The Missing. Part 6

My gaze s.h.i.+fts to Smilla's Barbie dolls, which are still lying on the kitchen floor. I note with amus.e.m.e.nt that one of the blond girls is lying on top of Ken's face, covering his nose and mouth with her body. His arms are stretched up, as if flailing wildly for air. But he's not going to get away. Barbie has him in her power. Closing my eyes for a moment, I take a deep breath, summoning renewed strength. I made a difficult decision. I did the right thing, chose the only possible option. There was no alternative. Then I think about Smilla, and the guilt returns at once. I can't get rid of it that easily. I steel myself, stand up, and cast another glance at the dolls on the floor. You have to let go of Smilla. You know that in your heart. You have to.

Slowly, I go back to the living room and over to the window facing the yard. I stand so close that the tip of my nose touches the pane. For a long time, I stare at the spot where the dark figure stood. I stare so hard that my vision finally splinters and blurs. Just like the other day, when I stood in front of the hall mirror, I suddenly see another face, a face that seems to merge with my own. Her eyes and my eyes fuse, and we are staring straight into the darkness inside both of us. The darkness that we share. She is me. I am her. Maybe there's something I can do, after all. Maybe it's not too late.

Before I leave the cabin, I go to refill the cat's bowl but suddenly stop. Where is Tirith? He didn't sleep on the bed with me last night. In fact, I haven't seen him all morning, haven't heard his companionable meowing like I usually do. I look in the living room again, but there's no soft ball of fur curled up on the sofa. Then I remember that I put him outside. When was that? I frown. Yesterday? It must have been yesterday. But I can't recall the exact time of day. The hours are all jumbled together, and the more I strain to sort them out, the more they blur, sliding in and out of each other.

On the road outside, it's now impossible to see any marks in the gravel from the nighttime visitor. The rain has washed away all trace. A sheen of rain covers the winds.h.i.+eld of my car, and I imagine that someone used their finger to draw a pattern, connecting the drops. A pattern or a greeting. I wish I could take the car, but that's not possible where I'm going. The forest road around the lake is too narrow in places, besides being very b.u.mpy. But my lower back and hips are aching, so walking isn't an option either.

There's a dilapidated shed behind the cabin. Back there, I find things that Alex must have cleared away, intending to throw them out. A rusty watering can, an inflatable wading pool faded from the sun, and a single oar. Leaning against the wall is an old bicycle. I bend down to test the tires. They seem to have enough air, so I roll the bike out to the road, get on, and start pedaling. I pa.s.s the same deserted cabins, the same abandoned patio furniture that I saw yesterday. The bicycle creaks and clatters. The closer I get to my goal, the faster my heart is hammering. And it's not just from physical exertion.

I don't really know what I was expecting, but when I reach the spot where I first met those kids, no one is there. For a long time, I simply stand still, wondering what to do next. All my senses are on alert, and I listen intently, but the only thing I hear is the distant roar of heavy traffic. On the other side of the tall, densely packed trees that surround the lake is the highway leading to town. That's nearly impossible to believe from this location, which feels so remote and far away from everything called civilization.

I lean the bike against a tree trunk and cautiously make my way to the ditch where I first saw the girl yesterday. Even though I'm careful, the damp quickly soaks through my sneakers. My sandals with the straps and heels are still back in the front hall of the cabin, and the T-s.h.i.+rt I have on is old and faded. Marhem is slowly wearing me down, peeling off my armor. Exposing me. My daily practice of putting on mascara and powder and blush will soon be the only routine I have left. Habits. Rituals. A means of fighting back, a desperate effort to keep from losing my grip altogether.

Finally I reach the lake, right where those boys were standing before the girl noticed me, before the boys rushed up to surround me on the road. I shudder, but then quickly brush the memory aside. I can't let the memory stop me. A short distance away, at the water's edge, are two rowboats. Are those the boats I saw moored at the island yesterday? The ones the kids used to row out there? They must be the same ones. I touch my shoulder, feel the tender bruised spot. I flinch when, out of the corner of my eye, I see something move. I catch a glimpse of a shadowy figure among the trees, but when I blink and then look up again, it's gone.

A suffocating pressure builds in my chest. I shouldn't be here. I really shouldn't. And yet I refuse to leave. I move closer until I'm standing next to the boats. One of them is an old wooden flat-bottomed rowboat. The other is more modern, made of plastic and fibergla.s.s. Once upon a time, it must have been white, but now the bow is a dirty gray. The scratched stripes painted on the sides look like they were originally navy blue. Something pulls me even closer, and I peer over the gunwale. The bottom of the boat is filled with a few inches of water, probably from last night's downpour. But the water isn't clear. It's streaked with red. Lying under the seat in the stern is a clotted lump smeared dark red. As big as an aborted fetus.

