The Missing

33

I rage my way through the woods. There’s no other way to describe my progress. Dry branches jab at me, scratching my cheeks and forehead. Something warm is spilling from one eyebrow. My vision gets murkier instead of clearer; the shimmering before my eyes gets worse. When I finally emerge from the trees and come back out on the forest road, my whole body seems to be swaying, like I’m in the middle of an enormous, stormy ocean.

My legs carry me forward, and I let them take me, without knowing whether I’m heading in the right direction. And besides, what is the right direction? Something is coming toward me on the road. Something or someone. My hands tense painfully, and even though I can’t really see the objects I’m holding, I know they’re there—both are like extensions of my own body. The cell phone and the ax. At this moment, I’ve become one with them, clutching them tightly, vowing not to let them go, no matter what happens.

The beast coming toward me is dark and hairy. It moves quickly, agilely. I stop, thinking that it might not be real. To see something that doesn’t exist, or not to be able to take in what actually does exist—maybe those are two sides of the same coin. Like what happened with Papa, that which escapes me. Is my memory failing? Why am I unable to correctly interpret what I see? The beast is close now, it comes right up to me, and I feel something soft and cold against the back of my hand. A dog’s muzzle. Reality seizes hold, the veil is pulled aside, and suddenly I see clearly. Not looking outward, but inward. It’s not a matter of a faulty memory or distorted experiences. What I’m missing is the will to acknowledge what happened to Papa. Who and what it has made me.

“I’m sorry,” I whisper, and my eyes fill with tears.

I seem to see that the dog has taken a step back and is now licking his nose. Then he gives a loud bark, not sounding angry, but confused. Appealing to the person who comes walking up behind him.

“Hello again,” says the man from the brown house.

Alex’s explanation for how he and Smilla left the island and made their way through the woods echoes in my mind. I turn to look from the shaggy creature at my feet to the elderly man. I stare at him.

“You must have seen them when you were out walking your dog,” I mutter, slurring my words. “You really did see them.”

Something about my appearance seems to startle him. Then he calls the dog. A wave of nausea sweeps through me, followed by a strong pang in my abdomen. As if someone were sticking a knife into my guts. The pain makes me double over. I hear the man’s voice, sounding both concerned and suspicious. Before I can answer, the stabbing pain comes again, and I almost fall to my knees. A thought races through my mind. The baby. I can’t lose the baby. Not that too.

I force myself to straighten up and start forward. But the man is in the way. His features are hazy, his expression unreadable, but his voice now sounds very worried. Something lands on my shoulder, squeezing tight. Is that his hand? Is he trying to stop me? Trying to keep me here? Panic creeps over me, giving me renewed strength. Making me suddenly furious. Loud screams ring out across the road, spreading to the nearby woods. My throat is stinging, burning, and I realize the person screaming is me. Then it’s there again, the hand, wanting to hold me in place. I lurch back to pull free as I raise my ax.

The wind subsides, the world stands still, and the only sound is the dog’s pitiful yelping. The man steps aside. No, he doesn’t step aside, he turns on his heel and leaves. He may even be running. Fleeing. Only when both he and his dog are gone do I realize that the man held out his hand not in a show of force but in self-defense. It wasn’t intended to hold me there. It was to keep me away.

Somehow, I make it back to the cabin. Along the way my condition gets worse. The cramps in my stomach have faded, but now the pain has settled in the small of my back. Tugging and aching, with occasional stabs of pain. The pressure in my chest is so bad I can hardly breathe. I stagger over to the parked car outside the cabin and lean against it. The car isn’t locked, so I open the door and fall into the driver’s seat. My head feels like it’s on fire. The shimmering before my eyes has changed to searing flashes of light. In this condition, I won’t be able to drive more than a hundred feet. I’ll end up in a ditch. Or crash into the mountainside.

What I need to do is make my way over to the highway and catch one of the buses that goes through Marhem. Just like Alex and Smilla did. I rub my forehead. I still can’t really take it in. Slowly, I turn to look at the cabin. In my mind, I take an inventory of the suitcases, clothes, and toiletries inside. Everything that belongs to me, everything I’d need to take with me. Just thinking about it requires an enormous effort. Right now, I’m so exhausted that I can’t even imagine getting out of this car. I have no energy. Another wave of vertigo swirls through, churning inside me, making the world twist and lose shape. I’ll never manage it.

My belongings will have to stay here. There’s no other option. But the cat. I should at least go get Tirith and bring him with me when I… The image of a little cross made from sticks cruelly interrupts my thoughts. A slender pink collar. Again I feel the impact of the black-clad girl’s confession. I remember that Tirith isn’t waiting for me in the cabin. That he’s never coming back. That someone will have to tell Smilla. Smilla, who smells of apples and vanilla, who loves princesses and Barbie dolls. Smilla, who adores her father.

My face falls onto the steering wheel, pressing on the horn, which emits a single beep. There is something infinitely melancholy about that one-note sound. Both a sender and a receiver are required for a sound to have any meaning, but I’m the only one present to hear it. Out of context, the sound loses all meaning, becomes pointless. Just like me, just like my life so far.

My thoughts return to that last evening, to the sight of Smilla and Alex holding hands on their way to the dock. The jealousy and longing I felt at that moment are still with me. Could that be me in a few years? Holding a warm hand in mine, an eagerly chattering little person at my side? Or am I kidding myself? Am I allowing myself to be blinded by this new-old longing for closeness? The inheritance I carry. The inheritance my child will carry. Would that cloud everything? Would that destroy everything? Oh, Mama, tell me whether it was worth it. Would you make the same choice again?

At that instant, she calls me. I stare at my phone, which I’d tossed on the passenger seat next to me along with the ax. Mama? Mama! The last time we talked, I hung up on her. I haven’t taken her calls for close to two days now. Haven’t really talked to her in over twenty years. Not really. My temples are pounding. Everything I’d hoped for with Alex, everything I didn’t get. I pick up the shiny little phone and answer without thinking.

“I don’t want to be alone anymore.”