The Missing. Part 8

So much has happened since that day when Katinka noticed I was having trouble walking because of my thighs. There's an ocean of thoughts and deeds between that day and this one. I have a strong desire to text back, tell her I'm pregnant. She doesn't even know that. But on closer examination, there's really very little she knows about me. I stand still for a moment with my fingers hovering over the keyboard on the display in front of me. But no sensible reply comes to mind.

With my phone back in my pocket, I start walking again. Would it be possible for us to be real friends, Katinka and I? So far I've chosen not to think about that. So far what has governed my relations.h.i.+p with Katinka-as with all my acquaintances before her-is the thought of Mama and the best friend she once had. It'll never be like with Mama and Ruth. I can't risk getting too close.

The trees are thinning out up ahead, opening on a small clearing. I stop near the edge, right in front of something low to the ground. My mind conjures up events from long ago, remembering how things played out during the last dramatic period of the friends.h.i.+p between Mama and Ruth. An incident that began with a failed trip to see my maternal grandmother and ended with Papa falling out the bedroom window. Although it actually ended several months earlier, of course, with the slap.

I'm so immersed in my thoughts that at first I don't process the object at my feet. Then my gaze moves down, fixing on something brown and knotty. Two sticks fastened together in an ancient symbol. I stare at the object for a moment before the realization sinks in. A cross. But why . . . ? What . . . ? I take a step back, staring hard, first at the little wooden cross, then at the mound of earth in front of it, then back again. An icy wave washes over me, sweeping away everything else. Leaving behind only the knowledge that this wasn't just any object hidden in this clearing. It was a grave.

Then I hear a rustling very close by, and this time I'm sure. Someone is standing behind me. I spin around, keeping a tight grip on the ax.

29.

Before we locked the apartment and picked up our suitcases to leave for Grandma's, the last thing Mama did was phone Ruth. She sat on the bed in the room she shared with Papa, her back to the door. She was on the phone a long time, speaking in a low voice, though she mostly just listened, as usual. Occasionally, she would murmur brief remarks, which mainly seemed to affirm Ruth's words of wisdom.

"Yes, I really need this. I have to get away, try to rest a little. Get some distance from . . . well, from everything."

I waited in the front hall, impatient and eager to get going. Summer vacation had just started, and I was dying to see Grandma. And to get away from the claustrophobic bubble of life with my parents. I was looking forward to Grandma's vanilla rolls nearly as much as the calm in her apartment.

Mama and Papa had been fighting more than usual lately. They might start arguing because of a note that fell out of Papa's pants pocket when Mama was doing the laundry. Or because he came home late, and she demanded to know where he'd been. Papa never answered her questions or apologized, just tossed out some sarcastic remark. That would really set Mama off, and soon accusations would be flying. She would spew the names of various women, and each time they fought, a new name would be added to the list. Papa's response, however, never varied. c.u.n.t.

And within minutes, Mama would surrender in defeat. I could never understand why her anger would disappear at that moment. Couldn't figure out why she would capitulate like that. But that's what happened. My mother devoted her days to helping others, mostly women, stand on their own two feet and confront deceitful spouses, who were sometimes also abusive. People who knew my mother described her as strong, competent, and reliable. No one knew that, in her own home, she showed a completely different side of herself. No one knew but me, that is. And Ruth.

"Mama!"

I stepped forward and knocked impatiently on the door frame.

"Mama, aren't we going? Come on!"

We took the bus to the station in town. That was where we'd catch the regional train to Grandma's. Mama sat silently on the seat next to me, staring out the bus window at all the greenery. I tried talking about various topics, like my latest bike ride or a program I'd seen on TV, but I could tell she just wasn't interested, and soon I fell silent too.

At the station Mama looked up at the board listing arrival and departure times and frowned. She muttered something about delays, so we rolled our suitcases over to a bench and sat down to wait. We spent the rest of the afternoon sitting there. Our train was delayed three times, and each time, Mama stood up to voice her frustration before compliantly returning to the bench. I thought it was the same pattern as when she fought with my father, but I didn't say that out loud.

