The Missing

20

My body is going somewhere, and I follow along. I walk down the narrow path to the dock. It’s as if my feet sense that I’m having trouble keeping things together, as if they’ve taken control and are carrying me forward whether I like it or not. Rocks and tree roots, blueberry sprigs and ferns. It’s all so familiar. How many times have I taken this path? When was the last time I was here? Wasn’t it quite recently?

As I approach the lake, the ground gets marshier, and there’s moss everywhere. Doesn’t it seem like an unusual amount of moss? It covers the rocks, trails over roots, and blankets fallen tree trunks. It seems to be slowly but steadily in the process of swallowing up everything in sight. And there’s something about the color, the moss-green hue that’s awfully green. Almost shiny. It doesn’t look natural. More like it’s been manipulated by some computer program. What was it Alex whispered to me in my dream? Surely you don’t think this is real? It’s all in your head.

The nausea is creeping back. Alex. His voice, which is still echoing in my head. His hands, which are still burning on my skin. And the memories, all those memories piling up in a dark corner of my consciousness.

When Alex entered my life, everything happened very fast. The emotions that flared up were so intense that the edges soon turned scorched and sooty. We got close, but it was a different kind of closeness from what I’d imagined on those lonely nights when I sat at my kitchen table or in front of the TV. And it’s true that he saw me, but with a different eye from the one I imagined that first time he gave me a ride home. We talked very little. The intimacy we shared was almost exclusively physical. I had nothing to compare it to, so I had to resort to what I’d heard and read. I assumed that’s the way it is for most people in the beginning. I assumed that’s what it feels like to be in love.

Yet I had a sense that I wanted something more, though I didn’t know what that might be, was never able to put it into words. And Alex never asked. He was more interested in showing me what he expected. Like the time I woke up to find him trying to get inside me. Dazed with sleep, I screamed in alarm, but he simply put his hand over my mouth. He looked me deep in the eyes, held me close, and moved his body against mine.

“I see you,” he said. “Don’t be scared. I’m here, and I see you.”

And I knew that was true. I was no longer alone. Not with Alex looking at me. It was as if I came alive under his gaze. He made me real. So I surrendered, allowing him to lead the way. And I complied.

I step down into the boat, feeling it rock under my weight. I manage to keep my balance, compensating for the swaying motion. I close my eyes in an attempt to quell the nausea.

It was the incident at the window that marked, in a painful way, the transition from blind passion to something else. We were in the living room of my apartment, and I was naked. Alex had just undressed me. He was still fully clothed when he turned me around, took a firm grip on my upper arms, and dragged me through the room. At first I thought we were heading for the sofa, but then I realized he was moving me toward the window. The tall, narrow window with no sill or curtains. It was twilight and dark both inside and out, but Alex switched on the ceiling light.

I froze, gave an embarrassed laugh, and whispered that someone might see us. He didn’t reply, and when I looked over my shoulder and saw the expression on his face, the laughter died in my throat. I tried to resist, but it was too late. He was considerably stronger than me, and soon he was pressing my naked body against the cold windowpane, fully exposed to the neighbors across the street and to passersby below. Alex grabbed the back of my neck with one hand and my wrists with the other, and I remember standing there with my breasts raised and flattened and my nose twisted painfully to the side, trying to understand why this was happening. Why was he doing this? What was the point? If this was just another one of the games he found so amusing, why was he digging his fingers into my neck so hard?

As I recall, it wasn’t a conscious decision on my part to give up, to stop fighting him. I remember only that my body went limp and ceased all attempts to get away. As soon as Alex noticed this, he pulled me backward, shoved me down on the sofa, and pulled down his pants. He didn’t look me in the eye. Maybe that’s why he didn’t notice that I was crying until it was over. I remember he seemed almost surprised by my tears, didn’t understand why I was so upset. He said he found it arousing knowing someone might see me. He said someone with a beautiful body like mine shouldn’t feel ashamed. He said nothing about wanting to humiliate me or hurt me. But maybe he noticed something in my eyes, a trace of revulsion or doubt. The next day, a delivery boy came to the store bearing the biggest bouquet of long-stemmed red roses I’ve ever seen. The accompanying card said: From someone who loves mysteries. Yes, loves. Don’t ever leave me.

