The Missing. Part 12

"You told her? I thought we promised each other never to tell anyone what happened."

For the first time in ages, I see something small and pitiful in her eyes. Something helpless.

"Mama. Please. I was eight years old."

Maybe I say it out loud, maybe I only think the words. I'm not sure, because of the pain and feverish chills. Mama's gaze clouds and turns inward. She slips away from me, inside herself.

"Yes, of course." At least that's what I think she murmurs. "Of course."

The psychologist keeps working, with great concentration, moving quickly. After a while, she turns to the magazine rack and pulls out a stack of newspapers. She tears them up with the same ferocity with which she attacked the coffee table. Then she places some of the torn pages under the piled-up pieces of wood, others on top. The ax is lying in her lap as she sits there cross-legged.

With a start, I realize what she's doing. She's building a fire.

A tiny swirl of nausea rises in my stomach. So that's her plan. To light a fire here on the floor. To dash out as soon as the flames take hold and blockade the front door. She probably already closed and locked all the windows while I was out cold.

I won't be able to get out once the fire starts. Even if I could stand up and stagger to the door, the woman wouldn't allow me to escape the flames. She's going to do everything she can to make sure I stay inside the cabin until it's totally engulfed. By that time, it will all be over, of course. How long does it take for a room to fill with smoke, for all the oxygen to be used up? No more than a few minutes.

I turn my head to the side, open my mouth, and let the vomit pour out. I feel like I'm falling, sinking. There's no hope of rescue.

If only my mother could escape. She really shouldn't have been here. She has nothing to do with any of this. Out of the corner of my eye, I see her slowly prop herself up on her elbow and move into a sitting position. Even though we're in the same room, her voice sounds far away, like it's coming from a great distance.

"I know exactly how you feel."

I'm not the one she's talking to. The psychologist stops and turns to look over her shoulder at my mother. Something flickers across her face. A tiny trace of hesitation. Then she goes back to what she was doing. She studies the tables and shelves, finds what she's looking for. A lighter. She gets up, grabs it, and comes back to the pile of wood on the floor.

"In most cases," my mother says, "I suppose people lie and try to hide their affairs. But not my husband. He enjoyed throwing them in my face, using them as a weapon when we argued. The simple truth is that he enjoyed hurting me."

Mama is staring straight ahead. Her hair is in disarray, and her blouse is wrinkled, but she pays no attention to her appearance. Her words sound naked, entirely earnest. The psychologist's hands are still moving, but am I right in thinking they've slowed down? Like she's waiting for something? Mama goes on, still not looking at either of us.

"During our years together, he cheated on me constantly. There were always new women. I often dreamed about taking revenge. About scratching someone's face to shreds. Grabbing some woman by her long hair and banging her skull against the ground. Destroying her. But later, I realized . . ."

The psychologist's hands are shaking now. She fumbles with the lighter, not making any real attempt to produce a flame. Her long hair is hanging in front of her face, hiding her eyes. Several seconds pa.s.s.

A muted voice says from under the blond mane: "What did you realize?"

"That I was pointing my revenge fantasies in the wrong direction. That those women had nothing to do with it. That he was the one who had chosen to ruin the life we shared. He was the one who was destroying our life."

I squeeze my eyes shut. Wanting and yet not wanting to listen. If Mama doesn't stop, if she tells everything . . . Emotions are turning me inside out, growing so strong that I'm about to throw up again.

The psychologist's thumb is moving up and down, flicking the lighter, but then letting it go out. She does this over and over.

"This is what he wants," she says at last, almost defiantly. "He told me to."

So Alex knows she's here, knows about her plan. Not only does he know, he's ordered it. He wants her to get rid of me. The room spins. I feel his hand on my cheek, the pat he gave me the morning when I told him I was going to leave. No, you won't. And I hear his voice on the phone when he finally called. I wanted to give you a chance to come to your senses. It's as simple as that. Make you realize that you can't live without me. Realize that I can't live without him. This was what he meant. Literally.

"I understand. And is he a good father? Will he be able to compensate for your absence while your daughter-Smilla is her name, right?-while Smilla is growing up?"

Mama's voice is almost unnaturally calm. The psychologist frowns.

"What do you mean?"

