I walk as fast as I can without actually running. Only after I’ve rounded the next curve in the forest road and put some distance between me and the kids do I become aware that my heart is pounding fast, that I’m shaking all over. I collapse on the side of the road. I curl up in a ball, making myself as small as possible, all the while keeping an eye on the direction I’ve just come from. I want to be ready in case they change their minds. Not that it’ll really make any difference. If they decide to come after me, I have no way of defending myself.
Squatting there on the ground, I lower my head and once again fix my eyes on my shoes. My pink sneakers. I think of the black shoe I found on the island. The girl by the ditch had a similar pair. A shapeless fear strikes me in the solar plexus, propelling me to my feet. Again I set off down the road, looking over my shoulder every few seconds. I keep expecting to see them racing toward me with their baggy and faded T-shirts flapping around their skinny bodies. But no one is following me. Even so, I run as fast as I can, until my throat is burning and my lungs wheeze. I have to get out of here. Right now.
12
I don’t understand where it’s coming from, all this hatred inside me. How can my heart have room for so much darkness? Especially someone like me, who was conceived and carried and raised with love. Carefully, she held me in her hands, showing me the path into life. She was at my side, giving me everything, living solely for my sake.
And many years later, when it was my turn to receive the miracle of life, I did the same. Ten tiny toes, ten tiny fingers. Everything changed, and I bowed my head, asking for mercy. I sacrificed everything, not because I was forced to do so, but because I wanted to. I did it gladly. I did it out of love.
I lean forward and bathe her forehead. Even though beads of sweat have formed, her skin is very cold. I want nothing more than for her to sit up and talk to me. Assuage my pain with her love. The space that is mine is so small, and yet I’m not allowed to be left in peace. There, sprouting in the cracks of what once existed, is hatred. Somewhere far away, a voice is speaking. It says: Without me, you are nothing.
I reach for her hand, clasp it in my own. Her fingers are limp. I’m the one who has to keep us together now.
I think how the only thing of importance is that she recovers, that she comes back to me. If only I’m allowed to keep her, nothing else matters. Then I shake off what I know and move on. I can forget. I can even forgive.
That’s what I’m thinking, but it’s not true. Because whatever happens, I will never be able to forgive you. Do you hear me? Never.
13
The road divides, giving me the opportunity to loop back in the direction of the cabin without having to pass the spot where I met those kids. Somehow I manage to make my way home. By the time I get there, my hips and legs feel like jelly. The marks in the gravel on the road are no longer clear, as if someone has swept them away while I was gone. The one who stayed and the one who left.
I limp toward the front steps and root around until I find the key underneath. In the entryway, I’m confronted by my own face in the mirror on the wall. My eyes are like two big patches of soot, and garish pink blush shimmers on my cheekbones. But underneath the plastered-on layers of color and shadow I’m totally pale. I picture the knife in front of me, see the flash of the sharp blade as the young man cleans his fingernails. I feel the point pressing against the delicate skin under my chin.
I stand there in the hall for a long time. The fear slowly ebbs away, but the images refuse to leave me. In spite of what I went through, there’s one image that lingers in my mind. It’s the image of the long-haired girl leaning against Goatee Guy’s shoulder with such trust, such compliance. And the way he responded by sweeping the knife in an arc over the back of her neck. I can’t tear myself away from the mirror, and my face suddenly seems to merge with the girl’s features there in the glass. Wasn’t there something special about her gaze? Didn’t I see something gleam in her eyes when she noticed the mark on my throat? Something naked, something familiar. I hear myself talking, see the girl watching me. My husband and my daughter, I said, they’re at the cabin waiting for me. Did she see through me? Did she realize I was lying? I picture her standing on tiptoe, cupping her hand around Goatee Guy’s ear. What was it she whispered to him?
I turn away, lean my back against the wall, and slide down to the floor. The minutes pass as the tension slowly seeps out of my body. I have no energy to get up. It feels like I’ll never be able to move again. My limbs sag, go slack. Just as my head sinks to my chest, a sharp noise slices through the silence and jolts me awake. My cell phone is in the pocket of my capris. I can feel it vibrating against my thigh. It must be Alex. It’s all over now. Thank God, it’s over. I shove my hand in my pocket, pull out the phone, and raise it to my ear without checking the number on the display.
“Greta?”
Mama again. My head falls back, thudding against the wall behind me.
“Hello? Greta… are you there? Is everything okay?”
I mutter something unintelligible in reply.
“What’d you say? I can hardly hear you, Greta. Where are you? I know you’re not home because I phoned several times, and you didn’t…”
I think to myself that I can’t stay here in the cabin even one more minute. I need to get in the car and drive away from here. Go to the police. Or home. You could drive home.
“I can’t talk right now,” I manage to say. My voice is somewhere between a wheeze and a whisper. “I have to go.”
But Mama is not to be put off so easily.
“What’s going on with you, Greta? You’re behaving so strangely. These last few days… I don’t know what you’re up to, but I have to say that…”
Whatever she was on the verge of saying, whatever was so important, fades to silence. The thought crosses my mind that maybe for once it will be my mother who ends our conversation in a fit of anger. Maybe she’s finally had enough. But I hear her take a deep breath, preparing to say something more.
“It’s no wonder Katinka’s worried about you.”
Katinka? Worried about me? I feel hot and cold at the same time. What did Katinka say? And why has Mama been talking to her?
“I was at the mall today and dropped by the shop to say hello. But you weren’t there. They told me you were on vacation. I had no idea you were planning to take time off right now.”
“Mama, I…”
“So I ran into Katinka in the shop. As I understand it, the two of you are close friends.”
Mama falls silent. All I can hear is her breathing. Is she waiting for me to say something? To offer some comment about my relationship with Katinka? Or is she thinking about the best friend she once had?
I used to eavesdrop on their phone calls, all those long heart-to-hearts. Of course, Ruth was the one who did most of the talking. Mama would mostly sit in silence, hunched over in bed or at the kitchen table.
No, he’s not here, as usual. Who knows where he is tonight?
Then she would listen intently, in a way she never did with anyone else. Sometimes she was silent for so long that, if I held my breath, I could hear Ruth’s voice on the phone. I couldn’t make out what she was saying, but I understood that, whatever it was, Mama considered her words wise and consoling. She would always say something like: “What would I do without you, Ruth? Thanks for listening. I have no one else to turn to.”