Finally, an announcement was made: all southbound trains were canceled for the rest of the evening due to a downed electrical line. We got our money for the tickets back and were offered reservations on one of the early departures the following morning. The bus ride home was even more silent, if that was possible. By the time Mama stuck her key in the lock and opened the door to our apartment, she'd hardly said a word to me. I wondered whether she really wanted to take me with her to see Grandma anyway. Maybe she would have preferred to go alone. That's what I was thinking as we stepped into the front hall. But I soon had other things to think about.

There were no lights on in the apartment, and at first, I thought Papa wasn't home. But then I heard a sound. Tense whispering and excited giggles. I looked at Mama standing next to me and saw her body stiffen. She'd heard it too.

"h.e.l.lo?" she called out. "Is anyone there?"

Then Mama did something so unlike her that my throat closed up. Normally, she insisted that everything be nice and neat, but now she marched straight in without taking off her shoes. I knew something was wrong, terribly wrong. Her footsteps echoed off the parquet floor. The next second, something white fluttered at the other end of the apartment. A woman's naked body came rus.h.i.+ng out of the living room, heading for the bathroom. I managed to glimpse a big rear end, shaped like a full moon, before it disappeared with the rest of the woman. The bathroom door slammed shut, and I heard it lock from the inside.

Mama squared her shoulders and paused for a moment. Then she continued to the living room and looked in. I was still standing on the doormat and couldn't see what Mama saw, but I heard what she said.

"You b.a.s.t.a.r.d!"

She took me over to Ruth's. We already had our suitcases packed, and she dragged them along as we stormed out of the apartment. n.o.body followed us; n.o.body tried to call us back. Despite pulling both suitcases, Mama was practically running. I was tired from the bus rides, not to mention sitting in the train station all afternoon, so I had a hard time keeping up. Besides, I was hungry. I begged her to slow down several times, but she never did.

As soon as Ruth opened the door, Mama burst into tears. Ruth motioned for us to come in and didn't seem the least surprised by my mother's reaction. Maybe she'd been through this before, on occasions when I wasn't there. Ruth led us into the kitchen, pulled out a chair for Mama and then sat down too. I hesitantly looked around the apartment for something to occupy me, but I saw only books, crocheted tablecloths, and dried flowers. It occurred to me that Ruth was alone. Clearly no husband or children lived here. Just Ruth and two cats.

I played with the cats for a while, until they'd obviously had enough. Then I went back to the kitchen, where Mama and Ruth were emptying the dishwasher.

"But I still don't understand it," said Mama in despair. "How could he? How the h.e.l.l could he?"

She handed some plates to her friend, who put them away in the cupboard. Ruth seemed a little stern, almost disapproving. She probably thought it was time for us to leave her alone. I suddenly felt completely exhausted. But it wasn't just my body that was tired, it was all of me. I was worn out, sick of being dragged around.

"Mama, I want to go home."

She didn't answer. Didn't even turn around. She just raised her hand and waved me away. As if she were swatting at an insect. Under normal circ.u.mstances, that would have been enough for me to give up and retreat, but I wasn't thinking the same way I always had before. Things looked different now. I stared at my mother's back. I was her child, and I was hungry and tired, but she didn't seem to care. She didn't care at all.

"I want to go home now!" I repeated, louder and more insistent.

She still didn't turn around. Merely glanced over her shoulder to let me know that we were going to stay awhile longer. And she kept on talking to Ruth. I don't know what it was, but at that moment, I felt something stab inside me, something that felt like a sharp spear. Before I knew it, I went over to Mama and yanked on her sweater.

"Right now!" I shouted.

Ruth pressed her lips together, in what was presumably an attempt to smile, with a faint, accusatory twitching at the corners of her mouth.

"Now, now, now!"

When Mama finally looked down at me, her face was stony. She pulled out of my grasp.

"Listen to me, Greta. We're staying here until I say it's time to go. Do you understand?"

