard several times until she pulls free. Her movements are erratic, and she seems confused, uncertain. Not at all like when it was just the two of us.

"Why should I?"

When she came to the cabin, I was alone, as she'd expected. Mama's arrival must have caught her by surprise.

"Do you have children?" Mama asks without the slightest quaver in her voice. "If you do, I know you understand."

Silence for a moment. The psychologist seems to be deliberating with herself. Finally, she waves the ax in front of Mama's face.

"Okay, but remember-I've got this. If you try anything, I won't hesitate to use it."

The next second, Mama is kneeling at my side.

"Sweetheart. What have you gotten yourself into?"

Gently, she takes my face in her hands, moving her cool fingers over my cheeks and down to my throat. She can't help grimacing, and I think to myself that she must see it. The mark from Alex's tie. How should I answer her question? Then I remember the branches that scratched at my face in the woods, and the cut above my eyebrow, and the oar that slammed into the side of my head and shoulder. I think about the liquor that spilled over my chest, about the tenderness on my scalp, and my bound hands and feet. A three-day-old bruise is probably the least disturbing thing about my appearance right now. Mama leans close, as if to kiss my cheek. Instead, I hear her whisper in my ear.

"I didn't know she was here. She attacked me, took my purse and my phone, the minute I . . ."

Quick footsteps approach. Mama is yanked up. As she's led away, I hear her pleading, "From one mother to another. All those bruises and cuts . . . My daughter really needs me right now. And she has a high fever. She's burning up. At least let me give her some water."

The talk of water makes me painfully aware of my parched throat. My head feels like it's on fire. I need to get something to drink soon. I really do. But the psychologist's patience has apparently run out, along with her uncertainty about taking action. Brusquely, she shoves my mother back into the chair where she was sitting before.

"I don't have to do anything," she says coldly. "The only thing I need to do is finish this."

She leans over Mama to do something, but I can't tell what it is.

"You don't need to tie me up," Mama says quietly. "Even if I did manage to untie Greta, she's in no shape to go anywhere. And I'm not going to try to escape. I'm not leaving this cabin without my daughter."

The psychologist pauses for a moment. I can see from her back that she's hesitating. Then she shrugs and stops what she was doing.

"You shouldn't have come here," she mutters. "I don't intend to leave any witnesses."

Finish this. Witnesses. A s.h.i.+ver ripples through my body. Alarmed, I try to move. I feel the rope biting into my wrists.

"What exactly are you planning to do?"

Mama's question goes unanswered. There is a stiff quality to the psychologist's body language. She holds the ax tightly in both hands. My eyes are fixed on my mother's face. On her upper lip, where tiny beads of sweat have formed. For a long moment, no one speaks. Then Mama slowly stretches out her hand toward the ax.

"Give it to me," she says. "Give it to me so you don't do something you'll regret."

It's that tone of voice, controlled and authoritative, that I know so well. I feel a p.r.i.c.kling under my skin when I hear it. No, Mama, don't. Don't do it.

"You don't want to do this," Mama continues coaxing. "Not really."

"Be quiet."

The psychologist steps to the side, blocking my view. I can't see my mother's face anymore. I can only hear her voice.

"I think that deep inside you're a smart and sensible woman. You're extremely angry right now. You know you can't harm Greta. You know it wouldn't be right."

Dread is swelling into a howl inside of me. A tiny muscle in the psychologist's jaw is pulsing. Don't you see it, Mama? Don't you understand?

"Shut up and sit still."

But Mama doesn't do as she's told. She gets up so that she's standing face-to-face with the woman, both of them the same height.

"Let me tell you about my daughter."

"I'm warning you."

"Because if you knew Greta the way I do, if you knew what she's like, you'd never be able to harm her."

Something in Mama's voice touches me, and the dread gives way to something new. But that lasts only a moment. Then the psychologist raises her voice. Her hand jabs out, and as she shoves Mama to the floor, she screams so loud it makes my ears ring.

"I do know. I know exactly what your daughter is. She's a wh.o.r.e and a murderer!"

She spins around, moving so fast that her blond hair whips through the air. She fixes her smoldering gaze on me. Lifts the ax. And lunges forward.

38.

I must have closed my eyes, because for a moment the world went black. Then I hear a scream, and I open my eyes. A few feet away, Mama is lying on the floor, one arm stretched toward me. Standing between us, next to the coffee table, is the psychologist. Her arms go up and then come down. The ax plunges with terrible ferocity through the air and strikes its target, chopping it in two. The table protests with a loud creaking that is swiftly and mercilessly silenced when it splits in half after she's repeatedly hit it. Instinctively, I turn away to protect my face and the front of my body. With unseeing eyes, I stare under the sofa, listening to the butchering of the table going on behind my back. Something hard hits my hip, and a dry, lifeless tile comes flying and lands on my face, which is covered with cold sweat.

After what seems like an eternity, I no longer hear the sound of the ax whistling through the air or the wood shattering to pieces. For a few long moments, I don't dare turn around, afraid of what I'll find. But finally, I cautiously roll over to face the room. The object on my hip falls to the floor and rolls away. It's one of the table legs. The remains of the coffee table are scattered all over the living room, in pieces big and small.

Mama is still lying on the rug. She has her hands over her ears, and she's whimpering quietly. The officious expression and sensible tone of voice have vanished. Her controlled facade has cracked, the protective armor has been stripped away. Now she is simply herself. Simply my mother. The psychologist sinks to her knees in front of her and pulls my mother's hands away from her ears.

"Now it's your turn to listen as I tell you a little about your beloved daughter. Do you know that she seduced a married man, a family man? My husband, Smilla's father."

My mother peers over the woman's shoulder to look at me. Beneath the fear, I read the agonizing questions in her eyes as clearly as if she'd spoken them aloud. So this is the woman who . . . ? It's her husband you've . . . ? And the child you're carrying . . . ? I look away, as pain and exhaustion take over again.

The psychologist sits cross-legged on the rug, piling up pieces of the broken table. She moves mechanically. Her hair is tucked behind her ears, leaving her face visible and un.o.bstructed. My vision is sharper now, and I see her clearly, noting the tense features, and the dark smudges under her eyes. I see you. I mean, I really see you. I truly do. And I want you to know that. Did he once say the same things to her? Was that how it started for her too?

"The part about your husband . . ."

Mama's voice is faint, wheezing. She leaves the sentence unfinished. Instead, she starts from a different angle.

"But murderer . . . I don't understand why you'd say that . . . What do you mean?"

The psychologist doesn't seem worried about having her back to Mama. And in spite of what just happened, the woman doesn't seem to have reconsidered her decision not to tie her up. I suddenly realize why. She knows she's holding the trump card, that as soon as she replies, the final blow will be delivered, rendering my mother helpless.

"Several years ago, before all this happened, your daughter was one of my clients. She came only a few times, but she told me . . . Well, let me put it this way: I know about your dirty little secret. That your daughter pushed her father, your husband, out the window. That she killed him."

Silence falls like a lid over the room. For a long time, I can't bring myself to look at my mother. But finally I have to, of course. She's lying on her side, looking up at the ceiling, with her lips parted. I can't take my eyes off her face. It looks like it's been smashed to smithereens, and then somebody put the pieces back in all the wrong places. I haven't seen that expression in years. Not since that night. Then her gaze slides across the ceiling, down the wall, down to meet my own.