“This isn’t the first time, this situation with Greta, is it?”
The psychologist drinks all the water in one gulp.
“No. But she’s the first one to get pregnant. As far as I know.”
So Alex has had other lovers before me. Or maybe even at the same time? Who knows. I look inside myself for some sort of reaction to this fact but find none.
“It was when my mother was in the hospital that I found out about the affair. I heard about the baby later, after my mother… after she died.”
Mama goes back to the sofa and sits down on one end.
“I’m sorry.”
The psychologist twirls the glass in her hand, staring as if it might contain answers.
“He wasn’t sorry. Watching other people suffer, hurting them himself, that’s the breath of life to Alex. He’s good at it, and he does it every way he can. With his words, with his actions, with his hands.”
This is her husband she’s talking about. My ex-lover. Her words conjure up images in my mind, send shivers through my body. So I’m not alone in experiencing those repeated episodes of pain and humiliation. What has he subjected her to—this woman he’s lived with so long? I think of the cardigans and jackets she used to wear when I went to her office. Rarely any bare skin, even though it was summer. Suddenly, I understand.
And yet, the thought races through my mind, and yet you married him and stayed with him. Why? The next second, I picture a little fair-haired girl with dimples. And I know why.
“It was worse in the beginning. Before I understood the codes and learned to submit. Nowadays he hardly ever…”
The psychologist raises her arm and clenches her fist, then slowly lowers her arm again to cup her hand over her mouth.
“. . . grabs me.”
“When did you realize you needed to submit? When did you start believing there was something wrong with you, that you were to blame for the way he treated you?”
At first, I think I’ve misunderstood. Surely Mama can’t be the one saying things like that. I turn to stare at her, but she isn’t looking at me. She seems to be calmly straightening her clothes, smoothing imaginary wrinkles. And the psychologist reacts. The hand clasped over her mouth drops to her lap, and she stares at my mother for a long moment. Then her eyes seem to cloud, and her face softens.
“I know exactly,” she says. “It was the first time he said…”
She stops, pressing a hand to her throat. I see the gold ring on her left hand. I see how she’s trembling. Mama leans forward and tilts her head to one side. Her voice is gentle.
“What did he say?”
“You’re sick in the head. Fucking sick. Something is all twisted up in there. I don’t remember exactly when or where, or what I had done to annoy him that time. But I do remember how it felt when he said that. The words shot right through me, silencing me. I walked around all day in a daze. Everyone I met, the woman standing in front of me in line at the grocery store, the father who picked up his child at the same time I did from preschool… Today my husband said I’m sick in the head. What do you think about that? That’s what I wanted to ask them. But of course, I didn’t.”
I see Alex’s grinning face in front of me. Hear the words he spoke. I think you’re a little crazy. Not exactly right in the head.
Supporting herself on the arm of the chair, the psychologist slowly gets to her feet.
“That night, when I laid my head on my pillow, I finally understood why those particular words hit me so hard. Why I fell silent instead of defending myself. What he’d said… That wasn’t some accusation grabbed out of thin air, not some dumb insult. I’ve never been… have never felt entirely…”
Standing there, she aims a small kick at the stack of newspapers and pieces of wood, scattering them across the rug. Then she takes off her white sweater and runs her hands up and down her pale arms.
“Deep inside, I knew he was right. What he said was true.”
She shifts position, resting her weight on one leg. The blue fabric of her dress clings to her body, revealing a flat stomach and jutting hip bones. In spite of the heat, she wears her blond hair loose, the strands framing her face. She has no makeup on. We couldn’t be more different. Or more alike.
“So that was the moment I understood. I knew that no one else would ever put up with me. Since then, he’s done his best to remind me that without him I’m nothing. And I… Well, I’ve done what I can to… cooperate.”
The psychologist turns so the sun streaming in the window lights up her left arm and cheek.
Mama’s face is a mask of grim resolve.
“Until now,” she says, managing to make it sound like a statement and a question at the same time.
The psychologist looks at her. Then her gaze shifts to the edge of the rug and the bulge over the ax handle. She looks at Mama again.
“Exactly,” she says hesitantly. “Until now.”
I sense a certain bewilderment in her. And I wonder what is going to happen next. Where do we go from here? Where can we go? Then I don’t have time to think or feel anymore. Because at that second, there’s a knock on the door.
41
Someone gasps. Mama and the psychologist exchange quick glances. Nobody moves. Another knock, harder and more demanding this time. Mama is finally the one who gets up. She smooths her hair and, moving stiffly, goes out to the entryway.
When she comes back, two police officers are accompanying her. One is the woman I talked to the other day. She glances around the room, noting the torn-up newspapers and the demolished coffee table. She looks at me lying on the floor, then at Mama and the blond woman in the blue dress, and then back at me.
“What’s going on here?”
When I don’t reply, she turns to her colleague, a man with a receding hairline and a huge paunch. He puts his hands on his hips as he steps forward.
“We had a call from an elderly man. Something about an ax. A woman here in the neighborhood whose behavior seemed confused and threatening. Can you tell us anything about that?”
Something about an ax. I have to make an effort not to look at the bulge in the rug. Out of the corner of my eye, I see the psychologist retreat, taking such small steps that it barely looks like she’s moving. She’s now standing very close to the ax. Is she trying to use her body to hide the ax? Or is she preparing to grab the concealed weapon and take us all by surprise, if necessary? I force myself not to turn in her direction. Instead, I fix my eyes on the female police officer.
“The old man was out walking his dog when he ran into the woman,” she says. “He told us that she was incoherent and seemed extremely upset. And she was carrying an ax, as my colleague just mentioned. So we’re taking a look around the neighborhood. It’s pretty deserted, but we’re knocking on doors to find out if anyone has seen anything suspicious.”
Again, she looks around the room, then at each of us in turn. No one responds. Mama’s eyes keep shifting, narrowing as she thinks. It occurs to me that she doesn’t know I’m the woman the police are talking about, that the ax was originally mine. She’s only seen it in the hands of the blond woman. What’s going through her mind right now? Will she accuse the psychologist? Is she considering telling the police what’s really been going on here?