The Missing

8

In the middle of the lake, I reduce speed and finally cut the motor completely. I take off my shoes and lean over the side of the boat to rinse them. I tell myself that another animal could have attacked that squirrel. Maybe a fox or a cat. I don’t want to think about the knife lying nearby or what it might have been used for. I throw up again, this time into the lake. The vomit claws at my throat. I wipe my mouth with the back of my hand and then have to rinse that off too.

With an effort, I force myself to focus on what I should do next. My search was fruitless, but I can’t give up. I refuse to give up. Again, I picture Smilla’s smiling face, her dimples and chubby cheeks. Feeling a pang in my heart, I straighten my spine to summon more strength. Then I survey the area around me. Lake Malice is big, much too big for me to take in its whole expanse from this position. But what I do see can only be described as a summer paradise. Glinting sunlight, gentle ripples on the water, numerous docks where skiffs and small motorboats bob at their moorings, and two separate swimming areas, one of them with a diving tower. All around the lake are cottages and cabins of various sizes. Some of them are set so close to the shore that I can see the red-painted gables and flagpoles. Others, like the cabin that belongs to Alex’s family, are clustered farther from the water.

I twist around to look first in one direction, then the other. I let my gaze sweep along the shore, moving from house to house. No sign of life anywhere. The summer’s over, and Marhem’s sun-worshippers are gone. For most people, fall means a return to daily routines, to school and their jobs. That’s one of the reasons why we came now. For some peace and quiet. To be alone.

The breeze picks up, spraying cold drops onto my arms. I shiver, noticing the clenching in my stomach. Something is moving in there, something that is me, and yet is not me. Maybe it’s not just the summer that’s over. Maybe life as I know it is coming to an end. How can I go on? Will I be able to handle all this? Or will it defeat me?

Suddenly, I’m sitting very close to the side of the boat, leaning over and staring into the dark water. Something is drawing me down, down. I can’t look away, can’t even blink. Then I hear something. It gets louder, rising from a muted humming to a whirring, then to a whispering, a hissing. Like a distant voice, the sound rises up from the water, becoming more frightening, more ominous. I shudder, realizing that I should get out of here. I should clap my hands over my ears and close my eyes. But I seem to have lost all ability to blink or to turn away. And my hands are clamped on the gunwale of the boat. Out of the corner of my eye I see my knuckles, hard and white.

Then I lift up, raising my body until I’m no longer sitting down but leaning forward over the side. I am physically doing the moving, but I’m not the one in charge, not the one deciding. Someone—or something—else has taken command of my body. I feel a rocking under my feet. My weight tips the side of the boat, taking me closer to Lake Malice’s dark, mysterious eddies. As if the lake is opening for me, wanting to make the decision easier. A slight movement would be enough, a step forward, a leap into the air. That would be sufficient. I would slice through the surface of the water and then continue down into the deep. That’s all I would need to do. Nothing more, never anything more. I would simply fall. Fall freely, out of time, through eternity. Like Papa. Exactly like Papa.