I lurch back and b.u.mp right into a tree. Except it's not a tree. It's a person. I spin around, and there we stand, face-to-face.

"I had a feeling you'd come back," says the girl. "But this has to be the last time."

24.

My initial feeling is relief. The same sense of relief I had when I saw the dark figure on the lawn outside the cabin last night. You're alive. You weren't the one screaming on the island yesterday, you weren't the one they had hurt. Then she gives me a shove in the chest and I stumble backward. I stare at her, looking at her clenched fists and peering into the trees behind her. The girl seems to read my mind.

"I'm alone," she says. "But you won't be that lucky next time. If you're smart, you'll stay away from here. Don't come back! Leave us alone!"

There's something about her voice. It sounds more anxious than threatening. As if she wants to protect me. And she has lowered her hands. My pulse slows a bit. I have a reason for being here. But first I need to win her trust, show that I'm taking her seriously.

"What are you trying to warn me against? What might happen?"

She snorts. "You don't want to mess with Jorma. You should have realized that by now."

I brush a few stray strands of hair out of my face and study her more closely. I wonder how old she is. Under the dark-colored man's s.h.i.+rt she's wearing, I can't see even a slight swelling of b.r.e.a.s.t.s. But that's not really surprising, considering how thin she is.

"Jorma? Is that his name? Your boyfriend?"

A splotchy blush colors the girl's cheeks.

"He's not my . . . We're not exactly . . ."

I wonder whether they're sleeping together. Then I shake my head. Of course they are. I hear a snapping sound from the trees, and I freeze. But no Jorma comes rus.h.i.+ng toward us. Not yet. I swallow hard, realizing that it's only a matter of time before he or one of the other boys shows up. I need to hurry if I'm going to say what I've come here to say. It's now or never.

"You don't have to put up with this."

My words surprise her. I watch her blink, then she says: "What . . . what do you mean?"

She pretends not to understand, but I can see her looking at my throat. She can't help staring. In her eyes, I see her answer. I see the truth. I take a step closer but restrain myself from reaching out to take hold of her arms.

"What's your name?"

"Greta," she says at last.

Greta? The same name. That too. I summon my courage and go on.

"Listen to me now, Greta. If he treats you badly . . . Don't let him get away with it. You have to strike back, free yourself."

The corner of her eye twitches.

"I'm not-" she begins.

But I'm too impatient to let her finish. I have no time for excuses.

"You can say what you like, but in your heart you know that you're looking for a way out. You're looking for someone who can help you. That's why you came to my cabin. That's why you stood in the yard outside the window last night. Because you know that I'm like you."

I instantly see that I've made a mistake; I've gone too far. Until now the girl has barely moved as she listened, but from one second to the next her face darkens.

"That's not why," she snarls.

Somehow things have taken a wrong turn. I've said too much or said something wrong. The fragile connection between us has crumbled. But I can't stop myself. I'm still filled with the thought of what we have in common, convinced that she needs me.

"I'm on your side," I blurt out. "Don't you realize that? You and I, we have a lot-"

"Who the h.e.l.l do you think you are? We are not on the same side!"

She shouts so loud that I fall silent and take a step back. For a moment, I think I see her face contort in a grimace of pain and shame, but then it's gone. Replaced by a hard and impenetrable mask. She looks away. Her arm shoots out, straight and tense. She seems agitated as she points at something right behind me.

"Jorma knows now! He knows you were the one who did it!"

I turn to look where she's pointing, toward the boats. My eyes are drawn to the smeared lump and the blood in the bottom of the newer boat. An icy cold spreads through my body.

"Did what?" I ask, my voice hoa.r.s.e.

"We know you've been on the island. We're the only ones who go out there. So it must have been you."

Everything is s.h.i.+mmering before my eyes. I don't reply. Because what is there to say? I stand there, feeling how it's seeping out of me. All my self-confidence and strength. The girl puts her hands on her hips.

"Did you go there alone? Out to the island, I mean. Were you alone, or were there others?"

Her voice now has a commanding ring to it. As if this were an interrogation. And in a way, it is. I realize it makes no difference what I say. My throat tightens, and I take a step back.

"No . . . or, yes. It was me and my husband and my . . . my . . ."

