Caroline Eriksson - The Missing

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.

I was always the spectator. The one who stood outside and looked in, who eavesdropped whenever Mama cried on the phone to Ruth, who secretly listened to Mama and Papa when they fought. But on that night, the last night, I finally became a participant. Instead of tiptoeing back to my own room, I went into my parents’ room, drawn by a force stronger than any I’d ever experienced in my eight years of life.

“I know what you did to Greta. Hit your own child? How could you?”

The hurled accusation carried me back to the event I’d tried so hard to suppress. I had been urged not to speak of it. Now it was suddenly a weapon in my parents’ battle. Mulle stayed on the floor where I’d dropped him. They were still arguing. But the slap, the fact that one of them had raised a hand to their daughter, was no longer the focus. Now the fight was about something else, someone else.

How quickly my parents had moved on, how easily they’d left behind my shock, pain, and humiliation. Everything I’d been forced to bear was now reduced to only a few seconds of their time and attention. As I stood there in the hallway, emotions flooded over me, took possession of me. I was—there’s only one word for it. I was furious.

It took a while before they noticed me. Or rather, when they noticed, it was already too late. Papa was too busy flinging truths in Mama’s face to pay any attention to me. Mama had partially turned away. I saw her stony face gradually dissolve until only a gaping mouth and two desperate eyes remained. Even then, Papa kept at it, spewing more poison, firing off more damaging shots.

I stood there, staring at them, and at that moment, something happened, something that changed my worldview. My father. The man who gave me lovely presents and played with me, who said I was sweet and roughhoused with me in the kitchen while he made breakfast. That father was still there somewhere, under the layers of scorn, lies, and betrayal. But I couldn’t see him anymore. The man sitting on the sill was somebody else. A horrible man. A cruel man. Someone who tormented Mama. Who made her life hell. And when I thought again about that slap, I had a different feeling inside.

I took a step forward and joined my parents in their violent shadow play. Who made the first move? Who did what? It escapes me.

Afterward, I sat in my room and waited. Numb from shock and shame. The paramedics came and went. The police came and went. Before they left, I heard them say to Mama that it would be good if she asked someone to come over and stay with her, that they would gladly call someone for her. I didn’t need to hear my mother’s reply to know what she would say. There was no one to call. No one. The uniformed officers closed the door behind them, leaving me and Mama alone in the apartment. Since Mama was no longer wailing or crying but lying quietly in her room, they probably thought she would take care of me when they were gone. But she didn’t come. I sat there alone.

The darkness lasted an eternity. It got light outside and then dark again. And suddenly, finally, Ruth was standing in the doorway. She said a few words to me, I can’t remember what exactly. Then she went to stand in front of the closed door to what was now only Mama’s room. I saw her back straighten as she took in a deep breath and knocked. I couldn’t hear what they said to each other in there. But after a while, Ruth came back out, pale as a ghost. She ran past my room, gave me a horrified look, and disappeared. That was the last time I saw her.

A little while later, Mama appeared in front of me, leaning on the doorjamb. I blinked. I could hardly believe it was true. Finally, she was here with me again. Moving stiffly, she came over and took me in her arms. I closed my eyes, knowing what would come next. We would talk. We would talk for a long time about guilt and remorse, about responsibility and reconciliation. About justice. And about punishment. I dreaded it. I was already crying. At the same time, I understood there was no avoiding it. There was no other way.

“So,” whispered Mama. “It’s over now. We will move on, you and I. And we’ll stick together. You can count on me.”

I waited, but that was all she said. Surprised, I raised my head and looked into Mama’s eyes. She stared back, her expression somber, until I realized that was all she intended to say. And she didn’t expect me to say anything either. What had happened would remain our secret, hers and mine. There would be no request for forgiveness, not here or in any other context. Silently, my mother lifted her hand, palm up, and held it out toward me.

I stared at it, filled with conflicting emotions. As if I were being pushed down and flying free all at once. Weighted down. But also relieved. I was only eight years old, too young to have any choice. Yet I did choose. I placed my hand in Mama’s. From that moment on, it was just the two of us. And we would stick together, just like Mama said. At all costs we would stick together.

Wispy bright clouds cover the sun, and a light haze hovers over Marhem. I shove open the glass door to the deck and take a good look around before going out in the yard. The grass is damp. It must have rained in the night. It’s pointless to look for tracks, but that’s what I do all the same. I’m chewing on a stale cracker to counter the nausea. As my body moves around the property, my eyes search the lawn. Yet it’s as if I’m watching myself, surprised I can behave so calmly, so normally, considering everything that’s happened over the past few days.

Part of me thinks my agitated brain could have easily misinterpreted what I saw last night. That sort of thing happens when a person is under stress. What I saw outside the living-room window could have been a deer, or even the shadow of a tree. But another part of me knows. It knows exactly what I saw, who I saw. And somehow that makes me feel relieved rather than scared.

I redo my makeup, applying extra powder to my throat, and manage to eat half a bowl of yogurt. I tear off a piece of paper and start writing a grocery list. Milk, fruit, bread. Then I put down the pen and stare at the banal words on the page. If I’m planning to buy food, it must mean I intend to stay here. The thought leaves me surprisingly unmoved. All right, I think. All right, then that’s what I’ll do . I feel something stirring inside me. Something is about to happen. An itching sensation, as if I’m about to slough off my skin. Soon I’ll shed the old husk and step forward as my true self. As the person I’ve always been but have tried to hold back.

My gaze shifts to Smilla’s Barbie dolls, which are still lying on the kitchen floor. I note with amusement that one of the blond girls is lying on top of Ken’s face, covering his nose and mouth with her body. His arms are stretched up, as if flailing wildly for air. But he’s not going to get away. Barbie has him in her power. Closing my eyes for a moment, I take a deep breath, summoning renewed strength. I made a difficult decision. I did the right thing, chose the only possible option. There was no alternative. Then I think about Smilla, and the guilt returns at once. I can’t get rid of it that easily. I steel myself, stand up, and cast another glance at the dolls on the floor. You have to let go of Smilla. You know that in your heart. You have to.

Slowly, I go back to the living room and over to the window facing the yard. I stand so close that the tip of my nose touches the pane. For a long time, I stare at the spot where the dark figure stood. I stare so hard that my vision finally splinters and blurs. Just like the other day, when I stood in front of the hall mirror, I suddenly see another face, a face that seems to merge with my own. Her eyes and my eyes fuse, and we are staring straight into the darkness inside both of us. The darkness that we share. She is me. I am her. Maybe there’s something I can do, after all. Maybe it’s not too late.