I hear a scraping noise nearby. A shadow is moving on the periphery of my vision, and I can make out a low murmuring sound. Gradually, images of what happened before the world went black return. The woman outside. Her scream. The oar in her hand.
Again I move my wrists, but this time more carefully. I can feel the rope tied around them. My vision is blurry, and I’m having a hard time moving or shifting position. With an enormous effort, resulting in more searing pain, I turn my head so I can see more of the room. Where am I? Soon I’ve connected the hard surface with the closest objects in my line of sight: the lower part of a sofa and the legs of a coffee table. We’re still in the cabin. I’m lying on the rug in the living room. She must have dragged me in here when I passed out. The tenderness on my scalp makes me think she dragged me by my hair.
Hesitantly, I move my legs, not surprised to find that they too are tied. I close my eyes again, feel the pain throbbing in my head and shoulder. A lethargy bordering on surrender spreads through my body. Even if I wasn’t bound, I probably couldn’t move, much less get up and flee. There’s nothing I can do. Nothing except wait and see what happens.
The sound of cupboards being opened and closed in the kitchen reaches my ears. A hissing noise, then the clinking of glass striking glass, and after that, the sound of liquid pouring. Firm footsteps approaching.
“Here,” says a stern voice. “Drink this.”
I force my eyes open, and at first I have a hard time focusing. Then I glimpse a glass held out to me. The hand holding the glass is thin and pale. The same hand that once closed around my wrist and held me back, forcing me to listen. Next time you encounter an overwhelming or surprising situation, the pattern will repeat itself. Things are going to get worse for you. And you risk being knocked off balance. In the worst-case scenario, that sort of state of mind could have very unfortunate consequences. For you, or for those close to you. My former psychologist. And Smilla’s mother. They’re the same person. The faceless wife, the woman in the wings who had never seemed more real to me than a cardboard figure. It’s her. The whole time, it was her. It doesn’t seem possible. It’s crazy. But that’s how it is.
Even if I’d wanted to take the glass, I couldn’t. The woman grunts impatiently, as if it’s my fault that I’m tied up. She sets the glass down, seems to realize that I’ll need some help to drink. She grabs me under the arms and harshly pulls me into a sitting position. I scream from the pain in my shoulder, but it doesn’t faze her.
She props me up against the sofa, poking at me until my body seems to achieve some semblance of balance. Like I’m a sack of potatoes. An inanimate object. Then she holds the glass to my lips.
“Come on, drink this.”
My throat is parched from thirst, and I obey, opening my mouth and taking a big swig. I feel a burning in my throat and instantly realize my mistake. Why would she give me liquor? I reflexively turn my head away from the glass and spit in disgust, trying to get rid of every last drop.
“What… why…?”
My tongue feels dry and swollen, and I can’t control it. But the disjointed words I utter seem to set her off.
“I know all about you two. Alex told me. I even know about the baby. A baby. You’re expecting his child. You must realize that’s something I simply can’t accept.”
She leans closer, and I catch a whiff of shampoo. A sweet, floral scent. Like Smilla. She smells exactly like Smilla.
“All right. Now drink the rest.”
Her words ricochet off the walls as she holds the glass out to me. I look her in the eyes. They’re light blue, the pupils small and piercing. Were they like that back then? When she sat across from me in her armchair and patiently listened to my evasive accounts of what might be really bothering me? Every question I asked was countered with another question. She never told me a thing about herself. Now she’s sitting in front of me again, the same woman, and yet she’s infinitely different from the one I knew back then.
A baby. You’re expecting his child. I simply can’t accept that. She doesn’t intend to get me drunk. She’s planning something else. We stare at each other. The hatred radiating from her is so intense that it’s almost palpable. Did she possess that hatred back then? Concealed beneath the calm façade?
“You are…,” I venture hoarsely. “You said…”
Recognition. Everything depends on recognition. In spite of my dazed condition, I realize that I somehow have to get her to remember me. To see me, not just as the woman with whom her husband has committed adultery, but as a former client. Someone she had a professional relationship with, even a certain responsibility for. If I can just make her realize who I am, she won’t be able to hurt me. Or the child inside me. I take a breath, tense my vocal cords, and find my voice.
“Psychologist. You’re a psychologist.”
Her face remains impassive. She doesn’t even blink.
“Don’t you remember me? I was—”
“Shut up and drink.”
And suddenly I understand that she already knows. She recognizes me, knows full well who I am. But it doesn’t matter. It’s just an unlucky coincidence and has no bearing on her plans.
I slump, feel one side of my body slide a bit toward the floor. I want nothing more than to erase from my memory everything Alex ever said and did, everything that was us. And I want to do it this minute. I have no patience to wait. I want to rip him from my skin like a stubborn Band-Aid, not caring whether it’s painful or whether the adhesive takes a piece of me with it. A piece of me… I swallow hard. What he left inside my body—if it’s allowed to grow and live—is what truly has the power to remind me of him for all eternity. And yet. Slowly, very slowly, I move my head from left to right. No, I won’t do it.
Hard fingers grab my chin and force my lips open. Before I understand what’s happening, the liquid in the glass starts pouring down my throat. I can’t breathe and have to swallow in order to get air. My eyes fill with tears, from pain and panic. My thoughts are whirling. The life growing inside me—I can’t let her harm it. I fling my head so hard my chin strikes the edge of the glass and knocks it out of her hand. Then everything happens all at once.
My maneuver sends the pain shooting through my shoulder again, metallic and hard. What’s left in the glass runs down my chest, soaking through my T-shirt. The alcohol stings as it spreads across my skin. At the same time, a hand slams against my cheek with a resounding slap, making my already-abused head feel like it’s going to explode.
“Okay,” she says. “Then we’ll have to do it the other way.”
Again she grabs me and more or less throws me onto my back on the floor. My torso lands with a smack. Blazing spears of pain pierce my head and shoulder. My vision splinters into scores of shimmering prisms, then slowly darkens around the edges. Somehow I have to stay conscious. I can’t faint. That’s all I’m thinking about.
I sense that she’s moving away from me, heading for the front door. And suddenly, another thought occurs to me. The ax. If she finds the ax, it’s all over. I whimper. Somehow I need to get up and defend myself, fight for my life. But I can’t bring myself to move. Can’t even roll onto my side. So let’s get it over with, I think.
She slams the front door behind her. I don’t hear a key turn in the lock, but it doesn’t matter. I’ll never get up off this floor. Darkness is creeping in. I look up at the ceiling again and pass out.
37
Stomping footsteps. Someone muttering about gasoline. “I’m sure there was a can out in the shed.” Then I hear Mama’s voice. Surprised and wary at first, then worried and upset. Then it stops, abruptly, midsentence. Minutes pass. Again I lose track of time. Then my eyelids flutter open, and I glimpse a familiar outline. She’s sitting some distance away from me, very still. Mama! You found me, you came! That’s what I want to shout, but my voice refuses to obey. Somehow, I manage to move enough to draw my mother’s attention. She gasps, leans forward. Her whole being emanates concern.