I struggle to finish the sentence, but I can't. Dizziness is making the ground spin under my feet. The lies are swarming over each other, slithering around my body and threatening to pull me down. I've lied ever since we came here to Marhem. To the girl and her gang, to the man in the brown house, to the police. Even I have no idea why. But it doesn't matter; the reason is of no consequence. The only important thing is that it can't go on. I can't lie anymore. Alex is not my husband. And Smilla is not my daughter.

"There were three of us who went out to the island. But the other two . . ."

Not another lie. Not to her. The girl is waiting. But when I don't go on, she gets impatient.

"What? What about the other two?"

How do I explain? They didn't come back. They disappeared. Slowly, very slowly, I keep backing away from the water and the girl, moving toward the forest road and my bicycle. But my young namesake follows. Again she shoves me hard in the chest.

"Confess! I already know what you did. We all know."

Then I turn around. And run. As fast as I can, cutting between the trees and clambering over the ditch. Back up on the forest road, I grimace with pain and nausea, but I don't allow myself to pause or rest. I grab the bike and jump on. The girl makes no attempt to hold me back. As I ride away from there, I hear her yelling after me.

"Jorma will make sure you're punished."

At that moment, when I hear those words, something clicks inside me. Something important is making its way through the haze that envelops my consciousness. A realization. Revenge. That's the thought pounding in my head. He's out for revenge. He's going to make sure I'm punished. But Jorma isn't the he I'm thinking about.

25.

It was never a secret that Alex was married. From early on in our relations.h.i.+p, he was open about the fact that he had a wife and daughter in his life. It wasn't something that bothered me. On the contrary. Even though I'd been reluctant to allow anyone to get close, it seemed just as unthinkable to let go when Alex came into my life.

Before I knew it, I'd told both my mother and Katinka about him. Mama had asked me so many times, with a hopeful look in her eyes, whether there was anyone special in my life. But she wasn't pleased when she heard about Alex. Did I let slip the fact that he was already taken? Or did Mama ask questions that led her to that conclusion? I'm not really sure. All I remember is her reaction.

How could you, Greta? How on earth could you?

I knew what she was thinking-that I was my father's daughter, that I was following in his reprehensible footsteps. But I wasn't responsible for Alex's infidelity. I owed nothing to that faceless woman who sat somewhere, waiting for him to come home. Truth be told, I respectfully didn't give a s.h.i.+t about her. Just like I didn't give a s.h.i.+t about Mama's disapproval.

Katinka was also skeptical, but she promised to share my joy if I was happy. Happy, I thought one evening, a month after the start of my relations.h.i.+p with Alex. Am I happy? I turned my head to look at him lying next to me on the mattress.

"Shouldn't we talk more? Get to know each other? Isn't that what people do?"

He grinned at me.

"If you want to," he said. "So tell me something about yourself. Something really shameful."

My throat closed up. Something shameful? Papa. The subject never to be discussed. No one had ever been able to get the truth out of me about what happened. It was the reason I'd spent my whole life keeping people at arm's length. But here I was now, with a man who claimed to see me, really see me. And suddenly I heard myself telling Alex about that night. About the open window, about Papa falling into eternity. When I came to the end, something made me stop, keep the most crucial details to myself. But I'd told him enough.

"I think you're a little crazy, sweetheart. Not exactly right in the head."

Alex laughed, but I could see in his eyes that he was serious. And he was probably right. After that, I gradually gave up any hope for emotional closeness. I had someone at my side. That was enough. We didn't need to know everything about each other.

Then came the night when Alex pressed my naked body against the windowpane.

Don't ever leave me. That's what it said on the card that came with the flowers the next day. It might have been a plea. Or a command. No matter what, I didn't leave. I couldn't stand the thought of being alone again. Instead, I placed myself in Alex's hands, allowed him to lead me further into the dark. Pain slowly crept into our relations.h.i.+p.

But still I didn't leave. I continued to cling to him. Alex led and I followed. Until the path led down into the abyss.

I hear a beeping in my pocket. I take a deep breath, look around in a daze. Where am I? I take in my surroundings, realize that I'm sitting in my car in a half-empty parking lot outside a small grocery store. How did I get here? I must have driven, of course, but I don't remember doing that. Then I recall my encounter with the girl, the bike ride through the woods back to the cabin, the lactic acid in my legs, the taste of blood in my mouth. The fateful shouts about revenge and punishment resounding through the forest and inside my head. I remember the fear, can still feel it tingling in my fingertips and churning in my stomach. But it's not only fear. It's more than that. It's a sense of rebellion, the desire to stand up and confront the enemy. Finally that feeling has awakened inside me. That's why I'm here. To take action.

