Caroline Eriksson - The Missing

“Mama, where are you? When are you coming home?”

I could hear in her voice that she missed me. She needed me, longed for me. For her mother. What Smilla had been forced to endure over the past few days, everything I hadn’t been able to protect her from… I needed to compensate for all that.

I don’t know how or why. I only know that I suddenly felt as if I were standing several feet above the ground. As if I’d risen from the ruins and shaken off the dust, stronger than ever before. Much had been lost, but not everything. I was going to fight for what remained, fight for what I had left. For what was mine.

I told Smilla I loved her, that she was the light of my life. I explained that Mama had to take care of something, but when that was done, I’d come home. Then she and Papa and I would live happily ever after. Then I asked to speak to Alex. As soon as I heard his voice on the phone, I told him where I was.

“The answer to your question,” I added, “is that I’m prepared to do whatever it takes, to go as far as necessary.”

I listened to my own voice, heard myself speaking with a composure I didn’t feel. Then I waited. It took a moment before Alex said anything. I heard a crackling and scraping, as if he were silently deliberating as he ran his fingertips over the phone.

“The cabin is insured,” he said at last. “If anything should happen, if it should, for instance… burn down. Then we’d get a lot of money. That might be something to keep in mind.”

My neck felt stiff as I turned my head to look back at the cabin. I was suddenly aware of it again, the chasm that my chest had become when Mother died. It opened once more, and hatred poured out. Finally, I knew where to direct that hatred. Toward whom.

“That project you went to Marhem to finish,” I then said. “Maybe I can help you with it.”

“Is that what you want?”

“If you do.”

“You would do that for me?”

“For us.”

I end the conversation and get out of the car again. I walk up to the cabin and try the door. It’s locked. I look under the steps, but the key isn’t there. There’s no turning back. I can’t lose my courage now. Without Alex and Smilla, I don’t exist. Without them, I’m nothing, have nothing. My eyes are stinging. Maybe with tears. But I pull myself together. Crying is not what I want to do. What I really want is to break your neck.

I never thought I had it in me. Until now. No, I really didn’t. But now… Nothing is the same. Not even me. Especially me. Who knows what I do or don’t have in me? To kill someone. I didn’t think I was capable of that. But maybe I was wrong. Behind the shed is an old oar. I go over and get it. Then I knock on the door.

When I come to, I’m lying stretched out on a hard surface. My head aches, but in a different way from before. The pain is much more intense and focused on one side, and my scalp feels tender.

I instinctively want to reach up to touch my head, but I can’t. My hands are bound, lying on my chest. With a sharp yank, I try again. The motion sends a surge of pain into my shoulder, as if it’s being slashed by dozens of sharp knives. It hurts so much I almost faint.

I hear a scraping noise nearby. A shadow is moving on the periphery of my vision, and I can make out a low murmuring sound. Gradually, images of what happened before the world went black return. The woman outside. Her scream. The oar in her hand.

Again I move my wrists, but this time more carefully. I can feel the rope tied around them. My vision is blurry, and I’m having a hard time moving or shifting position. With an enormous effort, resulting in more searing pain, I turn my head so I can see more of the room. Where am I? Soon I’ve connected the hard surface with the closest objects in my line of sight: the lower part of a sofa and the legs of a coffee table. We’re still in the cabin. I’m lying on the rug in the living room. She must have dragged me in here when I passed out. The tenderness on my scalp makes me think she dragged me by my hair.

Hesitantly, I move my legs, not surprised to find that they too are tied. I close my eyes again, feel the pain throbbing in my head and shoulder. A lethargy bordering on surrender spreads through my body. Even if I wasn’t bound, I probably couldn’t move, much less get up and flee. There’s nothing I can do. Nothing except wait and see what happens.

The sound of cupboards being opened and closed in the kitchen reaches my ears. A hissing noise, then the clinking of glass striking glass, and after that, the sound of liquid pouring. Firm footsteps approaching.

“Here,” says a stern voice. “Drink this.”

I force my eyes open, and at first I have a hard time focusing. Then I glimpse a glass held out to me. The hand holding the glass is thin and pale. The same hand that once closed around my wrist and held me back, forcing me to listen. Next time you encounter an overwhelming or surprising situation, the pattern will repeat itself. Things are going to get worse for you. And you risk being knocked off balance. In the worst-case scenario, that sort of state of mind could have very unfortunate consequences. For you, or for those close to you. My former psychologist. And Smilla’s mother. They’re the same person. The faceless wife, the woman in the wings who had never seemed more real to me than a cardboard figure. It’s her. The whole time, it was her. It doesn’t seem possible. It’s crazy. But that’s how it is.

Even if I’d wanted to take the glass, I couldn’t. The woman grunts impatiently, as if it’s my fault that I’m tied up. She sets the glass down, seems to realize that I’ll need some help to drink. She grabs me under the arms and harshly pulls me into a sitting position. I scream from the pain in my shoulder, but it doesn’t faze her.

She props me up against the sofa, poking at me until my body seems to achieve some semblance of balance. Like I’m a sack of potatoes. An inanimate object. Then she holds the glass to my lips.

“Come on, drink this.”

My throat is parched from thirst, and I obey, opening my mouth and taking a big swig. I feel a burning in my throat and instantly realize my mistake. Why would she give me liquor? I reflexively turn my head away from the glass and spit in disgust, trying to get rid of every last drop.

“What… why…?”

My tongue feels dry and swollen, and I can’t control it. But the disjointed words I utter seem to set her off.

“I know all about you two. Alex told me. I even know about the baby. A baby. You’re expecting his child. You must realize that’s something I simply can’t accept.”

She leans closer, and I catch a whiff of shampoo. A sweet, floral scent. Like Smilla. She smells exactly like Smilla.

“All right. Now drink the rest.”

Her words ricochet off the walls as she holds the glass out to me. I look her in the eyes. They’re light blue, the pupils small and piercing. Were they like that back then? When she sat across from me in her armchair and patiently listened to my evasive accounts of what might be really bothering me? Every question I asked was countered with another question. She never told me a thing about herself. Now she’s sitting in front of me again, the same woman, and yet she’s infinitely different from the one I knew back then.

A baby. You’re expecting his child. I simply can’t accept that. She doesn’t intend to get me drunk. She’s planning something else. We stare at each other. The hatred radiating from her is so intense that it’s almost palpable. Did she possess that hatred back then? Concealed beneath the calm façade?