I hear your voice. And if I make a slight effort, I can see you in my mind, picture your face and your body. But I can’t penetrate into your consciousness, get hold of who you are. What thoughts are racing through your mind right now? Are you confused? Lonely? Resigned? Or is there some solace, hope? Do you believe things will get better? That everything will work out in the end? Do you ever think of me? Answer me!
How do I go on? What can I do? Without me, you are nothing. Words that exposed and humiliated me, made me shrink and cower. But now… now I feel something in my body, feel it growing and getting closer. Preparing to claw its way out. Soon I will get up. I’ll stand determined and erect. I will leave what has been, put it all behind me. The future is waiting. She is waiting.
Soon it will grow light. Soon I will go to meet her.
And you’ll be left alone in the shadows. May they swallow you up.
27
The key. Where is the damn key? I dig through my purse, have to put down my grocery bags to search properly. The top of one of the bags falls open, and I see the black handle of the ax I just bought. Then I remember. The key isn’t in my purse. I just thought it was, out of habit from back in town. Here in Marhem the routines are different.
When I’m again standing at the bottom of the steps, I reach my hand underneath to get the key from its hiding place and then feel a burning sensation on my back. An intense feeling that I’m being watched spreads through me. Am I just imagining things, or is that the sound of twigs snapping somewhere beyond the tall arborvitae in front of the cabin? Is someone there? I start to shake and almost drop the key.
Without turning around—I refuse to give in to fear—I walk back up the steps. I stick the key in the lock, give it a turn, and press down on the door handle. But the door doesn’t open. Two more times, I grab the handle and pull the door toward me, but nothing happens. It’s still locked, even though I just unlocked it. Or did I? With trembling hands, I try again. Put the key in the lock, give it a turn, and then press down on the handle. Now the door opens easily.
Quickly, I pull it shut behind me and stand in the entryway for a moment, leaning against the wall, panting. Was the door even locked to begin with? Did I forget to lock it? Surely I remembered to lock up when I drove to the grocery store, although I have no clear memory of doing so. But how often does anyone recall those kinds of things that they do more or less automatically?
Was someone out there? If so, who could it be? Jorma? Again I feel the knife jabbing under my chin. Jorma probably wouldn’t have settled for spying on me from the bushes. But maybe it was some of his followers. Maybe they found out which cabin is mine. Maybe they have nothing better to do than to prowl around outside, both nonchalant and eager, waiting for something to happen. I stare at the closed front door. In that case, I think, their wish will soon be granted. Something is about to happen.
My tongue sticks to the roof of my mouth as I head for the kitchen with my bags. I stow everything in the fridge and cupboards, all except for the ax, which I leave in the bag so I can pretend not to see it. The other option is to pretend it’s intended for yard work. Deep inside, I want to hold on to the belief that I’m the same person I was before we came to Marhem. A person who would never even think of buying an ax, let alone consider it a weapon.
It’s already afternoon, and my stomach is growling. I should eat something, but I have no appetite, nor can I settle down to eat in peace. So I make do with a couple of glasses of juice. I’m standing at the kitchen counter, drinking the juice, when I again have that prickling sensation on my back. I turn around slowly, and that’s when I notice her. The doll. Five of the six kitchen chairs are neatly pushed under the table, but the sixth one has been pulled out. And on the chair sits Smilla’s big baby doll with the eyes that open and close. Her chubby arms are raised over her head, and her cornflower-blue eyes are staring at me. I clutch the glass in my hand. My pulse, which had just begun to ease, quickens again. Was she sitting there this morning? Or yesterday? My phone rings.
On trembling legs, I run to the entryway, where I left my purse. My stomach is knotting as I stand there with the phone in my hand, staring at the display. The same name as before. The phone is slick with sweat as I press it to my ear.
“Alex? Is that you?”
But there’s no one on the phone this time either, at least no one who responds. After shouting Alex’s name several times and hearing only the echo of my own hoarse voice, I end the call.
Shaken, I stare at myself again in the hall mirror. My mind is flying in all directions, trying to contain what refuses to be captured, trying not to slip or lose hold. I think about the screeching tires and the loud screams outside the cabin on our first night here. I think about how, on returning to the cabin after Alex and Smilla disappeared, I couldn’t find my phone and how it finally showed up, neatly covered on Alex’s side of the bed. I think about the trouble I had opening the front door, and the possibility that it was unlocked all day. And then I think about Smilla’s doll in the kitchen, about its wide-open, staring eyes, its little mouth shaped in a silent scream, and its arms reaching up in a plea for help.
I stagger toward the bedroom, realizing I need to lie down. When I reach the doorway, my eyes fall on the lacy red bra still draped over a chair, and I pause. I bought the bra when Alex suggested—or rather, told me—that we would be driving to Marhem for a few days. We would go together, just the two of us. It was short notice, but I managed to get a few days off. At lunchtime, I ran out to buy new underwear. Not because I really wanted to, or because I needed anything new, but because I felt like it was expected of me. I also bought a tie for Alex, a black silk tie. I gave it to him when he came over later that night. He stared at it for a long time, letting it tenderly slide through his fingers.
“I’ll bring it to the cabin,” he said at last.
We ate dinner, and afterward he stroked me languidly, provocatively. He made me hope, made me relax. This time, we would make love without pain, without any unpleasant surprises. Alex was good at what he was doing, and I gasped as I arched toward the ceiling. But just as I was about to reach orgasm, he moved his hand, grabbed the flesh on the inside of my thigh, and pinched as hard as he could. I screamed. Then he did the same thing on my other leg. And this time, he didn’t just pinch. He twisted my skin and the underlying fat and muscles until they burned. The pain was so extreme that everything went black, and I lost all sense of time and place. My body was lifted up and turned over. For a moment, my face was pressed against the mattress as he mounted me. I remember thinking: Who are you really? Then it was over.
Afterward, Alex’s breath was hot in my ear when he whispered about the thin line between pain and pleasure. He said he wanted us to explore that more. A few days later, I was sitting in the clinic, wearing long pants, talking about how inexplicably tired I felt. And then I heard the news that changed everything. Your ninth week. Did you really have no idea? My world was turned upside down. I didn’t know what to do, so I did nothing. Made no decisions. Took no action. And suddenly, the day arrived, the day of our departure for Marhem.
I can’t get myself to go into the bedroom. The lacy red bra mercilessly leads my thoughts to the black silk tie, and my aversion is so strong that I feel faint. Where is it now? I haven’t seen it since our first night here, but it must be somewhere, neatly rolled or hung up. Probably in the bedroom, in Alex’s wardrobe.