I stumble back and turn instead to Smilla’s room. Toys are scattered everywhere, reminding me of the girl who slept and played in this room so recently. But when I lie down on her bed and again bury my face in the pillow, I no longer smell the warm, sweet scent of her hair. She’s far away from here now, far away.
“I’m sorry,” I murmur into the pillowcase. “I’m sorry it turned out like this.”
The image of pale legs underneath a bush flashes through my mind, but I push it away and manage to replace it with a different picture. Now Smilla floats into view, flying into the kitchen in Alex’s strong arms. Then he sets her down on the chair across from me, and she looks at him lovingly as he fixes breakfast. It’s our first morning together, hers and mine. And our last. If I’d known that beforehand, would I have acted differently, made other choices?
What did Smilla think about my presence there at the breakfast table? Did she see the mark that was beginning to appear on my throat and wonder what it was? Or was she too young to understand such things, too young to come to any conclusions about her father and this strange woman wearing a nightgown? I turn over in bed and stare at the one remaining eye of Smilla’s teddy bear, which is lying against the wall. The truth is, I’m not even sure she saw me. I mean, she was aware I was sitting there. But she didn’t see me, not really. She was too wrapped up in something else. Every time she opened her mouth that morning, it was about herself and Alex. Smilla and Papa. Papa and Smilla. Her love for him was palpable.
As I sat on the other side of the table and saw her watching him with adoration in her eyes, I felt the jealousy growing stronger inside me. I felt left out. I wanted what they had. And the decision I’d made during the night solidified. As soon as we were done eating, I took Alex aside and told him. I had made up my mind. I was planning to leave him. He patted my cheek, but not hard or angrily. More distracted.
“No,” he said. “No, you won’t.”
Then he left me there, my body heavy as lead. Because I understood what his words meant. I thought the hard part was deciding to leave Alex, that once I’d made the decision, the rest would be easy. Only then did I realize how tightly Alex had spun his web around me. I was entangled in so many ingenious threads that there was no way out. What I planned was impossible.
I couldn’t leave Alex. He would never allow that, simply because he was the one who controlled our relationship. On the day he tired of me, we would part, but not a second before. And if I did try to leave… He would come after me, bring me back. He knew where I worked, where I lived. He knew everything about my life. He was my life. I had to find some other means, another way out. But how? What?
I get up and straighten the duvet on Smilla’s bed. As if someone might sleep here tonight. As if I actually think she’s coming back. When I look up, my eyes are drawn to the window. I glimpse something move on the other side of the pane. My throat closes up as I take the few steps over to the window and pull down the blind. A deer, I tell myself. This time it must have been a deer.
28
It’s dark when the shrill ringing of my phone yanks me out of the fog of sleep. Who would call me in the middle of the night? I wonder blearily. The next second I’m wide awake and reaching for my cell. Again, it’s Alex’s name on the display. Again there’s only silence on the other end. I shout hello several times, but no one answers.
Either the person on the phone is unable to speak, or the call isn’t intended to convey a message in words. Maybe it means something else. A cry for help. Or a threat. How am I supposed to know which? A disconsolate feeling surges inside of me. Along with another feeling, strong and insistent.
“Go to hell!” I bellow into the phone, before I abruptly end the call.
I’m surprised at the force of my anger and frustration. But then it ebbs away, replaced by guilt. Again I picture those pale legs sticking out from under a bush and imagine the lifeless body of the girl beneath the foliage. This time it’s not as easy to shake off the image. Smilla!
Automatically, I reach out my hand and run it over the duvet, looking for Tirith’s soft body. I need him close to me; I need the solace that only another living creature can offer. But there’s no cat lying on the bed. My disappointment soon gives way to something else, something darker. When did I last see him? My memory takes me back to the moment I came inside after the failed visit to the police station.
I picture Tirith licking the wound on the palm of my hand. And then… then I threw him out. It was an impulsive act, based on a sudden aversion to his name. I haven’t seen him since. Busy with other things, I hardly gave Tirith a thought, and he’s been wandering around outside, cast out and alone. Defenseless in the face of the dangers hovering over Marhem.
I jump out of bed, and nausea assails me like an enraged animal. I make it to the bathroom just in time. Leaning over the toilet bowl, I expel what little is left inside my stomach. I’ve hardly eaten anything over the past few days, just a little yogurt and toast. The heartburn is worse than ever, as is the throbbing in the small of my back. I place my hand over my stomach and press down lightly.
“We need to go and look for your sister’s cat,” I murmur. I need to find Tirith, even if it’s the last thing I do.
I put on a sweater and a pair of loose pants. The night air is chilly. And who knows how long I might have to be outside? I don’t intend to give up until I’ve found my black-and-white pal. I’m not coming back until I have him safely in my arms.
In the hall wardrobe, I find an old, thin anorak. It’s gray with pink trim. I pull it over my head, trying not to think about who it might belong to, the fact that it’s probably hers. I stand there in the dim light, staring at my own reflection in the mirror. Pale, with no makeup, wearing practical but far from attractive clothing. A completely different woman from the one who arrived here a couple of days ago.
Layer after layer of polish and external trappings and ingrained patterns have been scraped off me. This is what is left. This is the person I’ve become.
There’s a continuous line running through time, from that night when Papa fell out the window on the ninth floor until the moment when Alex and Smilla disappeared on the island. It’s not a straight line. It keeps twisting and turning until it takes the shape of a circle. And it’s at the spot where the ends meet that I am now standing. The person I’ve always been. The one who came out of the shadows, the one who has returned to the shadows.
I’m halfway out the door when I realize I’m missing something. Without taking off my shoes, I go into the kitchen and find the plastic bag on the floor. The ax is sticking out of the bag. I grab the black handle in both hands and lift it up, holding it out in front of my body. As I pass through the entryway again, I cast another glance in the mirror, prepared to see myself looking clumsy and awkward. But I have a steady, firm grip on the ax. I’m holding it with great determination. It looks like I’ve done this before.
I go outside, not knowing where I’m headed. I walk without thinking about where I set my feet or what’s around me. Only when I feel branches brushing against my cheeks do I realize I’m in the woods. Not near the lake, not on the forest road, but deep among the trees. It’s still dark here even though the sky is tinged with yellow and pink. I hear a twig snap somewhere behind me, and I spin around.
“Tirith?”
But I don’t hear any meowing, and there’s no lithe black-and-white figure coming toward me between the trees. On one level, I’m aware that it’s wrong for me to be here, that I’ll never find a cat in the middle of the woods. At the same time, all I can think about is the guilt I feel toward Smilla. About what I’ve subjected her to, how she became an innocent victim because of me. Nausea is churning in my intestines like a clenched fist, but I refuse to give up. Looking for Tirith is the least I can do.