Caroline Eriksson - The Missing

Before I leave the cabin, I go to refill the cat’s bowl but suddenly stop. Where is Tirith? He didn’t sleep on the bed with me last night. In fact, I haven’t seen him all morning, haven’t heard his companionable meowing like I usually do. I look in the living room again, but there’s no soft ball of fur curled up on the sofa. Then I remember that I put him outside. When was that? I frown. Yesterday? It must have been yesterday. But I can’t recall the exact time of day. The hours are all jumbled together, and the more I strain to sort them out, the more they blur, sliding in and out of each other.

On the road outside, it’s now impossible to see any marks in the gravel from the nighttime visitor. The rain has washed away all trace. A sheen of rain covers the windshield of my car, and I imagine that someone used their finger to draw a pattern, connecting the drops. A pattern or a greeting. I wish I could take the car, but that’s not possible where I’m going. The forest road around the lake is too narrow in places, besides being very bumpy. But my lower back and hips are aching, so walking isn’t an option either.

There’s a dilapidated shed behind the cabin. Back there, I find things that Alex must have cleared away, intending to throw them out. A rusty watering can, an inflatable wading pool faded from the sun, and a single oar. Leaning against the wall is an old bicycle. I bend down to test the tires. They seem to have enough air, so I roll the bike out to the road, get on, and start pedaling. I pass the same deserted cabins, the same abandoned patio furniture that I saw yesterday. The bicycle creaks and clatters. The closer I get to my goal, the faster my heart is hammering. And it’s not just from physical exertion.

I don’t really know what I was expecting, but when I reach the spot where I first met those kids, no one is there. For a long time, I simply stand still, wondering what to do next. All my senses are on alert, and I listen intently, but the only thing I hear is the distant roar of heavy traffic. On the other side of the tall, densely packed trees that surround the lake is the highway leading to town. That’s nearly impossible to believe from this location, which feels so remote and far away from everything called civilization.

I lean the bike against a tree trunk and cautiously make my way to the ditch where I first saw the girl yesterday. Even though I’m careful, the damp quickly soaks through my sneakers. My sandals with the straps and heels are still back in the front hall of the cabin, and the T-shirt I have on is old and faded. Marhem is slowly wearing me down, peeling off my armor. Exposing me. My daily practice of putting on mascara and powder and blush will soon be the only routine I have left. Habits. Rituals. A means of fighting back, a desperate effort to keep from losing my grip altogether.

Finally I reach the lake, right where those boys were standing before the girl noticed me, before the boys rushed up to surround me on the road. I shudder, but then quickly brush the memory aside. I can’t let the memory stop me. A short distance away, at the water’s edge, are two rowboats. Are those the boats I saw moored at the island yesterday? The ones the kids used to row out there? They must be the same ones. I touch my shoulder, feel the tender bruised spot. I flinch when, out of the corner of my eye, I see something move. I catch a glimpse of a shadowy figure among the trees, but when I blink and then look up again, it’s gone.

A suffocating pressure builds in my chest. I shouldn’t be here. I really shouldn’t. And yet I refuse to leave. I move closer until I’m standing next to the boats. One of them is an old wooden flat-bottomed rowboat. The other is more modern, made of plastic and fiberglass. Once upon a time, it must have been white, but now the bow is a dirty gray. The scratched stripes painted on the sides look like they were originally navy blue. Something pulls me even closer, and I peer over the gunwale. The bottom of the boat is filled with a few inches of water, probably from last night’s downpour. But the water isn’t clear. It’s streaked with red. Lying under the seat in the stern is a clotted lump smeared dark red. As big as an aborted fetus.

I lurch back and bump right into a tree. Except it’s not a tree. It’s a person. I spin around, and there we stand, face-to-face.

“I had a feeling you’d come back,” says the girl. “But this has to be the last time.”

My initial feeling is relief. The same sense of relief I had when I saw the dark figure on the lawn outside the cabin last night. You’re alive. You weren’t the one screaming on the island yesterday, you weren’t the one they had hurt. Then she gives me a shove in the chest and I stumble backward. I stare at her, looking at her clenched fists and peering into the trees behind her. The girl seems to read my mind.

“I’m alone,” she says. “But you won’t be that lucky next time. If you’re smart, you’ll stay away from here. Don’t come back! Leave us alone!”

There’s something about her voice. It sounds more anxious than threatening. As if she wants to protect me. And she has lowered her hands. My pulse slows a bit. I have a reason for being here. But first I need to win her trust, show that I’m taking her seriously.

“What are you trying to warn me against? What might happen?”

She snorts. “You don’t want to mess with Jorma. You should have realized that by now.”

I brush a few stray strands of hair out of my face and study her more closely. I wonder how old she is. Under the dark-colored man’s shirt she’s wearing, I can’t see even a slight swelling of breasts. But that’s not really surprising, considering how thin she is.

“Jorma? Is that his name? Your boyfriend?”

A splotchy blush colors the girl’s cheeks.

“He’s not my… We’re not exactly…”

I wonder whether they’re sleeping together. Then I shake my head. Of course they are. I hear a snapping sound from the trees, and I freeze. But no Jorma comes rushing toward us. Not yet. I swallow hard, realizing that it’s only a matter of time before he or one of the other boys shows up. I need to hurry if I’m going to say what I’ve come here to say. It’s now or never.

“You don’t have to put up with this.”

My words surprise her. I watch her blink, then she says:

“What… what do you mean?”

She pretends not to understand, but I can see her looking at my throat. She can’t help staring. In her eyes, I see her answer. I see the truth. I take a step closer but restrain myself from reaching out to take hold of her arms.

“What’s your name?”

“Greta,” she says at last.

Greta? The same name. That too. I summon my courage and go on.

“Listen to me now, Greta. If he treats you badly… Don’t let him get away with it. You have to strike back, free yourself.”

The corner of her eye twitches.

“I’m not—” she begins.

But I’m too impatient to let her finish. I have no time for excuses.

“You can say what you like, but in your heart you know that you’re looking for a way out. You’re looking for someone who can help you. That’s why you came to my cabin. That’s why you stood in the yard outside the window last night. Because you know that I’m like you.”

I instantly see that I’ve made a mistake; I’ve gone too far. Until now the girl has barely moved as she listened, but from one second to the next her face darkens.

“That’s not why,” she snarls.

Somehow things have taken a wrong turn. I’ve said too much or said something wrong. The fragile connection between us has crumbled. But I can’t stop myself. I’m still filled with the thought of what we have in common, convinced that she needs me.