Cabin Fever

by Alex Dahl

  ‘Is Leah here?’ I ask.

  ‘No, she’s not.’

  ‘Do you know where she is?’

  Anton releases a sharp little breath, as if to suggest that my presence here asking questions is completely incredulous. ‘Why should I tell you?’

  ‘Look, Leah and I have worked together for several years. I have been under the impression that it’s been helpful for her, and I want to make sure that she’s okay. She didn’t turn up for a scheduled session with me this afternoon, and it’s left me concerned for her well-being.’

  ‘She’s fine.’

  ‘Have you spoken to her?’

  ‘I saw her a couple of days ago.’

  ‘Wait, how?’

  ‘She’s at her cabin working on her next book and I went there to see her.’

  ‘I’m sorry, I don’t… I find it hard to believe that she’s at her cabin and working and that she would have invited you there.’

  ‘She didn’t invite me. I went there to check on her as I felt concerned too. She didn’t respond to my messages or calls and I felt like I had to see her to…’ Anton trails off and I stare at him hard, refusing to break his gaze. I don’t believe him.

  ‘I’ve been trying to call and email her and I feel that it is out of character for her not to respond.’

  ‘There is no reception up there. It’s really remote.’

  ‘What was her state of mind when you saw her?’

  ‘She was fine. Focused on the book.’

  ‘Fine?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘I find it hard to believe she was fine. She was extremely distressed when I saw her last Friday. She was also hurt. I’m assuming you might have played a part in that?’

  Anton drops his gaze to the ground in the way of the guilty. ‘No.’

  ‘May I ask what you’re doing here?’

  ‘What I’m doing here?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Firstly, I’m not sure how I see that is any of your business. Secondly, I’m in a relationship with Leah.’

  A little incredulous laugh escapes me – the sheer nerve of this man, speaking as though Leah still wanted him. I would have died if I hadn’t escaped from him, she’s said, many times. But what if she’s died because she did escape? I swallow hard. He’s hurt her, I know it. She must have met someone new and gotten pregnant, and Anton must have found out and tracked her down. I stare at him, more furious than frightened now, and try to determine whether this man could be capable of hurting a pregnant woman.

  ‘I don’t believe you.’

  ‘Look, Dr Moss,’ he says in a mocking tone, ‘I know what a quack you are. Your so-called therapy has done exactly fucking nothing for Leah. The thing that has helped Leah get to a better place in the last few months has been returning to me. To allow herself to be loved fully.’

  I’m stunned by his claim. Could it be true that she’s gone back to him? It would explain why she hasn’t mentioned the pregnancy if she has rekindled something with Anton, after years of sharing her experiences of a very turbulent past with this man. After writing a bestseller about the abuse he subjected her to. How could she have gone back? I feel irrationally angry.

  ‘I don’t believe you. Where is she?’ I try to look past him and into the apartment, but he’s a big guy and he’s blocking the doorway.

  ‘I’ve got to say you’ve got some nerve, Dr Moss, coming here and accusing me of lying when you clearly don’t know a thing.’

  ‘I know what she told me. I know that she was afraid of you. She used to lie awake at night, worrying about you discovering where she lives. And you’re standing here saying you are back together and that she is at her cabin, but not responding to calls or emails. How am I supposed to believe that when I know that she had to get a restraining order against you?’

  ‘A restraining order against me?’ Anton laughs, and looks genuinely surprised. ‘Wait, Leah even lies to her therapist?’

  15

  Leah, two weeks before

  For once, the loneliness she fears and writes about and lives by and even courts, dissipates. He’s here. He came back again. Every time, he says this is the last time, it has to be. He holds her, for hours. She curls into him, like a mollusk into its shell.

  We need to talk, he says.

  I need you to hold me, she says, so he does.

  We need to talk, he says, again, later.

  No, she says, not yet. She places his hand on her left breast so he can hear the thud of her heart and turns around to look into his eyes. He can’t resist her like that, he has said that himself many times. She takes his other hand and guides it down, down, and he moans softly when his fingers touch upon her wetness. She’s quick to press her lips to his and prize his mouth open with the playful tip of her tongue. He sighs but doesn’t, or can’t, resist her. He sighs deeper as she gets on top and lowers herself down onto him, rocking back and forth, her tongue probing his mouth, his hands buried in the thick tangle of her hair. She stops, pulls back, looks into his eyes. His mouth is still open as though he hasn’t realized the kiss has ended, and she leans back in, closes it with her own.

