Part of me is screaming at her to do it, to save us both while she can. Another part of me is still acutely aware that the psychologist is within arm’s reach of the ax. If she wanted, she could split my head in half before the officers reacted. If the situation got desperate enough.
Mama opens her mouth to speak, but then closes it again, shaking her head. The male police officer wipes his forehead and loudly clears his throat.
“Well, you’re certainly a lively and talkative bunch.”
“What exactly happened here?” says his colleague.
She casts another critical glance around the room before her eyes stop on me. She comes a few steps closer, tilts her head to one side, and squints down at me. I fight off an impulse to close my eyes and turn away. Instead, I steel myself and meet her gaze. I’m waiting for her to recognize me, to remember my irrational behavior the last time we met. But maybe because there are other people in the room, or maybe because she really doesn’t recognize me with no makeup and in my current state, the only thing she says is:
“How did you get those cuts on your face? And that bruise?”
Mama steps forward so she’s standing between me and the officers.
“As you can see, my daughter isn’t well. She’s just escaped an abusive relationship. And to make matters worse, she’s running a fever. You can feel her forehead for yourselves, if you like. I’ve been with her all day, and she’s been in no condition to go anywhere since—”
“All day, you say?”
The policewoman straightens her back, fixing her eyes on my mother. The air is thick with tension. Something is clearly hanging in the balance. Mama seems to have recovered from her initial paralysis. With an unwavering gaze, she meets the eye of the female officer, who, after a moment, utters what sounds like a sigh of resignation. Then she turns to her colleague and raises one eyebrow.
“Well, who knows?” he says with a shrug. “Nobody seems to have seen this ax lady other than an elderly man walking his dog.”
He raises his hands to sketch quote marks in the air around the words ax lady. The gesture, combined with the expression on his beefy face, indicates he’s not sure how much credence to give to the claims of a lonely old man.
The dark-haired female officer again turns to me, and this time I can clearly see that she recognizes me. She stares for a long moment. Her lips are pursed into a thin line.
“If someone has been hurting you, you should file a report,” she says at last. “There’s help available.”
She gestures toward the shattered table behind us. Maybe she thinks it’s a result of the violent relationship Mama alluded to.
“Take care of yourself, okay?” she adds.
Without waiting for a reply, she turns to face my mother, who nods emphatically.
“I’ll make sure she gets the best possible care.”
The officer stifles a sigh.
“Abusive relationships seem to be the theme of the day. We had another complaint earlier. A worried mother whose daughter was purportedly threatened with a knife by her boyfriend. I don’t suppose you’ve—?”
Before she can finish her sentence, the male officer takes a step forward.
“It’s a kid we’ve had our eye on for a while. The leader of some sort of gang that seems to specialize in mistreating animals.”
A hint of annoyance in the policewoman’s eyes reveals that she thinks it unnecessary for her colleague to give such a detailed explanation. I feel a hard knot form in my stomach. Mistreating animals? Wielding a knife? The girl, Greta. I want to shout, Is she okay? But the words fail to come out. In spite of the water I drank, my throat again feels parched. Mama puts her hand to her chest and takes a deep breath.
“Oh, my God. How terrible! That poor girl! And mistreating animals? What on earth for?”
Something black-and-white streaks past in my mind. I can almost feel an agile little body curl up next to me. Then the image dissolves, and the feeling of warmth fades, to be replaced by something sharp and cold. Tirith.
“Who knows?” says the policeman with a shrug. “Maybe they’re sadists. Or maybe they’re just bored. Kids these days—”
“Anyway,” says the female officer, cutting him off. “We’re not going to stand here speculating. But if you’ve seen or heard anything that might help us with the case…”
Mama shakes her head. Her face is pale.
“No. Thank God we just happen to be here on a short visit. And considering all the awful things that seem to be happening around here, I don’t think we’ll be back. Malice. What kind of name is that for a lake?”
The policewoman raises her hands, palms up.
“It’s not the official name. But I guess it is a little off-putting. Not exactly the kind of name that attracts tourists. But I’m new here. It was only a few days ago I heard that’s what the locals call the lake.”
And with that, she turns and takes a few steps toward the front entryway. Are they leaving? Already? Anxiously, I shift position, unable to decide whether I’m more afraid of having the police here or seeing them leave. I think about the black object hidden under the rug. The big mess in the room must have distracted the officers from noticing the bulge.
The male officer is already out in the hall when the policewoman pauses. She turns to look at the psychologist. And the corner of the rug. I hold my breath. Follow the officer’s gaze. I see Alex’s wife, Smilla’s mother, standing there in her blue dress, leaning against the wall as if she wishes she could disappear into it.
“And you? Who are you?”
The psychologist hesitates, doesn’t speak. I seem to see her slide down the wall, and I imagine her reaching out a trembling hand toward the floor. It might be real; it might be my imagination. Yes, who are you? That’s the question that races through my battered mind. Then I hear a familiar voice answer.
“A friend,” says Mama. “She’s a friend.”
I see the police officer turn back to look at my mother. Maybe Mama hesitated a second too long. But when she did speak, there wasn’t a trace of doubt in her voice. Now she nods to underscore her words. A friend. Yes. They look at each other. And I have a feeling my mother protecting the psychologist from the police isn’t only about me. There’s something else.
Both officers are now out in the front hall. I hear the door close after them. My mother and the psychologist study each other for a long moment. Mama breaks the silence.
“All right then. Give me the ax, and I’ll put it away. Then we’ll sit down and talk. You can ask me anything you like. I can tell you want to know.”
Both Mama and the psychologist move slowly. I watch as something black is picked up and changes hands. I hear footsteps leaving the room, a door opening, a clattering sound, and then the footsteps come back. No more sounds after that, except for voices, speaking quietly. A rushing inside my head. My eyes fall shut. I’m tired. So terribly tired.
42
I fall asleep and dream that Mama and my former psychologist are sitting across from me, at either end of the sofa, talking. And that, every once in a while, Mama leans forward to feel my forehead or straighten the pillow she has slipped under my head. In my dream, I hear the psychologist say: So your friend was in love with your husband? Was that why she told him about the slap? To make him leave you?
“Or else they were already having an affair,” I hear my mother say, and then I realize that I’m awake. “Maybe she felt rejected since he was continuing to see other women. Who knows?”
There is no bitterness or hatred in her voice when she talks about Ruth. It sounds more like she’s tired. At first I find this surprising. Then I think it’s strange I would have this reaction. Because what is the basis for my perception of my mother’s feelings or her view of what happened? I have never—never ever—curled up on the sofa beside her to discuss these things. Neither of us has ever made any serious attempt to initiate that kind of conversation. Mama may have tried when I was a teenager, but I brushed all her efforts aside. Then I moved away from home and withdrew even more, keeping my distance. And now we’ve ended up here.