4
It’s my mother. She’s breathing hard, and my stomach clenches with the constant, nagging dread from my childhood. Did something happen? It only lasts a moment. That calamity has already occurred, it took place a long time ago. There could be any number of reasons for Mama’s rapid breathing. Maybe she just came in from her evening walk, although I don’t know whether she’s still fond of taking walks. And I don’t care. I think about Alex. About the fact that by this time he might have left a message on my voice mail. Maybe he’s trying to call me at this very second.
“Mama, I have to—”
But she doesn’t seem to hear me. Undeterred, she starts talking, telling me how tired she is. She’s had several extremely trying days. A client has threatened one of her colleagues.
“It was the usual sort of thing. ‘I know where you live and where your children go to school.’ Except this time the guy flipped her desk over.”
I want to scream that I’m a grown-up now and I’ve got my own problems, that things are happening in my life that are way more frightening than what she’s talking about. But of course I say nothing.
Mama pauses, murmurs, “Hmm,” and then moves on to the next topic of conversation, the lovely late summer weather. Nausea rises inside me. Why does she do this? Stubbornly pretending that we’re just an ordinary mother and daughter. As if it were possible for the two of us to truly communicate after all these years, to reach past what’s between us and connect with each other again. Reach past what happened. Papa, who disappeared.
I sink down onto the bed, touch my forehead with my free hand. Mama falls silent, and I realize that she has asked me something. I clear my throat. I’m forced to ask her to repeat the question.
“Are you alone?”
A wave of emotions surges inside me. That question doesn’t belong here. It belongs to the time before Alex. All those nights when I came home to an empty apartment to sit alone at the kitchen table, with the silence echoing off the walls and only a lit candle to keep me company. That intense longing for companionship and closeness. And the equally intense fear of letting anyone behind my protective walls. Are you alone?
Again I feel hot tears fill my eyes, and I shake my head in an attempt to hold them back. It’s not like me to be so emotional, not at all. But I haven’t been myself since my appointment at the clinic a couple of weeks ago. And after what happened last night, how could anything go on as usual? In my mind’s eye, I picture Lake Malice, the calm and bewitched water of the lake. The island in the middle, the steep slope on one side, and the dark crowns of the trees etched against the sky. Alex. Smilla.
“Yes, I’m alone.”
Mama sighs. You’re such a disappointment, Greta. She doesn’t say that, but I can tell it’s what she’s thinking. I swallow the lump in my throat, pull myself together.
“Mama, I can’t… I really need to—”
“You sound different. Has something happened?”
What if I told her the situation? What if I told her everything? What would happen then? Would she jump into the car and drive right over and sweep me up in her arms? Would she take charge of everything just like she did my whole childhood? Push me onto a chair and tell me how things are going to be done from now on? What has to be done, what I should say, think, and feel? Probably.
“It’s so quiet on your end,” Mama goes on, and now she suddenly sounds like she’s on the alert. “Where exactly are you?”
I take a deep breath. Then I end the call. When the phone rings again and the same number appears on the display, I switch off the ringer.
5
On unsteady legs, I leave the bedroom. Not that the conversations I have with my mother are ever very relaxing, but this one bothers me more than usual. Those mundane words we spoke, those banal phrases. All of it such a glaring contrast to the confusing, nightmarish circumstances in which I find myself.
I pause halfway between the living room and kitchen, feeling my phone vibrate for the third time. How long is it going to take for her to give up? Tirith, who’s lying on the sofa, raises his head to give me a demanding look.
“I will, I will,” I murmur.
I have no idea what I mean by that. Something has to be done, but what? The conversation with my mother knocked me off balance. I need to back up, start over. Didn’t I have some sort of plan? First find the phone, and then… then what? What should I do now?
I stare at the hard object in my hand. It was on Alex’s side of the bed the whole time. Stuffed under the duvet, tucked away. Like someone put it there on purpose. Hid it. No! I shake my head, dismissing the vague notion taking shape. How and why my cell ended up there is irrelevant. The only thing that matters is now I can connect with the outside world. Now I can call Alex. Yes, of course. That’s what I need to do.
With trembling fingers, I punch in the number and wait. The sound of his voice makes my throat close up. For a fraction of a second I think I’m actually listening to Alex speaking on the phone. And this whole thing is over. But then I realize it’s just his voice mail. I hit the “End” button and try again. Listen again to the rapid-fire words spoken in Alex’s professional-salesman voice. I call four or five times. Each time, I get the same recording. And when the beep tells me it’s time to leave my own message, I say nothing. I have no idea what to say. What are the right words when all you want is an explanation for something inexplicable?
“Hi, this is Alex…” The greeting sends me back in time, to our very first meeting.
He came into the shop with one of his colleagues. Katinka was the first to notice him.
“Hey, look,” she whispered, giving me a poke in the side.
I turned around, and there he was. His suit was perfectly tailored, his head shaved. His white shirt was neatly pressed, but when he held out his hand, the cuff slid back to reveal intertwining tattoos on his forearm. There was something about the contrast that captivated me. He told us he was introducing a new line of beauty products promoted by a famous singer. His colleague may have said something too, but if so, I was only vaguely aware of it. I recall a brief silence in which Alex fixed his steel-blue eyes on me.
“Greta? Is that your name?”
Just then, the shop owner showed up, greeting him with a polite smile and quick handshake. Apparently, they had an appointment. Alex gave us a nod and followed our boss to the small office at the other end of the shop. I was sure he could feel my eyes glued to his back. I thought he’d turn his head to smile at me, but he didn’t.
The launch of the singer’s beauty line turned out to involve an unusually elaborate and expensive promotion. Life-size cardboard cutouts depicting the singer in various glamorous poses were set up in the shop. Pink alcohol-free bubbly in tall glasses and fancy chocolate pralines were displayed on gilded trays. In front of an audience, Katinka and I showed customers how to apply the makeup. On one occasion I noticed Alex among the spectators crowded below the podium where I was standing. The look in his eyes sent a bolt of desire through me. The attraction was so strong I lost my voice. Afterward, when things settled down and we were cleaning up, he suddenly appeared at my side.
“Greta,” he said. “Like Garbo.”
Or Gretel, I thought. Mine was almost the same name as the girl in the fairy tale about the gingerbread house and the evil witch in the woods. But I didn’t say that. I didn’t manage to say a word. That was how strong an effect he had on me. A nod was all I could manage. He gave me a crooked grin.