Caroline Eriksson - The Missing

The little motorboat slices through the water with the precision of a knife. The sun is low in the sky; it’s getting late on this evening at the end of summer. I’m sitting in the bow, closing my eyes to the water spraying up into my face, fighting against the nausea that churns inside my body and matches the movement of the boat. If only he would slow down a little, I think. And as if he has read my mind, that’s exactly what Alex does. I turn around to face him. He’s sitting in the stern with one hand on the tiller of the outboard motor. His whole being emanates masculinity and control. His shaved head, his clenched jaw, the furrow of concentration on his brow. Men aren’t usually described as beautiful, but that’s what Alex is. I’ve always thought so. And I still do.

Without warning, he shuts off the motor. The boat swerves in a small arc and then sinks back into the water. Smilla sways as she sits on the thwart between us. I lean forward and put my arms around her, holding on until she regains her balance. Instinctively she grabs hold of my hand with her little fingers, and a wave of warmth surges inside me. Now that the growl of the motor no longer fills the air, there is only silence. Smilla’s fine, flaxen hair curls at the nape of her neck, less than an inch from my face. I’m just about to lean forward and bury my nose in the soft strands when Alex reaches for the oars.

“Do you want to try?”

Smilla instantly lets go of me and springs up.

“Come on, then,” says Alex with a smile. “Papa’s going to show you how to row.”

He holds out his hand to her, helping her take the few steps to the stern. Once safely there, she sits down on his lap and happily pats him on the knee. Alex shows her how to hold the oars, and they slowly begin to row together. Smilla laughs, gurgling with delight the way only she can. I stare at the little dimples on her left cheek until my vision blurs. Then I turn to look out at the lake, losing myself in its expanse.

Alex claims the lake “probably has an official name in some public record,” but around here no one calls it anything but “Malice.” That’s not all he says. He also tells stories, each one more gruesome than the last, about the lake and what locals say it’s capable of doing. Tales warning that the waters have long been cursed and that their evil can seep into people, twisting their souls and making them commit horrific deeds. Children and adults alike have disappeared without a trace. Blood has been spilled. According to legend, that is.

An uncanny, plaintive sound echoes across the water, interrupting my thoughts. I turn toward it and notice out of the corner of my eye that Alex and Smilla have done the same. We hear it again. A low, throaty sound that rises to a hoarse, hooting shriek. A fluttering and then a dark shadow hurtles toward the surface of the lake a short distance away. The next instant, it’s gone without the slightest splash or ripple, seemingly swallowed up by the water. Alex puts one arm around Smilla, stretching out his other hand to point.

“A loon,” he explains. “Sometimes thought to be a prehistoric bird. Probably because of the sound it makes. A lot of people think it’s scary.”

He turns toward me, but I’m looking at Smilla and refuse to meet his eye. For a long moment, Smilla stares hard at the spot where the loon disappeared. Finally, she turns to Alex to ask him worriedly whether the bird is ever going to come up to breathe. He laughs, strokes her hair, and tells her the loon can stay underwater for several minutes. She shouldn’t worry. “Besides,” he adds, “it rarely comes up in the same place where it disappeared.”

Alex picks up the oars to resume rowing the rest of the way. Smilla goes back to the middle of the boat to sit down, this time turned away from me. I study her profile from an oblique angle, seeing the soft curve of her cheek as she keeps searching the surface of the lake. The bird. She can’t stop thinking about the bird, wondering where it is now and whether it can really survive so long underwater. I lift my hand, wanting to stroke her thin back to reassure her. At that moment, Smilla shifts position so I can no longer see her face. Alex is smiling at her, and I understand that she’s smiling back. Trusting him. Relying on him. If Papa says the bird will be okay, then it will.

There are only about thirty feet to the island now. The small island in the middle of Lake Malice. That’s where we’re headed. I look down into the water, trying to pierce the surface with my eyes. With some effort, I can make out the bottom below us, overgrown with swaying reeds. The water is getting shallower. Algae floats upward, wrapping around the hull like long, slimy green fingers. Tall reeds rise up next to the boat and bend over our heads. When we run aground, Alex stands up and climbs past Smilla and me. His movements make the boat rock beneath us. I grip the gunwale and close my eyes until it stops.

Alex loops a mooring line around the nearest tree trunk and carefully ties it tight. Then he holds out his hand, and Smilla unsnaps her life vest as she totters past me. In her hurry, she manages to step on my foot and jab her elbow into my right breast. I yelp loudly, but she doesn’t notice. Or if she does, she doesn’t care. She’s so eager to get to her father that nothing else matters. Anyone who sees them together can tell that Smilla loves Alex more than anything in the world. When we left the cabin and headed for the dock, she insisted on walking, or rather skipping, next to him. The slanting rays of the sun broke through the spruce branches along the narrow forest path; Smilla was happily chattering. Soon she and Papa would be going ashore on a desert island! Just like real pirates. Smilla was the pirate princess, and Papa could be… maybe the pirate king? Smilla laughed and tugged at Alex’s hand. She couldn’t get to the lake fast enough, while I walked several paces behind.

Now I glance up at them as they stand next to each other. Smilla is leaning against Alex with her soft little arms wrapped around his leg. An unbreakable unit. Father and daughter. The two of them on shore while I’m still sitting in the boat. This time, Alex holds out his hand to me, raising one eyebrow. I hesitate, and he notices.

“Come on. This is supposed to be a family outing, sweetheart.”

He grins. My gaze shifts to Smilla, and our eyes meet. There’s something about the way she’s jutting out her little chin.

“You two go ahead,” I say brusquely. “I’ll wait here.”

Alex makes one more halfhearted attempt to get me to come, but when I shake my head again, he shrugs and turns to Smilla. He makes a silly face, and her eyes shine with excitement.

“Watch out, everybody on the island! Here come Papa Pirate and Smilla, the pirate princess!” Alex shouts.

As Alex shouts these words, he picks up Smilla, throws her over his shoulder, and starts running up the slope. One side of the island is steeper than the other, and that’s where we’ve come ashore. But Alex refuses to let the incline slow him down. I can almost feel the lactic acid in his legs. And the dizzy feeling in Smilla’s tummy as she hangs upside down. Then they reach the top of the hill and disappear from view.