Mama is still lying on the rug. She has her hands over her ears, and she’s whimpering quietly. The officious expression and sensible tone of voice have vanished. Her controlled façade has cracked, the protective armor has been stripped away. Now she is simply herself. Simply my mother. The psychologist sinks to her knees in front of her and pulls my mother’s hands away from her ears.
“Now it’s your turn to listen as I tell you a little about your beloved daughter. Do you know that she seduced a married man, a family man? My husband, Smilla’s father.”
My mother peers over the woman’s shoulder to look at me. Beneath the fear, I read the agonizing questions in her eyes as clearly as if she’d spoken them aloud. So this is the woman who…? It’s her husband you’ve…? And the child you’re carrying…? I look away, as pain and exhaustion take over again.
The psychologist sits cross-legged on the rug, piling up pieces of the broken table. She moves mechanically. Her hair is tucked behind her ears, leaving her face visible and unobstructed. My vision is sharper now, and I see her clearly, noting the tense features, and the dark smudges under her eyes. I see you. I mean, I really see you. I truly do. And I want you to know that. Did he once say the same things to her? Was that how it started for her too?
“The part about your husband…”
Mama’s voice is faint, wheezing. She leaves the sentence unfinished. Instead, she starts from a different angle.
“But murderer… I don’t understand why you’d say that… What do you mean?”
The psychologist doesn’t seem worried about having her back to Mama. And in spite of what just happened, the woman doesn’t seem to have reconsidered her decision not to tie her up. I suddenly realize why. She knows she’s holding the trump card, that as soon as she replies, the final blow will be delivered, rendering my mother helpless.
“Several years ago, before all this happened, your daughter was one of my clients. She came only a few times, but she told me… Well, let me put it this way: I know about your dirty little secret. That your daughter pushed her father, your husband, out the window. That she killed him.”
Silence falls like a lid over the room. For a long time, I can’t bring myself to look at my mother. But finally I have to, of course. She’s lying on her side, looking up at the ceiling, with her lips parted. I can’t take my eyes off her face. It looks like it’s been smashed to smithereens, and then somebody put the pieces back in all the wrong places. I haven’t seen that expression in years. Not since that night. Then her gaze slides across the ceiling, down the wall, down to meet my own.
“You told her? I thought we promised each other never to tell anyone what happened.”
For the first time in ages, I see something small and pitiful in her eyes. Something helpless.
“Mama. Please. I was eight years old.”
Maybe I say it out loud, maybe I only think the words. I’m not sure, because of the pain and feverish chills. Mama’s gaze clouds and turns inward. She slips away from me, inside herself.
“Yes, of course.” At least that’s what I think she murmurs. “Of course.”
The psychologist keeps working, with great concentration, moving quickly. After a while, she turns to the magazine rack and pulls out a stack of newspapers. She tears them up with the same ferocity with which she attacked the coffee table. Then she places some of the torn pages under the piled-up pieces of wood, others on top. The ax is lying in her lap as she sits there cross-legged.
With a start, I realize what she’s doing. She’s building a fire.
A tiny swirl of nausea rises in my stomach. So that’s her plan. To light a fire here on the floor. To dash out as soon as the flames take hold and blockade the front door. She probably already closed and locked all the windows while I was out cold.
I won’t be able to get out once the fire starts. Even if I could stand up and stagger to the door, the woman wouldn’t allow me to escape the flames. She’s going to do everything she can to make sure I stay inside the cabin until it’s totally engulfed. By that time, it will all be over, of course. How long does it take for a room to fill with smoke, for all the oxygen to be used up? No more than a few minutes.
I turn my head to the side, open my mouth, and let the vomit pour out. I feel like I’m falling, sinking. There’s no hope of rescue.
If only my mother could escape. She really shouldn’t have been here. She has nothing to do with any of this. Out of the corner of my eye, I see her slowly prop herself up on her elbow and move into a sitting position. Even though we’re in the same room, her voice sounds far away, like it’s coming from a great distance.
“I know exactly how you feel.”
I’m not the one she’s talking to. The psychologist stops and turns to look over her shoulder at my mother. Something flickers across her face. A tiny trace of hesitation. Then she goes back to what she was doing. She studies the tables and shelves, finds what she’s looking for. A lighter. She gets up, grabs it, and comes back to the pile of wood on the floor.
“In most cases,” my mother says, “I suppose people lie and try to hide their affairs. But not my husband. He enjoyed throwing them in my face, using them as a weapon when we argued. The simple truth is that he enjoyed hurting me.”
Mama is staring straight ahead. Her hair is in disarray, and her blouse is wrinkled, but she pays no attention to her appearance. Her words sound naked, entirely earnest. The psychologist’s hands are still moving, but am I right in thinking they’ve slowed down? Like she’s waiting for something? Mama goes on, still not looking at either of us.
“During our years together, he cheated on me constantly. There were always new women. I often dreamed about taking revenge. About scratching someone’s face to shreds. Grabbing some woman by her long hair and banging her skull against the ground. Destroying her. But later, I realized…”
The psychologist’s hands are shaking now. She fumbles with the lighter, not making any real attempt to produce a flame. Her long hair is hanging in front of her face, hiding her eyes. Several seconds pass.
A muted voice says from under the blond mane: “What did you realize?”
“That I was pointing my revenge fantasies in the wrong direction. That those women had nothing to do with it. That he was the one who had chosen to ruin the life we shared. He was the one who was destroying our life.”
I squeeze my eyes shut. Wanting and yet not wanting to listen. If Mama doesn’t stop, if she tells everything… Emotions are turning me inside out, growing so strong that I’m about to throw up again.
The psychologist’s thumb is moving up and down, flicking the lighter, but then letting it go out. She does this over and over.
“This is what he wants,” she says at last, almost defiantly. “He told me to.”
So Alex knows she’s here, knows about her plan. Not only does he know, he’s ordered it. He wants her to get rid of me. The room spins. I feel his hand on my cheek, the pat he gave me the morning when I told him I was going to leave. No, you won’t. And I hear his voice on the phone when he finally called. I wanted to give you a chance to come to your senses. It’s as simple as that. Make you realize that you can’t live without me. Realize that I can’t live without him. This was what he meant. Literally.
“I understand. And is he a good father? Will he be able to compensate for your absence while your daughter—Smilla is her name, right?—while Smilla is growing up?”
Mama’s voice is almost unnaturally calm. The psychologist frowns.
“What do you mean?”
Slowly, my mother scoots forward, closer to the other woman. Involuntarily, I clench my hands. The rope resists, chafing against my skin. The ax, Mama, you have to take the ax away from her. But my mother doesn’t lunge forward. Her reason for moving across the floor seems to be so she can look the woman in the eye. Force her to look up from the lighter and meet her gaze.