The Missing

25

It was never a secret that Alex was married. From early on in our relationship, he was open about the fact that he had a wife and daughter in his life. It wasn’t something that bothered me. On the contrary. Even though I’d been reluctant to allow anyone to get close, it seemed just as unthinkable to let go when Alex came into my life.

Before I knew it, I’d told both my mother and Katinka about him. Mama had asked me so many times, with a hopeful look in her eyes, whether there was anyone special in my life. But she wasn’t pleased when she heard about Alex. Did I let slip the fact that he was already taken? Or did Mama ask questions that led her to that conclusion? I’m not really sure. All I remember is her reaction.

How could you, Greta? How on earth could you?

I knew what she was thinking—that I was my father’s daughter, that I was following in his reprehensible footsteps. But I wasn’t responsible for Alex’s infidelity. I owed nothing to that faceless woman who sat somewhere, waiting for him to come home. Truth be told, I respectfully didn’t give a shit about her. Just like I didn’t give a shit about Mama’s disapproval.

Katinka was also skeptical, but she promised to share my joy if I was happy. Happy, I thought one evening, a month after the start of my relationship with Alex. Am I happy? I turned my head to look at him lying next to me on the mattress.

“Shouldn’t we talk more? Get to know each other? Isn’t that what people do?”

He grinned at me.

“If you want to,” he said. “So tell me something about yourself. Something really shameful.”

My throat closed up. Something shameful? Papa. The subject never to be discussed. No one had ever been able to get the truth out of me about what happened. It was the reason I’d spent my whole life keeping people at arm’s length. But here I was now, with a man who claimed to see me, really see me. And suddenly I heard myself telling Alex about that night. About the open window, about Papa falling into eternity. When I came to the end, something made me stop, keep the most crucial details to myself. But I’d told him enough.

“I think you’re a little crazy, sweetheart. Not exactly right in the head.”

Alex laughed, but I could see in his eyes that he was serious. And he was probably right. After that, I gradually gave up any hope for emotional closeness. I had someone at my side. That was enough. We didn’t need to know everything about each other.

Then came the night when Alex pressed my naked body against the windowpane.

Don’t ever leave me. That’s what it said on the card that came with the flowers the next day. It might have been a plea. Or a command. No matter what, I didn’t leave. I couldn’t stand the thought of being alone again. Instead, I placed myself in Alex’s hands, allowed him to lead me further into the dark. Pain slowly crept into our relationship.

But still I didn’t leave. I continued to cling to him. Alex led and I followed. Until the path led down into the abyss.

I hear a beeping in my pocket. I take a deep breath, look around in a daze. Where am I? I take in my surroundings, realize that I’m sitting in my car in a half-empty parking lot outside a small grocery store. How did I get here? I must have driven, of course, but I don’t remember doing that. Then I recall my encounter with the girl, the bike ride through the woods back to the cabin, the lactic acid in my legs, the taste of blood in my mouth. The fateful shouts about revenge and punishment resounding through the forest and inside my head. I remember the fear, can still feel it tingling in my fingertips and churning in my stomach. But it’s not only fear. It’s more than that. It’s a sense of rebellion, the desire to stand up and confront the enemy. Finally that feeling has awakened inside me. That’s why I’m here. To take action.

The beeping sound in my pocket again. I take out my cell. A text message from Katinka. Hope you guys are fine. Thinking of you. Only two sentences, but heavily charged with meaning.

As time passed, and my relationship with Alex changed, as I accepted more, asked for more, Katinka was always there with her silent, searching eyes. When I started calling in sick more often, she would ask me how I was really feeling. She was the only one who noticed there was something strange about the way I was walking that day. Or at least the only one who asked me outright.

“Why are you limping?”

“I’m not limping.”

“Maybe not. But you’re moving kind of strange. Sort of carefully. As if you hurt. What happened?”

She fixed her gaze on me. I pressed my lips together, tried to meet her eyes but had to make do with looking at the wall. Katinka slowly nodded. As if she understood something important. Then she told me I should go and talk to someone. I gave a start and asked what she meant. She didn’t reply, didn’t even say what I knew she was referring to.

“What do you mean?” I persisted. “What exactly do you think I need to talk about?”

Part of me wanted to hear her say it out loud, wanted her to make it real, everything that I wasn’t able to express.

“You’re not yourself anymore,” Katinka told me. “The way you’re limping. And you’re always tired. You should see someone.”

“Who?”

I expected her to suggest some sort of therapist. When I closed my eyes I pictured a mane of blond hair and felt a firm grip on my wrist. Things are going to get worse for you. And you risk being knocked off balance. But Katinka wasn’t thinking about a psychologist. She had something else in mind.

“Maybe you should see a doctor at the clinic.”

