The Missing

13

The road divides, giving me the opportunity to loop back in the direction of the cabin without having to pass the spot where I met those kids. Somehow I manage to make my way home. By the time I get there, my hips and legs feel like jelly. The marks in the gravel on the road are no longer clear, as if someone has swept them away while I was gone. The one who stayed and the one who left.

I limp toward the front steps and root around until I find the key underneath. In the entryway, I’m confronted by my own face in the mirror on the wall. My eyes are like two big patches of soot, and garish pink blush shimmers on my cheekbones. But underneath the plastered-on layers of color and shadow I’m totally pale. I picture the knife in front of me, see the flash of the sharp blade as the young man cleans his fingernails. I feel the point pressing against the delicate skin under my chin.

I stand there in the hall for a long time. The fear slowly ebbs away, but the images refuse to leave me. In spite of what I went through, there’s one image that lingers in my mind. It’s the image of the long-haired girl leaning against Goatee Guy’s shoulder with such trust, such compliance. And the way he responded by sweeping the knife in an arc over the back of her neck. I can’t tear myself away from the mirror, and my face suddenly seems to merge with the girl’s features there in the glass. Wasn’t there something special about her gaze? Didn’t I see something gleam in her eyes when she noticed the mark on my throat? Something naked, something familiar. I hear myself talking, see the girl watching me. My husband and my daughter, I said, they’re at the cabin waiting for me. Did she see through me? Did she realize I was lying? I picture her standing on tiptoe, cupping her hand around Goatee Guy’s ear. What was it she whispered to him?

I turn away, lean my back against the wall, and slide down to the floor. The minutes pass as the tension slowly seeps out of my body. I have no energy to get up. It feels like I’ll never be able to move again. My limbs sag, go slack. Just as my head sinks to my chest, a sharp noise slices through the silence and jolts me awake. My cell phone is in the pocket of my capris. I can feel it vibrating against my thigh. It must be Alex. It’s all over now. Thank God, it’s over. I shove my hand in my pocket, pull out the phone, and raise it to my ear without checking the number on the display.

“Greta?”

Mama again. My head falls back, thudding against the wall behind me.

“Hello? Greta… are you there? Is everything okay?”

I mutter something unintelligible in reply.

“What’d you say? I can hardly hear you, Greta. Where are you? I know you’re not home because I phoned several times, and you didn’t…”

I think to myself that I can’t stay here in the cabin even one more minute. I need to get in the car and drive away from here. Go to the police. Or home. You could drive home.

“I can’t talk right now,” I manage to say. My voice is somewhere between a wheeze and a whisper. “I have to go.”

But Mama is not to be put off so easily.

“What’s going on with you, Greta? You’re behaving so strangely. These last few days… I don’t know what you’re up to, but I have to say that…”

Whatever she was on the verge of saying, whatever was so important, fades to silence. The thought crosses my mind that maybe for once it will be my mother who ends our conversation in a fit of anger. Maybe she’s finally had enough. But I hear her take a deep breath, preparing to say something more.

“It’s no wonder Katinka’s worried about you.”

Katinka? Worried about me? I feel hot and cold at the same time. What did Katinka say? And why has Mama been talking to her?

“I was at the mall today and dropped by the shop to say hello. But you weren’t there. They told me you were on vacation. I had no idea you were planning to take time off right now.”

“Mama, I…”

“So I ran into Katinka in the shop. As I understand it, the two of you are close friends.”

Mama falls silent. All I can hear is her breathing. Is she waiting for me to say something? To offer some comment about my relationship with Katinka? Or is she thinking about the best friend she once had?

I used to eavesdrop on their phone calls, all those long heart-to-hearts. Of course, Ruth was the one who did most of the talking. Mama would mostly sit in silence, hunched over in bed or at the kitchen table.

No, he’s not here, as usual. Who knows where he is tonight?

Then she would listen intently, in a way she never did with anyone else. Sometimes she was silent for so long that, if I held my breath, I could hear Ruth’s voice on the phone. I couldn’t make out what she was saying, but I understood that, whatever it was, Mama considered her words wise and consoling. She would always say something like: “What would I do without you, Ruth? Thanks for listening. I have no one else to turn to.”

As I understand it, the two of you are close friends.

Is there something ominous, even menacing, in Mama’s words? After what happened, did she lose faith, not only in Ruth but in female friendships in general? Is she afraid Katinka will betray me the same way that Ruth betrayed her? There’s nothing to worry about on that score. That’s what I’d tell her if she asked. I know better than Mama did. I know better than to confide everything, reveal everything. Katinka may think we know each other well, but that doesn’t mean we’re close, at least not in the sense Mama and Ruth once were. Definitely not. I did learn something from Mama’s mistakes, after all. I hear her clear her throat.

“At any rate. According to Katinka, you haven’t seemed quite right lately. Apparently you’ve called in sick a lot, and… well… That’s actually how she phrased it: that she’s worried about you.”

I raise my hand to rub my forehead. Again I’m thinking about what happened in the woods. Those kids, the knife pressed to my throat. What about you? I want to ask. Are you worried, Mama? You should be. But when I open my mouth, something totally different slips out.

“I’m pregnant.”

I don’t know why I tell her. Maybe to shock her. Or maybe because I’m not myself at the moment. To be honest, I haven’t been myself for a long time. Katinka’s right. I hear my mother gasp.

“Pregnant? My God!”

She sounds horrified. Then I can hear her pulling herself together. Her voice takes on a new tone. A certain harshness.

“Who’s the father?”

I can’t do this anymore. I simply can’t. I hang up and stumble into the bedroom. I turn off my phone before plugging it in, then fling myself across the double bed. Apathy spreads through me, blocking out all feeling. Just before my eyes fall shut, I see my mother’s expression of displeasure. How could you, Greta? How on earth could you?