Slowly, my mother scoots forward, closer to the other woman. Involuntarily, I clench my hands. The rope resists, chafing against my skin. The ax, Mama, you have to take the ax away from her. But my mother doesn't lunge forward. Her reason for moving across the floor seems to be so she can look the woman in the eye. Force her to look up from the lighter and meet her gaze.

"Murder or arson. Both are very serious crimes. You'll get a long prison sentence. Maybe life. I a.s.sume you've thought of that. And he has too. He must have taken that into consideration when he asked you to do this."

Silence again. For a long time.

I feel a burning sensation on my face, and when I look up, I discover that the psychologist is staring at me. Clutching the lighter, she points her finger. Those piercing blue eyes bore into me, but she addresses her words to my mother.

"You stood by and watched your daughter kill your husband. Then you protected her, let everyone think it was an accident."

Mama takes a deep breath, and I realize she is mustering her courage, trying to steady her voice.

"Is that what Greta told you? Is that what she said happened?"

The psychologist brushes back her hair and juts out her chin.

"No. Not in so many words. She didn't dare confess, when it came down to it."

She utters a joyless laugh.

"It escapes me. That's all she said. I remember it so well. She was obviously lying. Anyone would remember something like that."

Mama doesn't answer, just nods, as if to herself. Then she gets up from the floor, staggers the rest of the way over to the psychologist, and stands right next to her.

"That's not what happened. Not really."

She pauses for a moment, then kneels down again, leaning close to the woman. So close that they almost b.u.mp noses.

"I think you know what really happened. And why things had to turn out the way they did."

I close my eyes. Time stands still. Silence is all that exists. Mama's words hang ominously in the stifling air. Are they still looking at each other? If so, what do they see in each other's eyes? My tongue feels dry and swollen in my mouth. My shoulder and head are pounding, just like the excruciating pounding of my heart.

After a minute, I hear footsteps approaching, sense someone squatting down next to me. Cautious fingertips stroke my cheek, and when I open my eyes and look up, Mama's face is hovering above me. She smiles faintly.

"You poor thing," she says. "All these years. And now this."

Without hesitation, she leans down to untie the rope around my wrists. I expect the psychologist to stop her. I expect to see her come rus.h.i.+ng over with the ax, yelling threats. But that doesn't happen. After Mama manages to pull off the rope binding my hands, she turns her attention to my ankles. As she tugs and pulls at the knots, I cast a surrept.i.tious glance at the psychologist. She's sitting motionless on the rug, in front of the unlit pile of wood, her eyes locked on the lighter in her hand. After freeing me, Mama gets up with a m.u.f.fled groan. Then she stands there, breathing hard for a moment before she again turns to the woman in the middle of the room.

"I'm going to the kitchen to get my daughter a gla.s.s of water. When I come back, I'll tell you a story if you like, a story about mothers and daughters and what can happen to deceitful husbands. But you'll have to put that down."

Then she goes out of the room, leaving me alone with the psychologist. I feel my body stiffen. But the other woman doesn't move. She doesn't even glance in my direction. She's just sitting there, holding the lighter between her thumb and index finger. I hear my mother moving around in the kitchen. I hear her turn the faucet on, then off. And then she's back, carrying a big gla.s.s of water in her hand. She pulls me up into a partially seated position, with one arm around my back, and helps me drink. The feeling of cool water running down my parched throat is so exquisite it makes me giddy, and for a moment I forget all else.

After I empty the gla.s.s, Mama sets it on the end table. Then she turns to the psychologist. I follow her gaze, see the other woman hesitate briefly before she tosses the lighter aside. Mama goes over and picks it up.

"The ax too," she says. "I can't talk with that thing in the room."

Without a word, the psychologist picks up the ax lying next to her on the floor. She stands up, weighing it in her hand. For a moment, it looks like she might actually comply, but then she changes her mind. The ax will stay. She makes do with lifting the nearest corner of the rug and sticking the ax underneath. Then she sits down in an armchair and wraps her arms around her torso without looking at either of us.

"Go ahead and tell your story," she says. "Then we'll see."

Mama takes a deep breath. She sinks down on the sofa behind me.

"Okay," she says after a long pause. "I'm going to tell you what really happened on a late September night long ago."

I can't see her face from where I'm sitting on the floor. I realize that's the way she wants it.

39.

