Good father.
Good father.
Good father.
I can still picture Smilla in front of me, but the features of her face seem distorted. As if she’s sitting there on the kitchen chair across from me, and yet she isn’t. Suddenly, it’s myself that I see. And the man moving around the kitchen, the man in charge of games and roughhousing, is Papa. The man who only a moment ago set me down on the chair after letting me climb around, hang upside down, and spin in circles, safely held by his strong body and firm grip. The man who is now opening cupboards and drawers, ostensibly to make breakfast, but who can’t stop goofing off, turning everything into a game. He balances a plate on my head and pretends to spread butter on a napkin instead of the toast. When he leans down to kiss my cheek, I smell morning breath from his mouth and women’s perfume on his skin.
Mama comes in, still bleary with sleep and with her hair in disarray. She stifles a yawn with her hand, and Papa dances over to her, humming some sort of silly tune. She keeps her hand over her mouth, but I can still see that her face lights up with a crooked smile. I have the world’s craziest husband. They give each other a long, passionate kiss, and when Papa thinks that I can’t hear—or that I’m too little to understand—he murmurs: Thanks for last night. Mama laughs, embarrassed, and rolls her eyes. But she’s happy. I see how her eyes are shining. And I feel happy and warm inside too. My parents love each other. And they love me. I have everything anyone could wish for.
I raise the spoon to my lips, my hand trembling slightly. That’s a nice childhood memory, but it would have been even nicer if it were true. If it hadn’t been largely fabricated after the fact. If Mama had really been in a good mood when she came into the kitchen instead of being silent and morose. If the smell coming from Papa’s mouth hadn’t been the residue of the previous day’s festivities. And if I could pretend that I didn’t understand. I knew that the scent on his skin did belong to a woman, but the woman was not my mother.
The pieces of toast swell inside my mouth. I stare at the bread that I’m holding. Notice how my hand is shaking. My stomach clenches and churns. Yet it still takes a moment before I comprehend what’s about to happen. When the realization takes hold, I jump up from the table so fast that my chair hits the floor with a bang. The next second my feet are pounding across the floor. Tirith shoots like a missile under the living room sofa. But I have no time to pay attention to a frightened cat. I yank open the bathroom door and hurl myself forward, managing to reach the toilet just in time before the vomit gushes out of my mouth.
7
A cloudless morning. Sunlight glinting off the shiny paint of the car, which is parked on the road outside the cabin. It’s my car. The car we drove to get here. Now there it stands, its headlights like wide-open, empty eyes, and it seems to be mutely shouting at me. Save yourself while you can, escape before it’s too late. But that’s not a viable idea. It’s impossible to flee from here. I can’t leave Marhem until I’ve found Alex and Smilla.
I move a little closer, tilting my head to one side as I study the tracks in the gravel next to the car. The tracks left by another vehicle as it roared off with an angry lurch. Pensively, I follow the indentations until they straighten out and merge with the others on the road. I think about what happened the other night. About how I woke up, heard sounds from outside, and noticed that Alex wasn’t in bed. A loud, agitated voice penetrated the window, which was slightly open. And then: the sharp slamming of a car door followed by screeching tires.
The sun is roasting hot, burning my forearms, but I stand still and keep staring at the tracks on the road. I think about that other car and the two people who were inside. About the one who stayed and the one who left. Finally, I turn my back on the tracks, not wanting to think anymore.
A while later, I find myself down at the dock, shading my eyes with my hand and staring at the lake, across its secretive, steel-gray surface.
Then I’m back in the boat, in the middle of Lake Malice, with the island in view. I put in at the same place as yesterday, then unsteadily make my way ashore, head up the slope, and take a look around. Not even twelve hours have passed since I last stood in this exact same spot, and there’s no time to lose. With great determination, I set off. This time, I carry out my search in a more methodical manner. I cover the island bush by bush, one thicket after another. The black shoe is still lying where I found it last night, but this time I walk right past, refusing to be distracted.
The island is definitely less scary in daylight, but the terrain is just as difficult to traverse. Fallen trees and overgrown vegetation are mixed with patches of marsh and mud. My shoes are constantly sinking into brownish-black muck, and I have to fight to pull free. Alex and Smilla must have encountered the same trouble when they were exploring the island. It couldn’t have been easy for Smilla, since the land is far from hospitable. In spite of her initial enthusiasm, she must have grown tired of the adventure very quickly. And yet she and Alex chose to continue their game instead of returning to me and the boat. Did something happen? If so, where have they gone? Did something prevent them from coming back? What could that be? I stop midstride. There is something inside of me that is protesting, resisting. Somehow, all my thoughts and the questions I’m asking seem spurious. Phony. Like I’m trying to fool myself.
I sit down on a tree stump, take out my cell, and call Alex. Mostly just for something to do, a way of distracting myself. He still doesn’t pick up, and once again I listen to his polite and professional recorded greeting. I end the call. Maybe it would be best if I didn’t try calling anymore. Every time I hear Alex’s voice, it brings up so many things, painful things. I tuck my legs under me and my mind is instantly flooded with thoughts of how it all started.
It was a few days after the launch party for the new beauty products, maybe a week at most. I left work early and went out to the parking lot next to the shopping mall with my jacket open. Most of the snow had melted away, and the sun held the promise of approaching spring, but the wind was brisk, and there was still no warmth in the air. I noticed the dark car parked by the entrance but didn’t pay it much attention until someone honked the horn and rolled down the passenger-side window. It was Alex. I automatically reached up to brush a few strands of hair out of my face. I went slowly to his car, placed my hand on the edge of the open window, and leaned down.
“What are you doing here?”
He laughed hoarsely, grinned, and asked if I’d had a bad day, or was I always so high and mighty? At first, I didn’t understand. Then I blushed, realizing my question could be interpreted as arrogant rather than an expression of genuine surprise. Before I could explain or apologize, he went on.
“I’ve been waiting for you. You’re the reason I’m here.”
Because of me? Could that be true? But why? No matter how hard I tried, I couldn’t say a word.
“I was thinking I could give you a ride home. Hop in.”
He sounded so calm, so confident. As if it were the most natural thing in the world to offer me a lift, even though we didn’t know each other at all. I raised my head to glance toward the bus stop. In a few minutes, my bus would leave, taking me home to the kitchen table, the silence. And the loneliness. Which protected me. And weighed on me.