Then she turned her back on me again, shutting me out. It was a familiar situation, but this time I had no intention of quietly complying. I was going to make my mother listen to me. I wasn't going to settle for anything less than her full attention. The first time the words slipped out, they were so quiet I hardly heard them myself. When I said them again, I made a great effort to enunciate each word, feeling them rise up from my stomach and spill, full force, out of my mouth.

"You c.u.n.t!"

Everything stopped. Even time seemed to stand still. The words seemed to linger in the room, hovering over us for a moment. Only afterward did they seem real. Mama and Ruth stopped talking so abruptly that it was like someone had flipped a switch. As if in slow motion, Mama spun around to look at me. I saw her hand reach out, saw it come whistling through the air. And even before it struck my cheek, my face burned like a thousand fires.

All three of us stared at each other. None of us said a word. Ruth's hand fluttered up to her mouth. Finally, Mama cracked, falling to her knees in front of me and wrapping me in her arms. It probably took no more than a few seconds, but it felt like an eternity before she made an effort to bridge the distance between us. The words poured out of her so quickly that I felt dizzy just listening to them.

"Greta, sweetie, I didn't mean to . . . I just turned around and saw . . . You have to understand I didn't mean to!"

She kept on talking without giving me a chance to reply or react. Of course she hadn't meant to hit me; she was just upset and she turned around and saw me standing there, in the path of her hand. An unfortunate misunderstanding, that was all. After a while, she calmed down. Then a different look appeared in her eyes, and a different tone entered her voice.

"But I think it would be best if we didn't mention this to anyone."

Anyone. I knew at once who Mama meant. Papa. I wasn't supposed to tell him. Not him. All of a sudden, she was anxious for me to say something, to show that I'd understood. So I promised. Promised not to reveal what had happened that day in Ruth's kitchen. Not to anyone. Mama relaxed a little. Then she let go of me and stood up. And again turned away.

At that moment, my father's fate was sealed. He had three months to live.

30.

The girl stops in her tracks. Wide eyed, she looks from me to the ax. But only for a second. Then her gaze s.h.i.+fts, and she begins looking around, as if searching for something. Or checking to see if something is still there. I watch as she studies the ground nearby.

Only now do I discover that the little wooden cross at my feet isn't the only one of its kind. At the edge of the clearing there are several more crosses, all of them made from sticks. And in front of each of them the earth and moss have been dug up and then put back in place. I'm in a forest cemetery.

The girl seems satisfied with her inspection, because a look of relief appears on her face.

"You haven't disturbed them."

"The graves?" I say. "Why would I disturb them?"

She gives me a long look without answering the question. I think I see shame in her expression. Then it changes again.

"So what are you doing here?"

She sounds like a landowner confronting a trespa.s.ser on her property.

"I'm looking for a cat," I tell her. "What are you doing here?"

The girl shrugs, refusing to look me in the eye. Her long, dull black hair flutters in the breeze. On both sides of the part in her hair, the roots are blond, and in the dawn light I can see a lot of split ends. I can't help thinking that she could use a good haircut. Some new clothes. And maybe a little mascara and lip gloss too. Then I remember my own sloppy attire, the way I've carelessly pinned up my hair and neglected to wash my face. Without my armor, I feel naked, vulnerable, exposed. From somewhere, the phrase The best defense is a good offense appears in my mind.

"Is this your creation? What exactly have you buried here?"

The girl gives me another of those long looks. As if she's a.s.sessing me. I a.s.sume I'll be found wanting and don't expect her to answer. But this time, she does.

"I'm sure you know."

Then she steps past me. I blink my eyes and slowly turn around. Mutely, I watch as my young namesake crouches down in front of the grave and carefully straightens the cross, getting it to stand more erect. Her words are ringing in my ears. Suddenly, everything falls into place. The girl and her scary friends. The knife with the bloodstained blade I found out on the island. The mutilated creature that lay next to it.

"The squirrel," I gasp. "Which one belongs to the squirrel? Or did you leave it on the island?"

The girl is still leaning forward with her back to me, but over her shoulder, I see her hand shaking as she touches the cross.

