Caroline Eriksson - The Watcher

So if something happens to Philip during their hike tomorrow, if he turns his back for a second and gets shoved off a cliff, then you’ll be free? Free of responsibility, free of guilt?

There’s nothing I can do, nothing at all.

That’s not true. There is something you can do. Or rather, allow to be done.

I take another step backward, then stop and think that thought one more time, testing it in all seriousness. Then I nod to myself. OK, then, it’s decided. I won’t write a line until the Storms, both of them, return safe and sound from tomorrow’s excursion.

I won’t write a single word. All I’ll do is wait, wait until they come home.

Or not.

So this is how it’s going to end?

I’m teetering on the edge. I turn around and our eyes meet, hers the same ones that once looked into mine at the altar in that picturesque little village church. That day they were filled with tears and emotion then, but now they’re black with the hatred of revenge. And I see decisiveness in her face, a purposefulness that hasn’t been there for a long time. Only now does it occur to me that what’s about to happen is not a coincidence. My wife has been waiting for an opportunity like this. She wants to see me dead.

This whole time I’ve been worried about her… Suddenly I realize that I should have been afraid for myself.

There’s so much I could think about, so many images that should flash before my eyes, but all I can picture is the church where we got married.

How did it get to be like this? How did we end up here?

Everything is happening so quickly, and yet this moment lasts for an eternity. She comes closer, right up beside me. She raises one hand, then the other. Soon I’ll fall. Soon I’ll be dashed to pieces. Soon it will be over.

Three, two, one.

Now.

But wait… Instead of giving me the little shove needed to send me tumbling into the abyss, my wife reaches her hand out to me. I take it. I have no choice other than to take it, and her palm is warm against mine as she pulls me close, away from the abyss that had opened up at my feet only a moment ago. I’m not going to fall. I’m safe. My paralysis eases and, panting, I collapse against her.

I become aware of her hand on my shoulder and look up. Her eyes look normal again. Where did the black hatred go? Was it there at all, or did I just imagine it? Could my fear have warped my impression?

“Get up,” she says quietly.

My legs are trembling, but I get to my feet, again with the help of her hand and her support. Then I stand close to her, not knowing whether I should take her in my arms or back away.

“What happened back then,” she says, “what I did, you know, the scar on my stomach.”

I nod and swallow.

“That wasn’t all.”

I stare at her.

“Not all? What… what do you mean?”

She does not break our eye contact. Her gaze doesn’t waver.

“There’s something I haven’t told you.”

Then she starts talking.

She talks and talks.

And when she’s done, everything has changed. Again.

They’re home.

I see them arrive, crossing the grass as I stand at my kitchen window peering out. Veronica comes first with Philip a few steps behind. My eyes scan from the one to the other, checking their elegant clothes and neatly done hair. No windbreakers, hiking boots, or tidy backpacks, so Philip’s surprise seems to have been something other than a hike. They don’t seem particularly affectionate with each other, but they’re alive, both of them. Regardless of where they’ve been, regardless of how they spent the day, neither of them killed the other. Of course not. They’re very simply not like that. She isn’t like that. I suppose I knew that, deep down inside.

With my phone in hand, I walk into the living room. I promised myself I wouldn’t write until the Storms returned home. Now there’s nothing standing in my way of returning to my text, aside from one thing. There’s something I need to do first, something I can’t get out of. I stand in front of the books for a while and squeeze the edge of the bookshelf, as if it will give me strength. Sadness moves like a big lump within me. But there is something else, too, an emotion with sharper edges.

I enter the number and listen for the ringtone. Peter answers on the second ring.

“Elena,” he says, and I’d thought I was prepared, but hearing his voice—hearing him say my name—overwhelms me.

Tears well up in my eyes. Not that I’ve been unaware of the longing and the emptiness within me, but it’s as if it’s been hidden behind a transparent veil. Now, as Peter’s voice hits me, that veil is pulled away and everything is exposed, naked and unfathomable.

Maybe he understands that I need a moment to collect myself before he asks a few questions, wonders how I’m doing and if I’m coping. I could respond with something every bit as mundane, something about how things are going, that I’m managing. I could ask him about work, about his parents, or if he’s run into any of the people we used to call our mutual friends. But I can’t get myself to make small talk, not now, not with him.

“There’s something… there’s something I need to ask you, something important.”

Peter’s voice is tinged with hopefulness. He says that he understands, that he wants to talk, too, that that’s why he suggested we meet. He can meet pretty much any time. I can choose—whenever it suits me best. He can make some food at home or we can meet somewhere in the city if I’d prefer. At home. Those words stand out from the others, loom up and come toward me. To be able to go home again. But no, I know that won’t do. It’s much too soon for that.

“I don’t mean like that,” I mumble. “I can’t see you, not yet. I’m in the middle of… in the middle of something.”

He clears his throat. I mean, I had already explained in my email that I had something I needed to finish before we saw each other. He says that must mean I’m writing. But he knows I don’t want to talk about my current projects until they’re done, so he won’t ask.

Then he goes quiet and waits. My fingers squeeze the phone.

“You wrote that something had happened. And then you told me about the little girl you saw at the park.”

Peter hems and haws on the other end. It sounds as if the memory makes him smile.

“Exactly.”

“When you wrote that something had happened, was that what you were referring to? That you saw a child at the park, a girl on a swing who looked like me? Is that why you got in touch?”

Was that the only reason? I want to add, but I refrain.

Peter takes a while to answer. I hear a scraping sound as if he’s pulling out a chair and sitting down. My legs shaking, I walk into the kitchen and follow suit, sitting down in the same seat where I’ve spent so much time in recent days and weeks.

“So much has happened, Elena. Enough that I think we should talk face-to-face. We really need to…”

His words fade away.

My eyes go out the window and straight across the yard. The kitchen light is off over there. There’s no sign of the Storms.

“It’s so great to hear your voice. I’ve… I’ve been missing you. Really missing you.”

Peter’s voice is closer now, as if he’s pressing the phone right to his face. I close my eyes and think yet again about how he used to wrap me in his arms when I was tired or down, how there was a perfect spot for my cheek in the space just above his collarbone. When I had his arms around me, it felt like nothing bad could reach me. I open my eyes again.