The beeping sound in my pocket again. I take out my cell. A text message from Katinka. Hope you guys are fine. Thinking of you. Only two sentences, but heavily charged with meaning.

As time pa.s.sed, and my relations.h.i.+p with Alex changed, as I accepted more, asked for more, Katinka was always there with her silent, searching eyes. When I started calling in sick more often, she would ask me how I was really feeling. She was the only one who noticed there was something strange about the way I was walking that day. Or at least the only one who asked me outright.

"Why are you limping?"

"I'm not limping."

"Maybe not. But you're moving kind of strange. Sort of carefully. As if you hurt. What happened?"

She fixed her gaze on me. I pressed my lips together, tried to meet her eyes but had to make do with looking at the wall. Katinka slowly nodded. As if she understood something important. Then she told me I should go and talk to someone. I gave a start and asked what she meant. She didn't reply, didn't even say what I knew she was referring to.

"What do you mean?" I persisted. "What exactly do you think I need to talk about?"

Part of me wanted to hear her say it out loud, wanted her to make it real, everything that I wasn't able to express.

"You're not yourself anymore," Katinka told me. "The way you're limping. And you're always tired. You should see someone."

"Who?"

I expected her to suggest some sort of therapist. When I closed my eyes I pictured a mane of blond hair and felt a firm grip on my wrist. Things are going to get worse for you. And you risk being knocked off balance. But Katinka wasn't thinking about a psychologist. She had something else in mind.

"Maybe you should see a doctor at the clinic."

"Okay," I said. "You're right. I am tired. I'll make an appointment."

And I did. A few days later, I went to the clinic. Outside, the sun was s.h.i.+ning and everyone seemed to be wearing shorts and light dresses. I had on long pants. The image of the blond psychologist again flickered through my mind. Cardigans and jackets in the middle of summer. I'd always found that strange. Now I dressed the same way myself. All covered up.

A short time later, I was ushered into the office of a woman wearing a white coat. I sat down in the chair in front of her desk. It took a while before I said anything. I waited, letting her study me in silence. I secretly wished that she'd just look at me and know, without me having to say a word. But her expression was so inquisitive that I was finally forced to open my mouth. Hesitantly, I told her about the fatigue, then answered her questions obediently, though evasively. When she ordered tests, I allowed the nurse to stick a needle in my arm to draw blood, and I peed in the container they handed me.

Afterward, we again sat across from each other. The doctor tilted her head to one side as she peered at me. Ask to look at my thighs, I thought. Tell me I have to leave him. But she did neither. Instead, she explained that I was pregnant. Nine weeks. Had I really not suspected?

I get out of the car and go inside the grocery store, which is housed in a low brick building. An elderly man is standing at the checkout counter closest to the doors, reading a newspaper. When I come in, he looks up and says h.e.l.lo. I pick up a basket and aimlessly stroll the aisles. It's a sleepy country store, and the selection is accordingly limited. I could have driven a little farther, to the town where I was yesterday, but I don't dare go back there. I don't want to go anywhere near the police station and risk being recognized.

I feel heat rise to my cheeks when I think about the phone conversation with the female police officer. What a fuss I'd caused. And yet it could be worse, much worse. If the police discover that two people named Alex and Smilla have actually disappeared, and they also know that I'm lying about my relations.h.i.+p to them . . . It wouldn't look good. Not at all.

In one of the aisles, I run into two old ladies who look amazingly alike. Maybe they're sisters. The kind who have never married, who have stayed together in this slumbering town and shared a different sort of life.

They give me a cautious smile, the way you'd smile at an eccentric stranger, as we pa.s.s each other. I strain to return the smile. It's not my fault, I want to shout at them. I just did what I was told.

I had asked Alex how he intended to introduce me if we met anyone while we were in Marhem. Back home, we never went out; we just stayed indoors, at my place. No movie theaters, no restaurants, not even walks in the evening. We never talked about the reason, but I a.s.sumed it was because of her. The town was small enough that if we went out we might run into someone who knew either her or Alex. Up to that point, the world that he and I had shared was no bigger than my bedroom.

Now we were suddenly going to step forward into an unknown universe. We would go away, spend our vacation together. I didn't ask Alex what he'd said at home, but I guessed he'd conjured up some sort of business trip. He was a sales rep, always traveling, which meant she should have accepted the explanation. His wife. Because he did have a wife, after all.