Caroline Eriksson - The Missing

If only my mother could escape. She really shouldn’t have been here. She has nothing to do with any of this. Out of the corner of my eye, I see her slowly prop herself up on her elbow and move into a sitting position. Even though we’re in the same room, her voice sounds far away, like it’s coming from a great distance.

“I know exactly how you feel.”

I’m not the one she’s talking to. The psychologist stops and turns to look over her shoulder at my mother. Something flickers across her face. A tiny trace of hesitation. Then she goes back to what she was doing. She studies the tables and shelves, finds what she’s looking for. A lighter. She gets up, grabs it, and comes back to the pile of wood on the floor.

“In most cases,” my mother says, “I suppose people lie and try to hide their affairs. But not my husband. He enjoyed throwing them in my face, using them as a weapon when we argued. The simple truth is that he enjoyed hurting me.”

Mama is staring straight ahead. Her hair is in disarray, and her blouse is wrinkled, but she pays no attention to her appearance. Her words sound naked, entirely earnest. The psychologist’s hands are still moving, but am I right in thinking they’ve slowed down? Like she’s waiting for something? Mama goes on, still not looking at either of us.

“During our years together, he cheated on me constantly. There were always new women. I often dreamed about taking revenge. About scratching someone’s face to shreds. Grabbing some woman by her long hair and banging her skull against the ground. Destroying her. But later, I realized…”

The psychologist’s hands are shaking now. She fumbles with the lighter, not making any real attempt to produce a flame. Her long hair is hanging in front of her face, hiding her eyes. Several seconds pass.

A muted voice says from under the blond mane: “What did you realize?”

“That I was pointing my revenge fantasies in the wrong direction. That those women had nothing to do with it. That he was the one who had chosen to ruin the life we shared. He was the one who was destroying our life.”

I squeeze my eyes shut. Wanting and yet not wanting to listen. If Mama doesn’t stop, if she tells everything… Emotions are turning me inside out, growing so strong that I’m about to throw up again.

The psychologist’s thumb is moving up and down, flicking the lighter, but then letting it go out. She does this over and over.

“This is what he wants,” she says at last, almost defiantly. “He told me to.”

So Alex knows she’s here, knows about her plan. Not only does he know, he’s ordered it. He wants her to get rid of me. The room spins. I feel his hand on my cheek, the pat he gave me the morning when I told him I was going to leave. No, you won’t. And I hear his voice on the phone when he finally called. I wanted to give you a chance to come to your senses. It’s as simple as that. Make you realize that you can’t live without me. Realize that I can’t live without him. This was what he meant. Literally.

“I understand. And is he a good father? Will he be able to compensate for your absence while your daughter—Smilla is her name, right?—while Smilla is growing up?”

Mama’s voice is almost unnaturally calm. The psychologist frowns.

“What do you mean?”

Slowly, my mother scoots forward, closer to the other woman. Involuntarily, I clench my hands. The rope resists, chafing against my skin. The ax, Mama, you have to take the ax away from her. But my mother doesn’t lunge forward. Her reason for moving across the floor seems to be so she can look the woman in the eye. Force her to look up from the lighter and meet her gaze.

“Murder or arson. Both are very serious crimes. You’ll get a long prison sentence. Maybe life. I assume you’ve thought of that. And he has too. He must have taken that into consideration when he asked you to do this.”

Silence again. For a long time.

I feel a burning sensation on my face, and when I look up, I discover that the psychologist is staring at me. Clutching the lighter, she points her finger. Those piercing blue eyes bore into me, but she addresses her words to my mother.

“You stood by and watched your daughter kill your husband. Then you protected her, let everyone think it was an accident.”

Mama takes a deep breath, and I realize she is mustering her courage, trying to steady her voice.

“Is that what Greta told you? Is that what she said happened?”

The psychologist brushes back her hair and juts out her chin.

“No. Not in so many words. She didn’t dare confess, when it came down to it.”

She utters a joyless laugh.

“ It escapes me. That’s all she said. I remember it so well. She was obviously lying. Anyone would remember something like that.”

Mama doesn’t answer, just nods, as if to herself. Then she gets up from the floor, staggers the rest of the way over to the psychologist, and stands right next to her.

“That’s not what happened. Not really.”

She pauses for a moment, then kneels down again, leaning close to the woman. So close that they almost bump noses.

“I think you know what really happened. And why things had to turn out the way they did.”

I close my eyes. Time stands still. Silence is all that exists. Mama’s words hang ominously in the stifling air. Are they still looking at each other? If so, what do they see in each other’s eyes? My tongue feels dry and swollen in my mouth. My shoulder and head are pounding, just like the excruciating pounding of my heart.

After a minute, I hear footsteps approaching, sense someone squatting down next to me. Cautious fingertips stroke my cheek, and when I open my eyes and look up, Mama’s face is hovering above me. She smiles faintly.

“You poor thing,” she says. “All these years. And now this.”

Without hesitation, she leans down to untie the rope around my wrists. I expect the psychologist to stop her. I expect to see her come rushing over with the ax, yelling threats. But that doesn’t happen. After Mama manages to pull off the rope binding my hands, she turns her attention to my ankles. As she tugs and pulls at the knots, I cast a surreptitious glance at the psychologist. She’s sitting motionless on the rug, in front of the unlit pile of wood, her eyes locked on the lighter in her hand. After freeing me, Mama gets up with a muffled groan. Then she stands there, breathing hard for a moment before she again turns to the woman in the middle of the room.

“I’m going to the kitchen to get my daughter a glass of water. When I come back, I’ll tell you a story if you like, a story about mothers and daughters and what can happen to deceitful husbands. But you’ll have to put that down.”

Then she goes out of the room, leaving me alone with the psychologist. I feel my body stiffen. But the other woman doesn’t move. She doesn’t even glance in my direction. She’s just sitting there, holding the lighter between her thumb and index finger. I hear my mother moving around in the kitchen. I hear her turn the faucet on, then off. And then she’s back, carrying a big glass of water in her hand. She pulls me up into a partially seated position, with one arm around my back, and helps me drink. The feeling of cool water running down my parched throat is so exquisite it makes me giddy, and for a moment I forget all else.

After I empty the glass, Mama sets it on the end table. Then she turns to the psychologist. I follow her gaze, see the other woman hesitate briefly before she tosses the lighter aside. Mama goes over and picks it up.

“The ax too,” she says. “I can’t talk with that thing in the room.”

Without a word, the psychologist picks up the ax lying next to her on the floor. She stands up, weighing it in her hand. For a moment, it looks like she might actually comply, but then she changes her mind. The ax will stay. She makes do with lifting the nearest corner of the rug and sticking the ax underneath. Then she sits down in an armchair and wraps her arms around her torso without looking at either of us.