“Okay,” I said. “You’re right. I am tired. I’ll make an appointment.”

And I did. A few days later, I went to the clinic. Outside, the sun was shining and everyone seemed to be wearing shorts and light dresses. I had on long pants. The image of the blond psychologist again flickered through my mind. Cardigans and jackets in the middle of summer. I’d always found that strange. Now I dressed the same way myself. All covered up.

A short time later, I was ushered into the office of a woman wearing a white coat. I sat down in the chair in front of her desk. It took a while before I said anything. I waited, letting her study me in silence. I secretly wished that she’d just look at me and know, without me having to say a word. But her expression was so inquisitive that I was finally forced to open my mouth. Hesitantly, I told her about the fatigue, then answered her questions obediently, though evasively. When she ordered tests, I allowed the nurse to stick a needle in my arm to draw blood, and I peed in the container they handed me.

Afterward, we again sat across from each other. The doctor tilted her head to one side as she peered at me. Ask to look at my thighs, I thought. Tell me I have to leave him. But she did neither. Instead, she explained that I was pregnant. Nine weeks. Had I really not suspected?

I get out of the car and go inside the grocery store, which is housed in a low brick building. An elderly man is standing at the checkout counter closest to the doors, reading a newspaper. When I come in, he looks up and says hello. I pick up a basket and aimlessly stroll the aisles. It’s a sleepy country store, and the selection is accordingly limited. I could have driven a little farther, to the town where I was yesterday, but I don’t dare go back there. I don’t want to go anywhere near the police station and risk being recognized.

I feel heat rise to my cheeks when I think about the phone conversation with the female police officer. What a fuss I’d caused. And yet it could be worse, much worse. If the police discover that two people named Alex and Smilla have actually disappeared, and they also know that I’m lying about my relationship to them… It wouldn’t look good. Not at all.

In one of the aisles, I run into two old ladies who look amazingly alike. Maybe they’re sisters. The kind who have never married, who have stayed together in this slumbering town and shared a different sort of life.

They give me a cautious smile, the way you’d smile at an eccentric stranger, as we pass each other. I strain to return the smile. It’s not my fault, I want to shout at them. I just did what I was told.

I had asked Alex how he intended to introduce me if we met anyone while we were in Marhem. Back home, we never went out; we just stayed indoors, at my place. No movie theaters, no restaurants, not even walks in the evening. We never talked about the reason, but I assumed it was because of her. The town was small enough that if we went out we might run into someone who knew either her or Alex. Up to that point, the world that he and I had shared was no bigger than my bedroom.

Now we were suddenly going to step forward into an unknown universe. We would go away, spend our vacation together. I didn’t ask Alex what he’d said at home, but I guessed he’d conjured up some sort of business trip. He was a sales rep, always traveling, which meant she should have accepted the explanation. His wife. Because he did have a wife, after all.

So how was he planning to introduce me, I wondered. How did he want me to introduce myself? Alex shrugged at my queries, didn’t think it mattered because we weren’t likely to run into anyone. At least no one he knew. But I insisted.

“But what if someone asks?” I said. “What if? I want to know who I am. Who I’m supposed to be.”

That caught his attention. He stared at me for a long time, an unreadable look in his eyes.

“You’re my woman,” he finally said firmly. “If anyone asks, that’s what you should tell them.”

So that’s what I did. The man in the brown house, the police, the kids—that’s what I let all of them believe. That I was the one Alex was married to. But it was different with Smilla. Nobody had urged me to call her my daughter, yet I’d allowed her to become part of the charade. It had happened so naturally. It was almost alarmingly easy. Little Smilla, who had the same princess dreams I’d once had, and the same father figure—playful and fun as a dad, worthless and unscrupulous as a spouse. Smilla, who was connected to me through the child I now carried inside.

“Your sister or brother,” I whisper with a shiver as I stand in front of the grocery store cooler.

For a long time, I stare at the containers of milk, butter, yogurt, and eggs. Then I glance down at the red basket I’m holding. It’s still empty.

In the back of my mind, I know that getting in the car and driving here to shop for groceries is just a pretext. What I’m looking for is something else entirely. But what? The two old ladies are approaching. Quickly, I take two cartons of yogurt from the shelf and place them in my basket. I hope now I look like any other ordinary customer. Normal. At least outwardly.

I move to the back of the store, trying to keep it together. I put some fruit in a plastic bag, which I place in the basket along with a loaf of light rye bread. Suddenly I find myself in front of a shelf of diapers and baby food. And I’m staring straight into the memory of how Alex reacted when he heard I was pregnant. Have you made an appointment? I remember that afterward he took his time finishing his dinner, that he seemed to be chewing very calmly and carefully. Yet there was something alarming about the way his jaws kept grinding back and forth. Something that indicated suppressed rage. Or is that just my interpretation in hindsight?

