As I understand it, the two of you are close friends.
Is there something ominous, even menacing, in Mama’s words? After what happened, did she lose faith, not only in Ruth but in female friendships in general? Is she afraid Katinka will betray me the same way that Ruth betrayed her? There’s nothing to worry about on that score. That’s what I’d tell her if she asked. I know better than Mama did. I know better than to confide everything, reveal everything. Katinka may think we know each other well, but that doesn’t mean we’re close, at least not in the sense Mama and Ruth once were. Definitely not. I did learn something from Mama’s mistakes, after all. I hear her clear her throat.
“At any rate. According to Katinka, you haven’t seemed quite right lately. Apparently you’ve called in sick a lot, and… well… That’s actually how she phrased it: that she’s worried about you.”
I raise my hand to rub my forehead. Again I’m thinking about what happened in the woods. Those kids, the knife pressed to my throat. What about you? I want to ask. Are you worried, Mama? You should be. But when I open my mouth, something totally different slips out.
“I’m pregnant.”
I don’t know why I tell her. Maybe to shock her. Or maybe because I’m not myself at the moment. To be honest, I haven’t been myself for a long time. Katinka’s right. I hear my mother gasp.
“Pregnant? My God!”
She sounds horrified. Then I can hear her pulling herself together. Her voice takes on a new tone. A certain harshness.
“Who’s the father?”
I can’t do this anymore. I simply can’t. I hang up and stumble into the bedroom. I turn off my phone before plugging it in, then fling myself across the double bed. Apathy spreads through me, blocking out all feeling. Just before my eyes fall shut, I see my mother’s expression of displeasure. How could you, Greta? How on earth could you?
14
Alex’s voice wakes me. It’s all in your head. That’s what I think I hear him whisper. Surely you don’t think this is real? You’re just imagining everything. The duvet underneath me is crumpled and damp, and I shiver. Then I feel something next to my leg, something warm, and when I look down I see Tirith curled up against me. I reach down to slip my hand under his soft belly and pull him up to my chest. I slide my finger under his pink collar and scratch the back of his neck. He yawns, giving me a long look through narrowed, sleepy eyes. Smilla’s cat. Maybe he’s thinking the same thing I’m thinking: The two of us don’t really belong together. Yet here we are, left to our own devices.
Barely conscious of what I’m doing, I raise my other hand to my throat, touching the dark patch there. Then my fingers move up to my chin. The feeling of that knife is still fresh in my mind. I picture the young man with the goatee. I see his indifferent expression and hear his threats. Hurriedly, I dismiss the image and return my attention to Tirith. I stroke and caress his fur until he luxuriously stretches his black-and-white body across my chest. He meows, a long, drawn-out sound. Guess we’ll just have to stick together, I imagine him saying. But for some reason, it offers me no consolation. For some reason, it makes me uneasy.
I push the cat away and sit up, a little too quickly, grimacing when I feel the burning inside my throat. Yet another symptom, according to the doctor. Nine weeks along, she told me. Since then, another two weeks have passed, and the change in my body is already noticeable. Nausea and vomiting. Lack of appetite. Aching in my hips. And fatigue. A weariness that seems to have totally taken over. Hesitantly, I place my hand on my stomach, on top of the growing bulge. And then I try out the thought again, the one that has occurred to me many times since I sat in the clinic and heard the news. But no, I’ve made up my mind. To be or not to be, that is the question. This time, the course is set. I want this baby. In spite of everything.
Who’s the father? The memory of my mother’s words pierces like a sharp blade through my bleary consciousness. Suddenly, I’m wide awake. I turn on my phone and see that I’ve received three new voice-mail messages. My pulse quickens, but of course, they’re all from my mother.
“I’m so sorry, sweetie. I was just so shocked, and… We’ll solve this somehow. Call me back and let’s talk!”
“Or should I come over? Just tell me where you are.”
“Please, Greta. Don’t do this. I just can’t…”
Mama’s voice breaks. Is she crying? For my sake? I listen to her last message again, and the door that was about to open slams shut. I just can’t.
The phone slides across the floor when I push it away. Once again, it’s all about my mother’s needs and how she feels, what she can or can’t do. Just like back then, after Papa. Just like it’s always been.
I get up, then pause for a moment, staring at my phone. I should really leave it lying there on the floor. Alex isn’t going to call.
I gather up the essentials and slip my purse over my shoulder. Then I kneel down, retrieve my phone, and slip it into my purse. My eyes are automatically drawn to the smaller bedroom as I pass, and my feet carry me inside. I sink down on the edge of the bed and clumsily stroke the duvet cover, printed with a fairy-tale princess. Smilla loves princesses. Just like I did when I was her age. We’re alike in so many ways. With dry eyes, I press my face against the pillow, breathing in the fading scent of baby shampoo.
“I never got a chance to tell you the good news,” I murmur. “You’re going to have a little sister or brother.”
Far down, deep inside my stomach, I sense a gurgling movement. The fetus moving? No, that can’t be. Not yet. Or? Suddenly, I’m seized with shame. An adult who fails, who gives up. Is that the sort of role model I am? The mother that I’m on my way to becoming? No, I have to believe it will turn out fine. Everything that has happened and what I’ve decided. I get up from the bed and leave Smilla’s room.
As I’m passing the hall mirror, I stop and stare at the image confronting me. My mascara is smeared, my eye shadow blotchy, and my hair is standing on end. I look like a madwoman. Quickly, I repair my makeup and comb my hair. Then I dash out the door and down the steps.
The car starts on the second try, and all I can think about is getting away from here. There’s nothing keeping me in Marhem anymore. Only fear and confusion remain. With every passing hour, I’m getting more and more ensnared in something I don’t understand, something that’s becoming scarier. With a little distance, I’ll be able to see better what happened and understand everything that now escapes me, everything that is evading and eluding me.
The car rolls along the narrow gravel road, past other summer cabins very similar to the one I’ve just left. They’re on both sides of the road, looking empty and lifeless. Not a single car is parked outside. Not a soul in sight. There’s something unnatural about this absence of life, an entire vacation area deserted and abandoned. The whole place seems unreal. A dizzy sense of being trapped in limbo comes over me.
In spite of the desolation, I suddenly feel that I’m being watched. I glance in the rearview mirror, worried I’ll see a bunch of kids in ragged clothes looming behind the car. But there’s no one there. And when I think about the girl in the ditch, the young man with the knife and his minions, they no longer seem real. Their shapes fade away, dissolving into thin air. Like phantoms. Did I even meet them? Was it real?
My hands grip the steering wheel harder, and I step on the gas. What’s happening to me? Am I losing my ability to separate dream from reality? Madness from reason? Somehow I have to find a way to confirm that what I’m experiencing is real, that I’m not just imagining things or about to go… I dismiss that thought from my mind. Grit my teeth and keep driving. I catch a glimpse of something above the treetops in the distance. What is it? Smoke. I can clearly see wisps of smoke rising into the sky. That can only mean one thing.