The Missing

21

I wake up from a dream, a dream about a bush. Under the bush a leg is sticking out. A cold, pale leg that belongs to a four-year-old girl. It’s a leg that is no longer bubbling with life, a leg that will never again do any jumping. I fumble for something on the night table, find an empty teacup, and throw up into it. This time it’s mostly just spit and bile that come out of me. I don’t need a bigger container.

My face is wet when I roll over in bed. I’ve been crying in my sleep. This time I don’t bother to stretch out my hand, because I know no one is lying next to me. The numbers on the alarm clock glow faintly. It’s the middle of the night. Dark on all sides, dark no matter where I turn.

I wipe my cheeks on a corner of the duvet and run my tongue over my front teeth, noticing the sour taste in my mouth. I lie there for a while, wallowing in self-loathing and disgust. As I stare up at the ceiling, other emotions surface, racing through my body, one after the other. One of them lingers longer than the others. Alone. I’m so terribly alone. Again. How did that happen?

I slide my hand down my nightgown, pushing the fabric aside to place my hand on the bare skin of my stomach. A rumbling under my palm startles me, but then I realize it’s not the fetus moving. Just ordinary hunger pangs. I can hardly remember the last time I ate, much less wanted to.

I stretch my hand over my head to turn on the bedside light. When my eyes adjust to the glare, I notice the black streaks on the corner of the duvet that I used to wipe my tears. Did I crawl into bed without removing my makeup? I touch my clumpy eyelashes, confirming my suspicions. What did I do last night? It didn’t include eating or washing, apparently.

I frown, trying to conjure up the night before, but to no avail. The last thing I recall is going out to the island, seeing those kids, and coming back here to the cabin. Everything else is hazy.

With effort, I sit up in bed and immediately feel heartburn. Your ninth week, I hear the doctor saying. You’re in your ninth week. Did you really have no idea? No, I didn’t. It was because I was so tired, I insisted. The constant exhaustion that never seemed to let up no matter how much I slept. That’s why I came in. Well, now we’ve solved that mystery, said the doctor, giving me a polite smile. I left without telling her. Without showing her the marks on my thighs.

Cautiously, with one hand supporting my back, I haul myself to my feet. I really should try to go back to sleep, but then I risk being overpowered by another nightmare. Instead, I go to the kitchen for a glass of water, then to the bathroom to pee. I splash water on my eyes and cheeks. When I raise my head and peer into the bathroom mirror, I think at first that I’m looking at my mother. I cringe and take a step back. Then I notice the dark shadow on my throat. I place my hand over it and turn away so I won’t have to look anymore. How alike are we, Mama and I? Could this have been her? If so, what would she have done?

I sink down onto the toilet lid. Mama… She called a few more times, but when I saw the familiar number on the display, I didn’t answer. Because what is there to say to each other? Nothing. Maybe, to be honest, she feels the same way I do. At any rate, she hasn’t left any more messages.

Other than my mother’s sporadic attempts, I’ve had no calls these past few days. No one. I lean forward, wrapping my arms around myself. Alone. Always so alone. Then I straighten up, forcing myself to lift my chin. Why would anybody contact me? I’m on vacation, after all.

I haven’t called anyone either. Except for Alex. Even though I’ve repeatedly told myself it’s pointless, I keep trying to phone him. Not that I expect him to answer. Not really. By now, I’ve more or less accepted the fact that he’s never going to pick up. That his phone is someplace where no one can hear it ringing.

Finally, I leave the bathroom and tiptoe through the dark. Like an intruder, a stranger. I don’t belong here. The cabin seems to know that, as if the walls have come alive and are anxiously leaning toward me. Anxious or hostile. I approach the living room. In the dim light, it looks different, with menacing shadows lurking along the walls, dark figures huddled in the corners. Quickly I reach out for the switch and the room is instantly bathed in light. The hunched and threatening shadows take the shapes of furniture. The same sagging sofa, low coffee table, and mismatched armchairs as usual.

In the big windows facing the deck and yard, I see a mirror image of the room. Like its own illuminated universe, enveloped in darkness. I see the lighting fixture on the ceiling and the worn-out furniture. I can even make out the abstract paintings on the walls. And in the middle of the room, I see myself, my own reflection. A blurry figure wearing a white nightgown, and two dark, tense patches where the eyes should be. And then I see her too. The other one.

I can tell from the shape that it’s a woman. But she’s thinner than me, more angular. And though I’m standing in the glare of the light, she is cloaked in darkness. I stare at her, realizing who she is. She’s me. A younger, innocent version of me. She’s the girl who was left behind when Papa disappeared, the young woman I was before Alex. For a brief moment, the image of my young self in the windowpane seems real, and somehow reassuring.

Then my mind wakes up. Look around you, it says. I obey. The furniture, the paintings, the room are all brightly lit. I am too. But that woman, the other, is visible only as a dark shape. It’s because she’s not standing under a light. She isn’t here in this living room. She’s standing outside. On the deck. Looking in.