Caroline Eriksson - The Missing

Mama squared her shoulders and paused for a moment. Then she continued to the living room and looked in. I was still standing on the doormat and couldn’t see what Mama saw, but I heard what she said.

“You bastard!”

She took me over to Ruth’s. We already had our suitcases packed, and she dragged them along as we stormed out of the apartment. Nobody followed us; nobody tried to call us back. Despite pulling both suitcases, Mama was practically running. I was tired from the bus rides, not to mention sitting in the train station all afternoon, so I had a hard time keeping up. Besides, I was hungry. I begged her to slow down several times, but she never did.

As soon as Ruth opened the door, Mama burst into tears. Ruth motioned for us to come in and didn’t seem the least surprised by my mother’s reaction. Maybe she’d been through this before, on occasions when I wasn’t there. Ruth led us into the kitchen, pulled out a chair for Mama and then sat down too. I hesitantly looked around the apartment for something to occupy me, but I saw only books, crocheted tablecloths, and dried flowers. It occurred to me that Ruth was alone. Clearly no husband or children lived here. Just Ruth and two cats.

I played with the cats for a while, until they’d obviously had enough. Then I went back to the kitchen, where Mama and Ruth were emptying the dishwasher.

“But I still don’t understand it,” said Mama in despair. “How could he? How the hell could he?”

She handed some plates to her friend, who put them away in the cupboard. Ruth seemed a little stern, almost disapproving. She probably thought it was time for us to leave her alone. I suddenly felt completely exhausted. But it wasn’t just my body that was tired, it was all of me. I was worn out, sick of being dragged around.

“Mama, I want to go home.”

She didn’t answer. Didn’t even turn around. She just raised her hand and waved me away. As if she were swatting at an insect. Under normal circumstances, that would have been enough for me to give up and retreat, but I wasn’t thinking the same way I always had before. Things looked different now. I stared at my mother’s back. I was her child, and I was hungry and tired, but she didn’t seem to care. She didn’t care at all.

“I want to go home now!” I repeated, louder and more insistent.

She still didn’t turn around. Merely glanced over her shoulder to let me know that we were going to stay awhile longer. And she kept on talking to Ruth. I don’t know what it was, but at that moment, I felt something stab inside me, something that felt like a sharp spear. Before I knew it, I went over to Mama and yanked on her sweater.

“Right now!” I shouted.

Ruth pressed her lips together, in what was presumably an attempt to smile, with a faint, accusatory twitching at the corners of her mouth.

“Now, now, now!”

When Mama finally looked down at me, her face was stony. She pulled out of my grasp.

“Listen to me, Greta. We’re staying here until I say it’s time to go. Do you understand?”

Then she turned her back on me again, shutting me out. It was a familiar situation, but this time I had no intention of quietly complying. I was going to make my mother listen to me. I wasn’t going to settle for anything less than her full attention. The first time the words slipped out, they were so quiet I hardly heard them myself. When I said them again, I made a great effort to enunciate each word, feeling them rise up from my stomach and spill, full force, out of my mouth.

“You cunt!”

Everything stopped. Even time seemed to stand still. The words seemed to linger in the room, hovering over us for a moment. Only afterward did they seem real. Mama and Ruth stopped talking so abruptly that it was like someone had flipped a switch. As if in slow motion, Mama spun around to look at me. I saw her hand reach out, saw it come whistling through the air. And even before it struck my cheek, my face burned like a thousand fires.

All three of us stared at each other. None of us said a word. Ruth’s hand fluttered up to her mouth. Finally, Mama cracked, falling to her knees in front of me and wrapping me in her arms. It probably took no more than a few seconds, but it felt like an eternity before she made an effort to bridge the distance between us. The words poured out of her so quickly that I felt dizzy just listening to them.

“Greta, sweetie, I didn’t mean to… I just turned around and saw… You have to understand I didn’t mean to!”

She kept on talking without giving me a chance to reply or react. Of course she hadn’t meant to hit me; she was just upset and she turned around and saw me standing there, in the path of her hand. An unfortunate misunderstanding, that was all. After a while, she calmed down. Then a different look appeared in her eyes, and a different tone entered her voice.

“But I think it would be best if we didn’t mention this to anyone.”

Anyone. I knew at once who Mama meant. Papa. I wasn’t supposed to tell him. Not him. All of a sudden, she was anxious for me to say something, to show that I’d understood. So I promised. Promised not to reveal what had happened that day in Ruth’s kitchen. Not to anyone. Mama relaxed a little. Then she let go of me and stood up. And again turned away.

At that moment, my father’s fate was sealed. He had three months to live.

The girl stops in her tracks. Wide eyed, she looks from me to the ax. But only for a second. Then her gaze shifts, and she begins looking around, as if searching for something. Or checking to see if something is still there. I watch as she studies the ground nearby.

Only now do I discover that the little wooden cross at my feet isn’t the only one of its kind. At the edge of the clearing there are several more crosses, all of them made from sticks. And in front of each of them the earth and moss have been dug up and then put back in place. I’m in a forest cemetery.

The girl seems satisfied with her inspection, because a look of relief appears on her face.

“You haven’t disturbed them.”

“The graves?” I say. “Why would I disturb them?”

She gives me a long look without answering the question. I think I see shame in her expression. Then it changes again.

“So what are you doing here?”

She sounds like a landowner confronting a trespasser on her property.

“I’m looking for a cat,” I tell her. “What are you doing here?”

The girl shrugs, refusing to look me in the eye. Her long, dull black hair flutters in the breeze. On both sides of the part in her hair, the roots are blond, and in the dawn light I can see a lot of split ends. I can’t help thinking that she could use a good haircut. Some new clothes. And maybe a little mascara and lip gloss too. Then I remember my own sloppy attire, the way I’ve carelessly pinned up my hair and neglected to wash my face. Without my armor, I feel naked, vulnerable, exposed. From somewhere, the phrase The best defense is a good offense appears in my mind.

“Is this your creation? What exactly have you buried here?”

The girl gives me another of those long looks. As if she’s assessing me. I assume I’ll be found wanting and don’t expect her to answer. But this time, she does.

“I’m sure you know.”

Then she steps past me. I blink my eyes and slowly turn around. Mutely, I watch as my young namesake crouches down in front of the grave and carefully straightens the cross, getting it to stand more erect. Her words are ringing in my ears. Suddenly, everything falls into place. The girl and her scary friends. The knife with the bloodstained blade I found out on the island. The mutilated creature that lay next to it.