The Missing

43

I didn’t manage to strike a good blow with the oar. The angle was wrong, the force of the blow too weak. You passed out, but that was mostly due to the already-pitiful condition you were in. Maybe I should have used the ax while you were lying on the floor. Before she arrived. The person who turned everything upside down. Your mother.

I recognized you as soon as you opened the door, knew that you were a former client, but it took a while before I was able to place you. Then I remembered the strange story about your father falling out the window. The story that never had a proper ending. I was so sure, back then when you sat across from me and talked around the issue. I was sure that you were the one who pushed him. Everything about you—your body language, your tone, your facial expressions—indicated as much. So when you wanted to end our meetings without fully unburdening your heart, I tried to stop you. Do you remember that? You probably don’t. My words can’t have meant much to you. You left my office and never came back. And I moved on too. I haven’t given you a thought since that day. Not until now.

I stand in the kitchen and look out the window. Even though I can’t see you, I know you’re still out there. A moment ago, I heard a car door slam. In a few seconds, the engine will start up, and I’ll stand here listening as you and your mother disappear. Will I have any regrets then? Will I regret that I let you go, that I didn’t use my bare hands to yank out of you what is growing inside?

It’s for your mother’s sake that I’m letting you go. After she shared her story with me, I can’t lift a hand to her daughter. I thought I’d already been through the worst, but now I have a feeling something even bigger is just around the corner. Something both frightening and powerful. The biggest challenge of my life. Something that will set me free.

I see her running back toward the cabin, hear her feet pounding up the steps, and then the front door opens. You must have forgotten something. I go out to the hall to meet her. She doesn’t take off her shoes, doesn’t make any move to come inside. She just stands there, staring at me.

“Greta won’t have anything more to do with your husband,” she says at last. “You have my word.”

I know she wouldn’t say that if it wasn’t true. I’ve seen with my own eyes the power she has over you. You may not see it yourself. Maybe you don’t want to admit it, but that’s how it is. I nod to show that I accept her message. I expect her to turn and leave. But she stays where she is, standing on the hall rug.

“You asked me if it was worth it. Ask me again.”

At first, I’m confused. She already answered my question. Then I understand. You’re not here listening this time. I feel my pulse quicken.

“Was it worth it?”

“I’ve finally asked Greta to forgive me for leaving her alone. It’s been weighing on me all these years. But what I did, the fact that I killed her father, that’s not something I’ve asked her to forgive. And I’m never going to insult her or myself by doing that. A genuine plea for forgiveness presupposes remorse.”

Her words swirl through the air between us. She locks her eyes on mine, boring into me.

“Is that answer clear enough for you?”

My skin tingles and aches. It feels like every blood vessel in my body is open. I nod. Her words have made something come alive. The big challenge in front of me, awaiting me. I’ve been brooding about it all afternoon, ever since she finished telling her story. Ever since I heard myself say things about Alex that I’d never said before, expressing myself in a way I never thought possible. And now I understand. It’s when I’m with him—not without him—that I’m nothing. So simple, so banal. Yet it’s been true this whole time.

I look with astonishment and gratitude at the woman standing in front of me. Finally, I understand the meaning of this seemingly chance meeting here in Marhem.

“I’m sorry about your mother. Were you close?”

I feel a stab of pain in my heart.

“I miss her so much.”

She nods briefly and is just about to open the door when she stops. She leans toward me, so close that one of her curls brushes against my temple.

“Make sure your daughter is somewhere else,” she whispers. “And make it look like an accident.”

Then she’s gone. A minute later, I hear the car start, pick up speed, and finally fade into the distance. I stand in the hall, frozen in place. Everything I thought was lost—what I thought had vanished in the chasm opened by my mother’s last breath—all of that I can rediscover. All of that I’m going to reclaim. Myself. My daughter. Our future.

A mother’s love is boundless, wild, and beautiful. I will honor my mother’s memory and continue to strive for the same goals she did. But my path will be different from the one she took. While she chose submission, I choose to fight. Where she chose gentleness, I choose determination. Slowly, I turn around and go back to the living room. I have a lot to think about before I go home. A lot to plan. I sit down on the sofa, the side where your mother was sitting. If I close my eyes, I can still feel the presence of her story. It gives me both solace and strength. I know that I can make it through this. If she could, I can.

I picture Smilla, hear her infectious laughter ringing in my ears. Sometime, many years from now, maybe we’ll sit down and talk. A mother and her grown daughter. Then I’ll tell her about my path through life, about the lessons I’ve learned. I don’t yet know exactly what I’ll say. But I do know where I’ll begin. I know what the first sentence of my story will be:

A good mother is not shaped by circumstances. She is the one who decides how to shape them.