The water is calm, the surface smooth. It seems wrong to shatter the silence with the sound of the outboard motor, so I decide to row instead. I make sluggish progress. It feels like the water is resisting me, as if it only reluctantly yields to the oars. Dark waves lap against the side of the boat, hissing and whispering. I lean forward, working so hard that sweat trickles down my back. The cut on my hand stings, but I ignore the pain. That’s something I’m good at, after my time with Alex.

Finally, I near the island, planning to pull into the same place as usual. The spot where Alex moored the boat before he and Smilla went off on their adventure. The place where I pulled in when I came back to search for them. How many times is that now? My thoughts whirl; everything blurs together. It feels like so long ago that I was last here, and yet… and yet it seems like just recently.

The first things I see are the boats. Two rowboats are bobbing in the water close to the island, but on the opposite side from where I was planning to go ashore. The next instant, I notice the group that has gathered, their bodies sticking up like dark shadows from the tall grass between the trees. I know at once who they are, and I freeze midstroke. My boat glides forward in one last, slow movement, and then comes to a halt in the bewitched waters. I can make out their hoarse voices as they talk, interspersed with a laugh or a cough. And then, suddenly, a shrill scream.

My heart lurches. I should turn the boat around and go home. Get out of here before they see me. But I don’t. My arms and hands seem to move of their own volition. Cautiously, I begin rowing toward the island again, hunching over the oars. My pulse quickens with every stroke. The words he said, that man in the big brown house, echo in my mind. Some nights, they make a huge racket. Down by the water, sometimes out on the island. I try to keep my distance as best I can. A bright glow tells me that the kids have made a bonfire. I think of the primitive fire pit I discovered when I was searching the island and about the green tarp and the stained mattress. The empty beer cans, the cigarette butts, the used condom. And the eviscerated squirrel.

I’m close now. If any of those kids glance over, they’ll see me. I hear another scream. This time, it’s louder, more piercing. It’s a scream of pain. And panic. It cuts right through me, releasing a flood of images, all of them violent. They pour out, jumbled together, flashing past at furious speed, and I can do nothing to stop them. Images of myself and of Smilla, and of that long-haired girl. Images of hands, alternating between tender and rough. And pictures of objects, relentlessly sharp and treacherously soft. Hands and objects that are used to subdue and to harm.

“Stop!” I cry as loudly as I can. “Please, stop!”

I’m on my feet, standing up in the boat, without knowing how that happened. Someone gives a shout. Several kids pop up from the grass or appear from behind the bushes. Only now do I see how many there are. In the middle looms a figure with his hands on his hips. He doesn’t move, and his face is hidden in shadow, but I know he’s staring at me. I have his full attention.

“Where is she?”

My voice is so hoarse it doesn’t carry properly. The young man with the braided goatee doesn’t reply. Maybe he doesn’t hear my question. Or else he just doesn’t care. Suddenly and unexpectedly, I find myself on the verge of tears.

“Please,” I shout again, fighting to keep my voice from breaking. “Don’t hurt her.”

Goatee Guy turns to one of the kids standing next to him. I hear him speak in a low voice, but I can’t make out the words. Whatever he says prompts hoarse and derisive laughter. An arm waves in the air. The next moment, something whizzes past me and lands with a splash in the water behind the boat. A rock. And then another. This time, it strikes the bow.

My eyes shift from one kid to another, taking them all in. Searching for the face of a girl. I know she’s there somewhere. I have to save her! Soon, more rocks are flying over the boat and raining into the water, and I’m forced to raise my arms to protect myself. I think I see one or more of the dark figures heading toward the two rowboats, and I realize I no longer have any choice. My hands move swiftly, and the motor starts up with a roar. I steer away from the island, heading back across Lake Malice.

“Stay away from here. Otherwise, the same thing will happen to you that happened to…”

I don’t hear the rest of the threat hurled after me, because just at that moment, something hard and sharp strikes my shoulder blade. A burning pain makes me double over. I speed up, feeling my pulse hammering against my eardrums.

It seems to take an eternity, but finally I make it back to the dock. I tie up the boat and rise up on wobbly legs, only to sink down again. I stare at the rock lying in the bottom of the boat. It’s big and sharp edged. If it had hit me in the head… If that was their intent… A shiver ripples across my skin.

What I should do is hurry back to the cabin, lock the door, and hide.

