The Missing

6

I wake up when something soft and furry presses against my face. I instinctively try to fend off consciousness as well as whatever is trying to force itself on me. When I automatically throw out my arm—I won’t let you, I don’t want to—I bump into a slender, warm body, prompting an offended yowl. In an instant, I’m wide awake. I raise my head. My neck is so stiff that I moan out loud; one side of my face has gone numb. I rub my cheek and stare down at the tablecloth. Did I fall asleep here?

Tirith has moved away and is now standing a safe distance away, giving me an accusatory look.

“Sorry, I didn’t mean to,” I say, wheezing slightly as I rub my tight neck. “I didn’t know it was you. I thought…”

Then I remember. I haul myself to my feet and rush for the bedrooms. In Smilla’s room, everything is a mess from yesterday’s search. But I hardly notice. The only thing I see is the bed. Empty. No golden curls spread out on the pillow, no little girl’s body outlined under the covers. I fall to my knees, bury my face in the duvet, and breathe in her scent. It can’t be true. Maybe I’m still asleep? Oh, dear God, please tell me I’m dreaming. Make all of this a bad dream.

I can feel myself hovering on the verge of tears. A whimper rises to my throat and out of my mouth. But then something squeezes in between me and all these emotions. An ugly voice in my head. Hypocrite, it whispers. I stagger to my feet, my eyes dry. Dutifully, I peek inside the bigger bedroom—and conclude that no one has slept there either. My head feels heavy, as if I’d had that drink yesterday after all. I feel like I must’ve emptied, one by one, all those fucking bottles that Alex brought, even though I know this never happened. How can you be so sure? whispers the little voice inside my head. How can you be sure of anything?

Tirith is waiting in the kitchen. He eagerly swings his tail from side to side when I get out the bag of cat food and pour some in his dish. Of course that’s why he woke me up. He’s hungry. I had planned to take only a short nap, yet here it is already morning. Filled with loathing, I stick two pieces of French bread in the toaster. Out of habit I also fill a bowl with yogurt. I try to avoid thinking how absurd it is to be bothering with ordinary routines right now. I need food, after all, so I force myself to eat.

The toast crunches between my teeth, and my throat hurts when I swallow. Cautiously, I touch my neck. Then I run my eyes over the kitchen table, to the place where Smilla was sitting only twenty-four hours ago.

They came into the kitchen together. Alex with his arms stretched overhead, one hand supporting Smilla under her chest, the other holding on to her leg. She was swooping like an airplane over his head, howling with laughter when he spun around and made her do breakneck dives through the air. At one point, her head came dangerously close to an open cupboard door, and it looked like Alex might lose his balance. But I held back my objections, not wanting to fuss, not wanting to interfere.

Finally, Alex brought Smilla in for a landing on the chair across from me and began fixing her breakfast. She tucked her feet up under her nightgown and watched him with admiration in her eyes. Maybe it was Smilla’s pure and genuine happiness that settled the matter. Maybe it was then that I solidified the decision I’d made during the night.

Good father.

Good father.

Good father.

I can still picture Smilla in front of me, but the features of her face seem distorted. As if she’s sitting there on the kitchen chair across from me, and yet she isn’t. Suddenly, it’s myself that I see. And the man moving around the kitchen, the man in charge of games and roughhousing, is Papa. The man who only a moment ago set me down on the chair after letting me climb around, hang upside down, and spin in circles, safely held by his strong body and firm grip. The man who is now opening cupboards and drawers, ostensibly to make breakfast, but who can’t stop goofing off, turning everything into a game. He balances a plate on my head and pretends to spread butter on a napkin instead of the toast. When he leans down to kiss my cheek, I smell morning breath from his mouth and women’s perfume on his skin.

Mama comes in, still bleary with sleep and with her hair in disarray. She stifles a yawn with her hand, and Papa dances over to her, humming some sort of silly tune. She keeps her hand over her mouth, but I can still see that her face lights up with a crooked smile. I have the world’s craziest husband. They give each other a long, passionate kiss, and when Papa thinks that I can’t hear—or that I’m too little to understand—he murmurs: Thanks for last night. Mama laughs, embarrassed, and rolls her eyes. But she’s happy. I see how her eyes are shining. And I feel happy and warm inside too. My parents love each other. And they love me. I have everything anyone could wish for.

I raise the spoon to my lips, my hand trembling slightly. That’s a nice childhood memory, but it would have been even nicer if it were true. If it hadn’t been largely fabricated after the fact. If Mama had really been in a good mood when she came into the kitchen instead of being silent and morose. If the smell coming from Papa’s mouth hadn’t been the residue of the previous day’s festivities. And if I could pretend that I didn’t understand. I knew that the scent on his skin did belong to a woman, but the woman was not my mother.

The pieces of toast swell inside my mouth. I stare at the bread that I’m holding. Notice how my hand is shaking. My stomach clenches and churns. Yet it still takes a moment before I comprehend what’s about to happen. When the realization takes hold, I jump up from the table so fast that my chair hits the floor with a bang. The next second my feet are pounding across the floor. Tirith shoots like a missile under the living room sofa. But I have no time to pay attention to a frightened cat. I yank open the bathroom door and hurl myself forward, managing to reach the toilet just in time before the vomit gushes out of my mouth.