After he’d cleaned his plate, he pushed it aside and left the room to get something. He came back holding a black silk tie. Then he took off his jacket and handed both items to me.

“Put these on over your panties. Nothing else. Wait for me in the bedroom.”

One more try, just one last time. Maybe that’s what I was thinking. Maybe that’s why I repressed the memory of the pain in my thighs, the pain that had eventually faded and yet had etched silent, indelible traces inside my body. In any case, I did as Alex wanted. I got undressed, slipped the tie around my neck, and waited. Then he came into the bedroom. And closed the door to the world.

It took a long time for me to fall asleep that night, and when I finally did, it was a restless and fitful slumber. A short time later I woke up, either from pain or because of sounds outside. The rumbling car engine, the loud screams. I lay there, listening to Alex carry Smilla inside, noting how he turned on lights and put her to bed in the room next to ours. Through the wall, I heard him talking to her, his words quiet and reassuring.

I didn’t get out of bed, but I was definitely wide awake. And it was at that moment I made up my mind. Actually, it was more of a realization than a decision. This has to stop.

There was a clarity in those words, a feeling that I’d been missing for a long time. I had to do what must be done. It made me feel both heavy and light. There was no doubt in my mind whatsoever.

I reach out and touch a baby bottle, then a sippy cup with a Winnie-the-Pooh decal. Is this what I’m looking for? Is this why I’m here? No. I lower my hands. My body moves away. I’m almost at the checkout counter, but I haven’t found what I’m looking for. Something is buried in my consciousness, mocking me, hidden. I put a bag of cat food in my basket, and then I’m in the section for home and garden supplies. My eyes land on a medium-sized ax on one of the lower shelves, and something clicks.

I set down the basket and squat in front of the tools on display. My ears are ringing as I reach out and grab the handle. I pick up the ax, weigh it in my hand. It’s substantial for its size.

I’ve never held an ax before. Yet the feel of the grooved plastic handle seems so familiar, completely natural. How can that be? I lean forward and read what it says on a sign fastened to the shelf. “Multifunctional. Case-Hardened Steel. Lifetime Guarantee.” I close my eyes a second.

Then I carefully touch the blade with my fingertips. The feeling prompts a bass note to resonate through my whole body. After it fades, a familiar echo starts up. In the worst-case scenario, that sort of state of mind could have very unfortunate consequences. For you, or for those close to you. I practically fling the ax away. What the blond psychologist warned me about—is that what’s happening now? Have I reached a point where I can no longer predict my actions or control what I do? Have I reached that point—or have I already passed it? Oh, Smilla!

I cover my eyes and rock desperately back and forth as I crouch there on the floor of the grocery store. We hadn’t planned to bring her with us to Marhem. Unforeseen circumstances prompted her nighttime arrival. The one who stayed and the one who left. And now… What is it I’m trying to tell myself now? That unforeseen circumstances are also behind her disappearance? I take my hands away from my eyes and again fix my gaze on the object in front of me. I need to be realistic. Once again, I reach out for the ax.

I’m approaching the highway exit for Marhem when my phone starts ringing. Katinka, I think. I didn’t answer her text, so now she’s calling to see if I’m okay. I remember what Mama said the first day after they went missing, when I was still taking her calls. Katinka is worried about you. Feeling tense, I pull out my phone. But it’s not Katinka’s number on the display.

My other hand jerks the steering wheel so hard that the car swerves across the lane. I shriek before regaining control. Up ahead, I see a turnout, a waiting area for the buses that travel the highway back and forth to town. I cast a frantic glance in the rearview mirror, but there’s no bus in sight on the stretch of road behind me. Clutching the wheel with both hands, I pull into the bus stop and brake, a little too hard.

My phone is still ringing, and I stare at it wild eyed. No, it’s not Katinka’s number. There are no digits on the display. Only a name. A very familiar one.

“Alex,” I whisper.

My hand picks up the phone. The skin on my palm twinges—it’s the wound from the other day, the wound from my own earring. Just before I press the “Answer” button, my eyes shift to the plastic bags on the floor in front of the passenger seat. The bags containing the groceries I bought. Yogurt, fruit, bread. And the ax. The multifunctional tool, with a blade of tempered steel and a lifetime guarantee.

I take a deep breath and answer, trying unsuccessfully to make my voice sound normal.

“Hello? Alex? Where are you? What happened?”

I hear a scraping sound on the other end.

“Hello?” I shout again, a little more firmly this time. “Can you hear me?”

Still no answer. All I hear is a rushing sound. Then total silence. I take the phone away from my ear and stare at it. I try again, shouting Alex’s name louder and louder. But the connection is dead. There’s no one there.