No one seems to have followed me, but if those kids do come and find me here… My misgivings fade into nothingness. I refuse to let fear take hold. So, is it over? That’s what races through my mind instead. Is it finally over?

The next second, another thought intrudes. My hands automatically touch my stomach, protecting the life growing inside. A couple of weeks ago, I left the clinic with the doctor’s words ringing in my ears. I remember my exact thought: This isn’t like it was with Smilla. This is something different, something completely new. Emotions surge inside me. Elation. Guilt. Dread.

I didn’t tell Alex. Not until we got to Lake Malice. We were eating dinner, and I said no to wine, then gave him a meaningful look. Alex stared at me for a long time, his face impassive.

“I understand,” he said at last and took my hand.

His expression was so tender at that moment, so I thought maybe, just maybe it would work out. Maybe if I didn’t—

“Have you made an appointment?”

It was his tone of voice that made me realize at once what he meant. He wasn’t talking about an obstetrician appointment. An abortion. He wanted me to get rid of our child. I bowed my head and swallowed the food in my mouth without chewing.

“Not yet, but I will,” I told him. “As soon as we get back.”

Alex gave me a kiss and quickly changed the subject as he helped himself to more food. After dinner, he gave me his orders, took me into the bedroom, and closed the door behind us.

Later that night, I lay awake, my body hurting too much to sleep. All my nerves and muscles ached. I heard the car rumbling outside and the voice screaming. I heard Alex carry Smilla inside and put her to bed in the room next to ours. Even though I was wide awake, I didn’t get up to go to them. And when Alex crept back into bed, I pretended to be asleep. But by then, I’d already made my decision. It was perfectly clear in my mind.

I stroke my throat, cautiously touching the skin. Then I bury my face in my hands and bend forward. After a while, my fingers fall away on their own, and my gaze is drawn over the gunwale. I peer down into the water lapping against the side of the boat. I stare into the lake’s impenetrable darkness. Even here, so near shore, it’s impossible to see the bottom. Staring into Lake Malice is like being sucked into a black hole, a vortex. I’m whisked through the tunnel until I encounter a circular light at the other end. An opening. And there, in the middle of the light, the contours of a man’s face appear. Alex! A gasp escapes my lips.

I lean forward, closer to the water, closer to the image. That’s when I realize it’s not a tunnel, but a well. And from its depths, I’m staring up at Alex, who is looking over the edge. Behind him, I glimpse a shadow: someone is sneaking up on him. Someone whose stealth will soon be channeled into a single swift and violent act. Two hands rise up, the palms hurtling through the air to strike Alex on the shoulder blades. With no time to turn and meet the eye of his assailant, he plunges over the edge and plummets toward eternity, toward the bottom of the well.

And toward me? No, I’m no longer there. I’m up above now, standing in the same place where Alex was standing. I lean forward, cock my head to one side, and squint down into the well, as if I’m searching for someone who disappeared. Then I study my hands, brushing away a thread from Alex’s sweater that got snagged on my skin. And I feel a slight ache in the palms of my hands, at the very spot where they just slammed against hard shoulder blades.

My body feels heavy and wobbly as I flee the boat. It rocks alarmingly under my feet, but then I’m once again standing on the dock. As I go ashore, I keep my eyes fixed straight ahead. Unwavering. I refuse to allow my gaze to shift even for a second toward the seemingly harmless ripples in the water, afraid to risk losing myself again in Lake Malice’s seductive darkness. I can’t handle any more distorted visions.

As I stumble along the path up to the cabin, I’m filled with foreboding. What were those images my subconscious conjured up? My hands shoving Alex, pushing him into the well. Mere fantasies, of course. Compulsive thoughts. Yet all of it seemed so real. Like repressed memories. I think back to when I stared into the water while Alex and Smilla were playing on the island. I remember feeling as if I’d lost all concept of time. How many minutes had actually passed when I regained my senses? Was it only minutes, or could it have been much longer? And what actually happened during that time?

I hadn’t thought about that particular detail before, but now it turns me cold. I spot the cabin up ahead and start running. My body protests. I feel tired and weak and tormented, but I ignore all that and keep running. I run to avoid thinking about the fact that, as soon as I came to in the boat, I knew Alex and Smilla were gone. Without even having to search for them.

When I reach the door, I can taste blood in my mouth. I already knew. How could I have known?