Caroline Eriksson - The Missing

“What exactly are you planning to do?”

Mama’s question goes unanswered. There is a stiff quality to the psychologist’s body language. She holds the ax tightly in both hands. My eyes are fixed on my mother’s face. On her upper lip, where tiny beads of sweat have formed. For a long moment, no one speaks. Then Mama slowly stretches out her hand toward the ax.

“Give it to me,” she says. “Give it to me so you don’t do something you’ll regret.”

It’s that tone of voice, controlled and authoritative, that I know so well. I feel a prickling under my skin when I hear it. No, Mama, don’t. Don’t do it.

“You don’t want to do this,” Mama continues coaxing. “Not really.”

“Be quiet.”

The psychologist steps to the side, blocking my view. I can’t see my mother’s face anymore. I can only hear her voice.

“I think that deep inside you’re a smart and sensible woman. You’re extremely angry right now. You know you can’t harm Greta. You know it wouldn’t be right.”

Dread is swelling into a howl inside of me. A tiny muscle in the psychologist’s jaw is pulsing. Don’t you see it, Mama? Don’t you understand?

“Shut up and sit still.”

But Mama doesn’t do as she’s told. She gets up so that she’s standing face-to-face with the woman, both of them the same height.

“Let me tell you about my daughter.”

“I’m warning you.”

“Because if you knew Greta the way I do, if you knew what she’s like, you’d never be able to harm her.”

Something in Mama’s voice touches me, and the dread gives way to something new. But that lasts only a moment. Then the psychologist raises her voice. Her hand jabs out, and as she shoves Mama to the floor, she screams so loud it makes my ears ring.

“I do know. I know exactly what your daughter is. She’s a whore and a murderer!”

She spins around, moving so fast that her blond hair whips through the air. She fixes her smoldering gaze on me. Lifts the ax. And lunges forward.

I must have closed my eyes, because for a moment the world went black. Then I hear a scream, and I open my eyes. A few feet away, Mama is lying on the floor, one arm stretched toward me. Standing between us, next to the coffee table, is the psychologist. Her arms go up and then come down. The ax plunges with terrible ferocity through the air and strikes its target, chopping it in two. The table protests with a loud creaking that is swiftly and mercilessly silenced when it splits in half after she’s repeatedly hit it. Instinctively, I turn away to protect my face and the front of my body. With unseeing eyes, I stare under the sofa, listening to the butchering of the table going on behind my back. Something hard hits my hip, and a dry, lifeless tile comes flying and lands on my face, which is covered with cold sweat.

After what seems like an eternity, I no longer hear the sound of the ax whistling through the air or the wood shattering to pieces. For a few long moments, I don’t dare turn around, afraid of what I’ll find. But finally, I cautiously roll over to face the room. The object on my hip falls to the floor and rolls away. It’s one of the table legs. The remains of the coffee table are scattered all over the living room, in pieces big and small.

Mama is still lying on the rug. She has her hands over her ears, and she’s whimpering quietly. The officious expression and sensible tone of voice have vanished. Her controlled façade has cracked, the protective armor has been stripped away. Now she is simply herself. Simply my mother. The psychologist sinks to her knees in front of her and pulls my mother’s hands away from her ears.

“Now it’s your turn to listen as I tell you a little about your beloved daughter. Do you know that she seduced a married man, a family man? My husband, Smilla’s father.”

My mother peers over the woman’s shoulder to look at me. Beneath the fear, I read the agonizing questions in her eyes as clearly as if she’d spoken them aloud. So this is the woman who…? It’s her husband you’ve…? And the child you’re carrying…? I look away, as pain and exhaustion take over again.

The psychologist sits cross-legged on the rug, piling up pieces of the broken table. She moves mechanically. Her hair is tucked behind her ears, leaving her face visible and unobstructed. My vision is sharper now, and I see her clearly, noting the tense features, and the dark smudges under her eyes. I see you. I mean, I really see you. I truly do. And I want you to know that. Did he once say the same things to her? Was that how it started for her too?

“The part about your husband…”

Mama’s voice is faint, wheezing. She leaves the sentence unfinished. Instead, she starts from a different angle.

“But murderer… I don’t understand why you’d say that… What do you mean?”

The psychologist doesn’t seem worried about having her back to Mama. And in spite of what just happened, the woman doesn’t seem to have reconsidered her decision not to tie her up. I suddenly realize why. She knows she’s holding the trump card, that as soon as she replies, the final blow will be delivered, rendering my mother helpless.

“Several years ago, before all this happened, your daughter was one of my clients. She came only a few times, but she told me… Well, let me put it this way: I know about your dirty little secret. That your daughter pushed her father, your husband, out the window. That she killed him.”

Silence falls like a lid over the room. For a long time, I can’t bring myself to look at my mother. But finally I have to, of course. She’s lying on her side, looking up at the ceiling, with her lips parted. I can’t take my eyes off her face. It looks like it’s been smashed to smithereens, and then somebody put the pieces back in all the wrong places. I haven’t seen that expression in years. Not since that night. Then her gaze slides across the ceiling, down the wall, down to meet my own.

“You told her? I thought we promised each other never to tell anyone what happened.”

For the first time in ages, I see something small and pitiful in her eyes. Something helpless.

“Mama. Please. I was eight years old.”

Maybe I say it out loud, maybe I only think the words. I’m not sure, because of the pain and feverish chills. Mama’s gaze clouds and turns inward. She slips away from me, inside herself.

“Yes, of course.” At least that’s what I think she murmurs. “Of course.”

The psychologist keeps working, with great concentration, moving quickly. After a while, she turns to the magazine rack and pulls out a stack of newspapers. She tears them up with the same ferocity with which she attacked the coffee table. Then she places some of the torn pages under the piled-up pieces of wood, others on top. The ax is lying in her lap as she sits there cross-legged.

With a start, I realize what she’s doing. She’s building a fire.

A tiny swirl of nausea rises in my stomach. So that’s her plan. To light a fire here on the floor. To dash out as soon as the flames take hold and blockade the front door. She probably already closed and locked all the windows while I was out cold.

I won’t be able to get out once the fire starts. Even if I could stand up and stagger to the door, the woman wouldn’t allow me to escape the flames. She’s going to do everything she can to make sure I stay inside the cabin until it’s totally engulfed. By that time, it will all be over, of course. How long does it take for a room to fill with smoke, for all the oxygen to be used up? No more than a few minutes.

I turn my head to the side, open my mouth, and let the vomit pour out. I feel like I’m falling, sinking. There’s no hope of rescue.