Unlike Greta, I remember every detail from that night. Like the fact that I was freezing, but didn't ask him to close the window. The cigarette in his hand, the reddish glow that flared every time he took a puff. I even remember how the cigarette paper disintegrated. And I remember what he said. Every single word.

What was left of the amber-colored liquid in his gla.s.s sloshed back and forth when he lashed out at me. It was his modus operandi, of course. The best defense and all that. That was his motto. Whatever I confronted him with, what I'd seen or heard or realized, was always handled the same way. He neither confessed nor denied. Nor did he apologize or beg forgiveness. Instead, he turned scornful and mocking, launching a counterattack and letting me know what a disgusting person I was. And even more disgusting as a woman. So repulsive that I made his d.i.c.k shrivel up. Ugly enough to stop a clock. Finicky and complaining. A real c.u.n.t.

I used to think I was putting up a good fight. That I was strong. That he needed me even though he didn't realize it. I convinced myself I was the same person with him as I was at my job, with my friends, out in the world. Someone who refused to be provoked or humiliated. That worked relatively well. Until he knocked my legs out from under me once again. c.u.n.t. I don't know why that particular term had such an effect on me. I only know that when he hurled it, I lost everything-my voice, my balance, my composure.

It was as if he'd torn off all my clothes to expose my nakedness. As if he'd pried my ribs apart and stuck in his fist and rummaged around until he found the scared little jellylike lump that was the real me. He held up that lump between us, forced me to look at it. Then he forced me to acknowledge what he already knew, what he'd claimed all along: that no matter how hard I tried to fool myself and the rest of the world into thinking that I was smart and special, deep inside I was nothing but a pitiful, colorless, trembling little lump. That's all.

Outwardly, I did everything in my power to maintain the facade. Not that I was afraid people would find out what he was really like, this man I'd married. No, I was afraid they'd discover me, that jellylike lump, underneath the competent, robust surface. Ruth was the only person who knew, who was allowed to see how fragile I was. I met her through my job. For a while, we worked in the same department, and when the agency reorganized, we stayed friends. By then, Ruth had become not only important but essential for me. With her steady and sensible nature, she was my lifeline. I trusted her implicitly.

But back to that night. Just when I thought the argument was over, as I was about to put on a sweater and go out for a walk in the neighborhood to calm down, something happened that would change everything.

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

His voice was sharp, his words as cold as the air outside the window. We stared at each other in silence. Out of the corner of my eye, I remember noticing a patch of white in the doorway, but I couldn't tear my eyes off his face. Shame opened a chasm in the floor beneath my feet, sucking me downward. But I was forced to pull myself together. I had to.

"What did Greta say?"

He took another drag on his cigarette, lifted his chin to blow the smoke high into the air, and then laughed.

"Greta? She didn't say anything. It's sick how f.u.c.king loyal she is to you."

"But then how . . . ? Who . . . ?"

The world stood still, and at the same time seemed to be whirling so fast. He stared at me for a long time, one eyebrow raised.

"Well. Who do you think?"

"There's only one person who knew, and she would never . . ."

Ruth would never betray me like that. That's what I meant, even though I didn't finish the sentence. He shrugged, that sneering smile still on his face. Stubbed out his cigarette. Settled himself more comfortably, with both legs drawn up in the bay window. He downed the rest of his drink, not saying a word, waiting.

I thought about Ruth. The expression on her face when I tried to explain what I'd done in her kitchen, when she listened to my pleas. Ruth, this has to stay between us, okay? You know what would happen if it got out at work. It would get blown out of proportion, turned into something that it's not. I would be the woman who hits her own child, and n.o.body would ever . . .

It's true that things had seemed more strained than usual between us since that night. But no one at work had found out, I was sure of that. I would have noticed. Ruth hadn't said anything to them. So why would she have told him? My husband, of all people? Out of concern for Greta? Because she worried I might hit her again? No, Ruth knew me better than that.

"But why?" I managed to say. "Why would she tell you about that?"

Maybe at that point part of me was aware of the little figure off to the side who had started to move and was coming closer. If so, I didn't really register it. I was no longer receptive to any outside input. Everything was drowned out by the answer he gave, the insinuating tone of his voice.

"Oh, come on. Isn't it obvious?"

