I reach for my purse on the seat next to me, then gather up and stuff inside everything that had fallen out. The palm of my hand tugs and twinges, and I grimace, picking up the earrings with care. The one who stayed and the one who left. Afterward, I didn’t ask Alex about that nighttime visit. I thought I could put two and two together, that I understood enough. Now I feel a nagging doubt in my mind. What is it I think I understand? At the moment, I seem unable to follow even the simplest train of thought.
Then I’m once again standing in the entryway, on the green and slightly gritty hall rug. I stand there, without taking off my shoes, just listening. At first, there’s only silence. Then I hear a sound from the living room. Hesitant, padding steps. I listen and wait. I know who is approaching. When Tirith comes into view, something inside me relaxes and eases. I sink down on my knees and greedily stretch out my hands toward him. The cat’s fur feels soft under my fingertips, and I realize how much I’ve hungered for that—for touch, for contact—these last twenty-four hours. My whole life.
I stroke Tirith’s back and scratch behind his ears as he purrs happily. He licks my fingers and sniffs at the wound on my hand. He seems surprisingly interested. Again and again, he presses his nose gently on the clotted blood. Then he seems to make a decision and starts cleaning the wound very thoroughly, running his rough tongue over the puncture. At first I let him do it, thinking now we’re connected for life, this cat and I. The past is behind us, and we know nothing about the future, but at this moment, we are joined, merging together. His saliva and my blood.
Then he turns his narrowed yellow eyes toward me, and I impulsively draw my hand away. Slowly I get to my feet. Tirith. An odd name for a pet. Alex was the one who thought of it. I remember when he explained that Minas Tirith means Tower of the Guard. I keep my eyes fixed on the black-and-white cat as I fumble for the door handle behind me. We are staring at each other, Tirith and I. One of us inquisitive, the other tense.
“All right,” I say at last, my voice sounding so hoarse that I have to clear my throat before going on. “Time for you to go out for a while. Go on now!”
The cat looks away, swiftly forgetting how abruptly I stopped petting him, and saunters out. I close the door behind him and lock it. When I turn around, I catch sight of one of the hooks positioned low on the wall. The fear that stabs at my chest is so strong that I gasp for breath.
Hanging from the hook is a jean jacket belonging to a four-year-old girl. I collapse onto the floor. Thoughts of the unimaginable descend upon me once again. That can’t be true.
I rub my eyes and only when I see the black streaks of damp mascara on my skin do I realize that I’m crying. Smilla. I’m sorry.
But there is no forgiveness to be had. The feeling that I’m a hypocrite, a cheater, again overwhelms me. What good is all this searching for her? The fault is still mine, pressing heavily on my chest along with the thought of everything I could have done differently. What I should have done. What I shouldn’t have done. If only… Then she might still be here.
Finally, I have to pinch myself hard, on my cheeks and my arms, to stop all this. Why do my thoughts keep going down these paths? As if everything is over, as if it’s too late. As if Smilla is… Suddenly, the fear and guilt are swept away. In their place, a huge wave of fury washes over me. I hurl my purse at the wardrobe door.
“You bastard!” I wail. “What have you done with her?”
But I’m the only one who hears my words. And it’s not clear who they’re directed at. Or at least that’s not something I’m prepared to say aloud. I haven’t yet ventured that far into the shadows.
19
It’s over. She’s gone. I sat there and held her as the life seeped out of her body. And afterward… afterward I was still sitting there. I didn’t want to move from her side, didn’t want to leave her there, but in the end, I had no choice.
She was my anchor, but when the mooring rope was cut, when the arms were ripped from their safe haven, everything fell apart. Now I’m drifting aimlessly. The solid ground on which my life rested no longer exists. The words that resound in my head are more true than ever. Without me, you are nothing.
As I drift, rocked back and forth on the swells of despair, I often summon up pictures of you.
Sometimes you come so close that I think I can stretch out an ice-cold, dripping-wet hand to touch you. I can feel you trembling.
Swift footsteps and low voices nearby, but I’m only vaguely aware of them. Something else feels much more urgent. Like the fact that the walls around us are about to cave in. I can see it, even though no one else seems to notice or understand. Everything is about to collapse, fall apart. First, her life. Now, mine.
I open my mouth, but the scream refuses to take shape. Not yet. But I know that it’s there somewhere, that it’s getting closer.
Something new will take over, a new voice, a different self. A clenched fist. A howl of fury.
Your life won’t be allowed to stay the same either. You too will be shaken to the core. You too will be obliterated.
20
My body is going somewhere, and I follow along. I walk down the narrow path to the dock. It’s as if my feet sense that I’m having trouble keeping things together, as if they’ve taken control and are carrying me forward whether I like it or not. Rocks and tree roots, blueberry sprigs and ferns. It’s all so familiar. How many times have I taken this path? When was the last time I was here? Wasn’t it quite recently?
As I approach the lake, the ground gets marshier, and there’s moss everywhere. Doesn’t it seem like an unusual amount of moss? It covers the rocks, trails over roots, and blankets fallen tree trunks. It seems to be slowly but steadily in the process of swallowing up everything in sight. And there’s something about the color, the moss-green hue that’s awfully green. Almost shiny. It doesn’t look natural. More like it’s been manipulated by some computer program. What was it Alex whispered to me in my dream? Surely you don’t think this is real? It’s all in your head.
The nausea is creeping back. Alex. His voice, which is still echoing in my head. His hands, which are still burning on my skin. And the memories, all those memories piling up in a dark corner of my consciousness.
When Alex entered my life, everything happened very fast. The emotions that flared up were so intense that the edges soon turned scorched and sooty. We got close, but it was a different kind of closeness from what I’d imagined on those lonely nights when I sat at my kitchen table or in front of the TV. And it’s true that he saw me, but with a different eye from the one I imagined that first time he gave me a ride home. We talked very little. The intimacy we shared was almost exclusively physical. I had nothing to compare it to, so I had to resort to what I’d heard and read. I assumed that’s the way it is for most people in the beginning. I assumed that’s what it feels like to be in love.
Yet I had a sense that I wanted something more, though I didn’t know what that might be, was never able to put it into words. And Alex never asked. He was more interested in showing me what he expected. Like the time I woke up to find him trying to get inside me. Dazed with sleep, I screamed in alarm, but he simply put his hand over my mouth. He looked me deep in the eyes, held me close, and moved his body against mine.
“I see you,” he said. “Don’t be scared. I’m here, and I see you.”