They think I’m still asleep, and I let them, lying still and opening my eyes only a little bit. In the center of my field of vision, right in front of me, is a pair of slender legs. Not Mama’s. The sunlight streaming into the room falls in such a way that I can clearly see the unshaven hair on her calves. One foot is bobbing up and down, wearing a loose-fitting sandal. I see the peeling nail polish, some sort of hopeless pastel color. She’s sitting so close that I could reach out my hand and touch her. Caress her leg. Or scratch it.
“I have to ask… Afterward… Wasn’t there anyone who… I mean…”
The fact that she’s having such trouble saying the words makes me realize what she wants to know. Mama understands too. Of course.
“It was declared an accident. The neighbors in the apartments above and below had heard a man bellowing a while earlier and thought it must be the same man who came home late, making a lot of noise in the stairwell. The people who lived across the street told the police they’d seen the man smoking in the open window lots of times. They’d wondered how he dared, since he lived on such a high floor. The autopsy found alcohol in his blood, quite a lot. I think they even found pieces of the glass he’d been holding—”
I move abruptly, kicking out my leg so they can’t miss seeing it. Mama stops at once. Her face peers down at me from the sofa.
“Hello there. You fell asleep, and I decided not to wake you. Thought you could use a rest. I would have moved you, but… Well, you’re a little bigger now than the last time I carried you to bed.”
We look at each other. For a long moment. Until Mama blushes. She really does. She blushes, though only briefly. Then she hurries to regain control of the situation.
“How are you feeling?”
Even though I’ve been awake for several minutes, it’s only when I hear her question that I take stock. My head is no longer pounding fiercely. The headache is still there, but not as sharp. My shoulder still feels stiff and swollen, but the fever must have subsided. The nap seems to have done me good. How long did I sleep? A familiar, and yet peculiar, feeling starts up in my stomach.
“Hungry,” I say. “I’m hungry.”
I go out to the kitchen, walking with my mother’s arm around me for support, and there I eat several pieces of toast. I wonder what happened to the ax. I wonder what Mama has done with it, but I don’t ask. Smilla’s baby doll is lying facedown on the floor under the table. Her polka-dot dress has slid up so that the doll’s shiny plastic bottom peeks out. Slowly but deliberately, I reach for the doll, straighten her clothes, and set her on the chair next to me.
The effort prompts my bad shoulder to throb with pain. The lower part of my face and my neck hurt. I’m still exhausted, both from the fever and from the havoc of the past few days. Anxiously, I run my fingertips over the skin around my navel. Are you still in there? Deep inside, I feel something flutter. Something that’s fighting. Something that wants to live. Something or someone. It’s going to be fine. It has to be.
With my newly awakened appetite, I set about filling the gaping hole in my stomach while my mother rummages around in the bedroom and bathroom, packing up all my things. She works efficiently, in silence, moving with confidence, as if she’s never done anything other than rescue me from absurd situations. I’m guessing that her plan is to finish up as soon as possible and then drive me to the hospital. I wonder what she’s going to tell the doctors. It’s probably best not to ask, best for me to keep quiet and let Mama do the talking.
The psychologist stays out of our way, but I know she hasn’t left the cabin. Her presence is palpable. I assume she’s still in the living room. Pondering her next step, pondering her life? What do I know? The only thing I know is that if Mama trusts her, then I trust her too.
I’ve finally eaten my fill. Mama has wiped off the kitchen counter and carried out my suitcase.
“The car is parked outside,” she says, motioning toward the front door.
Then she helps me up, and we start walking, her arm around my waist, my arm around her neck. Our bodies pressed together from shoulder to hip. We haven’t stood this close in a long time.
We’re already out on the front steps when I hear a sound from the hall. Mama turns her head, her eyes fixed on something right behind us.
“I have one last question. Was it worth it?”
Mama hesitates. She looks from the psychologist to me, her gaze lingering on me for a moment. I don’t turn around. I don’t meet my mother’s eye. I’m waiting.
“No,” says Mama. “It wasn’t.”
She steers me toward her car and helps me into the passenger seat. Through the window, I see my own car. I half listen as Mama tells me she’s going to have it towed from here as soon as possible. She’ll figure it out. I shouldn’t worry. I won’t need to come back here. Ever. She’ll see to that.
She walks around the car and gets into the driver’s seat, closing the door and fastening her seatbelt. Then she sits there without turning the key. She doesn’t move. She doesn’t say anything.
“Mama?”
For a long time, she stares straight ahead.
“That man… Alex,” she finally says. “The way he treats her… Does he treat you like that too?”
What should I say? Should I tell her about the silk tie? Mama is chewing her lip. I try to sound reassuring, convincing.
“I left him. I told him never to come near me again.”
She thinks about this for a moment.
“What about the child?” she says then. “Your child. What are you planning to do?”
I wait, forcing her to turn toward me and read the answer in my eyes. Slowly, she nods. She reaches out her hand and cups my unbruised cheek.
“If he ever contacts you—you or the baby—if he in any way…”
Sooner or later, Alex is going to find out that I got away, that his wife let me go. How will he react? I don’t want to even try imagining that. But no matter how strong his reaction, he’ll probably think twice before contacting me again. There are certain advantages to being a mystery. There are certain advantages to not telling Alex the whole truth about Papa.
I think about what he said to me at the end of our latest—our last—phone conversation. And about what I let him believe. That I was the one who delivered the fatal shove on that night an eternity ago. What I’m capable of.
I raise my hand to place it over my mother’s hand on my cheek. I hope she’ll know what I’m trying to say. I hope she can feel the strength of who I am. My mother’s daughter.
“If he does, I’ll deal with it.”
Mama listens, lets the words sink in. Then she removes her hand and smiles. That smile tells me that everything is as it should be.
“Wait here a minute,” she says. “I forgot something inside.”
She unbuckles her seatbelt and resolutely walks around the hedge that encloses the cabin we’re about to leave.
I lean back and take several deep breaths. Leaving this place. At last. I think about how good it will be to go home. I decide to look for a new apartment as soon as possible. Somewhere he’s never been. Maybe I’ll even move to a different town. But the very first thing I’m going to do, as soon as I’ve gotten patched up and I’m feeling better, is call Katinka. And ask her if she’d like to meet for coffee.