And suddenly it was. My mind created a frame around what had taken place at Ruth's apartment on that night. A frame that contracted and focused, zeroing in on details I had naively overlooked. The fact that when Ruth opened her door, there was already something different about the way she greeted me. The tense look on her face when I told her about the naked woman in my living room. And the way she immediately got up from the kitchen table, turned her back to me, and began emptying the dishwasher. She said maybe I should have thought about that earlier on. I asked what she meant.

"You have a very charismatic husband," she said. "You knew what you were getting into when you married him."

Maybe I should have paid more attention to what she said. It was so unlike Ruth. Maybe I should have had a stronger or different reaction. But at that moment, Greta came into the kitchen, wanting to go home. Everything was chaos inside me. Frustration, despair. And then she flung that word in my face, my own daughter. One thing led to another. My hand flew through the air, landing on my child's cheek. So fast. Everything happened so fast. Just as it did that night three months later.

I didn't simply walk over to him, I rushed at him. Holding my palms out in front of me. I slammed them against his chest and the side of his body as hard as I could. I saw the surprise in his eyes, how his face contorted as he plummeted through the open window. He'd never expected anything like that. I'd caught him off guard.

Suddenly, Greta was there, next to me. She reached out through the open window, but it was too late. He'd already been swallowed up by the dark. Maybe their eyes met one last time, father and daughter. Maybe they didn't.

Afterward, I spent a full night and day lying on the bed alone, with the door closed, cut off from my daughter. People spoke to me, but I had no words to offer in response. At first, all I had were screams and tears, which I'd kept so firmly at bay before. Later, when my body had emptied itself out, silence settled over me. It took twenty-four hours before I could muster enough strength to get out of bed. Twenty-four hours before I could make myself look into the eyes of my eight-year-old daughter. I took her in my arms, feeling how she huddled close as I whispered in her ear. I whispered that it was over now, that we would move on, stay together, and that she could count on me.

I said all that. But I didn't ask her for forgiveness. As soon as I went into her room and met her eye as she sat there on the floor, I knew it would be impossible. She would never forgive me.

Twenty-three years later, we never speak of what happened. And I don't need to ask what I took from her. Or what sort of person I became. For that, she has still not forgiven me.

40.

Tears spill out from my closed eyes and run down my face, hot with fever. They refused to let me see Papa afterward. I'm not sure I would have wanted to see him, but it wasn't something they even considered. It was simply out of the question. That told me he must have been terribly battered. I imagined his crushed skull, cheekbones and nose smashed in so that nothing remained of his face but mangled flesh. It was too much to take, so I decided early on to think about it as little as possible. Preferably not at all. Instead, I created other images. The same way I created other explanations. It escapes me.

Mama's words have dispelled the fog. Exposed what I've worked to repress. Exposed the wedge that was driven between us that night, and the divide that has grown over the years. But her confession isn't the only thing overwhelming me. There's something else.

A hand reaches out from behind to rest on my shoulder. I want to touch it, but I can't. I blame the numbness in my limbs, but I'm not sure that's the whole explanation.

"I'm so sorry, Greta. For hitting you that time. And afterward . . . for shutting you out, leaving you alone so long. That was a terrible thing to do. Unforgivable. But I hope you'll be able to . . . I . . . I'm so sorry. I don't think I've ever said that properly."

Tears are still coursing down my face, slowly, quietly, as old, frozen emotions dissolve and ebb away. Tears of sorrow and anger, but also of shame. I missed my father, grieved for him so fiercely my whole body ached. And yet. Life after him, without him, was so much easier. Calmer. No moods, no nightly arguments. Mama was nicer. And happier. It was a relief. And I'm ashamed to admit it.

Mama's hand first squeezes, then caresses, my shoulder. She gets up and asks the psychologist where the bathroom is. When she comes back, she has refilled the water gla.s.s for me. In her other hand, she's holding a damp washcloth. She kneels down and gently cleans my face, wiping away the blood and tears. I look at her hands. Those hands! The hands that . . . I close my eyes and see two hands, palms out, shoot through the air and shove a man's body so hard that he falls. The same thing I saw when I fixed my eyes on the water of Lake Malice. Except the man I see now doesn't fall into a well, but out a window. And the hands I see aren't mine, but my mother's.

"Mostly superficial cuts," she says. "But you have a fever. And you're going to have big bruises here, on the side of your neck and on your shoulder. Does it hurt?"

I flinch and grimace when she touches the place where the oar struck me.

"You did the right thing. Absolutely the right thing."