"No," she mumbles. "I didn't leave it there."

She gets up and stands there with her eyes fixed on the grave. Without saying a word, her whole body is telling me here. So that poor squirrel is here, in the ground, right in front of us. I swallow hard, allowing my eyes to sweep over the pitiful little row of crosses. The squirrel's grave is the second to last. A thought is taking shape in the back of my mind, but it vanishes when the girl starts talking.

"I made the crosses myself. And sometimes I come here to . . . look at them. But only if no one sees me. Mostly before dawn, like now. n.o.body can know. It would be . . ."

She falls silent and I wait, giving her the time she needs. n.o.body can know. I recognize that mantra. I know that n.o.body usually doesn't refer to strangers, but to the people closest to you. Family. Friends. Lovers.

"They're just animals. That's all. Just fur and guts. But I still can't help . . . I can't just leave them lying there afterward. I'd rather die."

She says the last words with great emphasis. Her voice quavers with suppressed emotion, and I notice that she's clenching her fists. Part of me wants to reach out and put my hand on her shoulder. But I don't.

"Why do you guys do that?" I ask instead. "What makes you torture and kill an innocent animal?"

Before the girl has a chance to reply, a light goes on in my head. I picture Alex's excited expression, see the pulsing of the blood vessel in his temple as he leans over me. I'm wearing nothing except the black silk tie. He has peeled the jacket and panties off me. That part of the role-playing is over. Now I'm lying on the double bed in the summer cabin, my wrists bound to the bedposts. Alex is caressing me, pinching my nipples. He lifts the tie from between my b.r.e.a.s.t.s and lets it slide through his fingers. Then he grasps the knot of the tie at my throat and slowly starts pulling. Tighter and tighter. Until my protests stop. Until my lungs are burning and I can no longer breathe. He looks into my eyes, and I know he must see the terror I'm feeling. Then he smiles. And pulls the tie a little tighter.

"Power," I say out loud, answering my own question. "It's all about power."

The girl turns around and looks at me with an impa.s.sive expression.

"What do you know about it? What do you know about anything?"

At first, I'm annoyed. But my anger quickly fades, and I notice how tired I am. Exhausted. The ax slips out of my hand and falls onto the moss at my feet with a m.u.f.fled thud.

The girl is walking among the graves, straightening a cross if needed, using her hand to sweep away pine needles and fallen branches. She makes her way along the row of wooden crosses until she finally comes to the grave at the end, the one next to the squirrel's final resting place. She stands there, her back to me.

"How do you know where I live?"

She shrugs, then answers without turning around.

"It wasn't very hard to find out. It's easy to tell which houses are empty and which aren't. And you told us where the cabin was."

"What were you doing in my yard the other night? If you weren't there for my help, that is."

She doesn't bother to refute my a.s.sumption. Nor does she bother to explain. Silence settles over us. Slowly, my irritation returns.

"Say something! Tell me why you were there!"

She still doesn't answer. Angry now, I take two steps forward and grab the girl's arm, forcing her to turn around. At first, when I see her thin face crumple, I think she's crying. But I don't see any tears.

"I'm sorry," she says quietly. "Please forgive me."

I frown and shake my head, uncomprehending.

"What am I supposed to forgive? What have you done?"

She reaches out her hand and clumsily touches the top of the wooden cross in front of her. Then she turns to me again, giving me a long look. A rus.h.i.+ng starts up in my ears. The ground sways under my feet. My temples are pounding. Out of the corner of my eye, I notice a fallen tree trunk. I stagger over to it and sink down, gripping the rough bark with both hands. The cross . . . The new grave . . .

What exactly have you buried here? I'm sure you know. Yes, I realize. I do know. And it makes me want to scream.

Smilla, sweet, lovely little Smilla. I'm so sorry.

31.

No howl issues from my throat. No accusations, no laments. No sounds at all. Inside I'm fumbling to formulate appropriate remarks, but without success. Finally, a few words do slip from my lips.

"You asked me what I was doing here . . ."