Caroline Eriksson - The Missing

“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.