  She gets on all fours, he’s behind her, one hand clutching her hip for balance, the other in her hair again, he likes that, and he’s gathered it into a thick, glossy rope.

  Pull it, she says, and he does. Harder, she says. So he does. I want you to hurt me. So he does.

  I want you to love me, she thinks. But he doesn’t.

  When she wakes, she’s alone. There are bruises on the insides of her thighs, on her arms, along her collarbone, on her wrists, where he pinned her down. A tuft of dark hair he tugged from her scalp is left on the pillow. Her trachea hurts where he squeezed it, and though he didn’t actually want to do it, he did it when she insisted.

  She gets out of bed and steps under the hissing jet of a hot shower. She turns her face into the rushing water, and rubs the night off her skin with gentle soapy fingers, taking care where it is raised and blue. She allows tears to flow and doesn’t get back out until they stop.

  She stands a long while in front of the mirror, noticing how the baby has grown since she last did this. She touches her lower belly, gently cradling the tiny, taut bump. The thought of someone hurting the person inside like she herself has been hurt, makes her heart race and her mind run blank with dread.

  I love you, she thinks to herself, but has to avert her eyes at the intensity of her own gaze. She knows it’s time, now, to do something about the situation.

  16

  Kristina

  ‘Look. I’m sorry if we got off on the wrong foot. I would appreciate it if perhaps we could talk some more,’ I suggest, gauging Anton’s reaction – I have to get to the bottom of what’s going on here and to do that I need to diffuse the atmosphere between us. I need to make him trust me. He seems agitated below the surface, nervous energy running through him like a frothy river about to break its banks. I don’t believe a word he says. ‘It seems like there has been a big misunderstanding.’

  ‘Clearly.’

  ‘Why do you think Leah would have told me that she was afraid of you if it weren’t true?’

  ‘We have had a difficult relationship in the past. But we love each other. I love her and would do anything for her, I’d fight for her, I’d…’ He breaks off and rubs hard at his eyes and I wonder – would you kill her?

  ‘I know you’ve hurt her in the past.’

  ‘You clearly know nothing at all.’

  ‘I’m Leah’s therapist, as you know.’

  ‘Yes, well, she clearly lied to you. Like she’s lied to everybody. Her life, and her career, all of it, is based on a lie.’

  ‘So, you’re saying you never hurt her and she didn’t have a restraining order against you?’

  ‘Yes.’

  He appears genuine, and despite instinctively not believing him, I can’t disregard the possibility that Leah really has gone back to him; abuse victims so often do, over and over, reenacting the only
pattern they know. It would explain why Leah was so distressed last Friday and why she was so insistent on wanting to tell me something. I need to change strategy and get Anton to trust me with the truth; it seems like Leah hasn’t.

  ‘You seem nervous,’ I say, keeping my voice as even and calm as I can manage, trying to convey sympathy, watching his reactions carefully. ‘Or upset, perhaps? Do you think you could talk me through what’s happened?’

  He thinks about it for a moment, then nods reluctantly and indicates a door leading off the hallway with a visibly trembling hand.

  ‘I’ll make coffee.’

  I follow him through into a small, but beautifully furnished, living room. There are framed posters from Leah’s travels – Zanzibar, Havana, Cadiz, Marseille – hung above a shelf on which three curious little trees are lined up. Japanese bonsai trees, I realize. There is a tidy, open-plan kitchen in the corner, with ancient-looking wooden support beams painted gray partially separating the space from the living room. I would have guessed Leah enjoyed cooking, though she’s never actually mentioned it, but this is definitely the kitchen of someone who mostly eats out.

  There’s a beautiful little gilded writing desk by the window and I conjure her up in my mind, sitting there sipping green tea with lemon, humming to herself, writing a little, pausing to look out at the comings and goings in the street below.

  I sit on the sofa while Anton makes coffee. He seems familiar with the layout of Leah’s apartment and effortlessly locates the coffee pods and the sugar in the cupboards, placing them on a little lacquered tray. He pours milk into a jug and I wonder whether Leah bought it, or if Anton did. Has he hurt her and is he posing as the concerned boyfriend, staying at her apartment and pretending to wait for the woman he claims to love to come home? It wouldn’t be the first time a violent, jealous man has done something like that. I feel a dull ache in the pit of my stomach. It’s that breathless sensation that follows a punch, before the pain fully sets in.

  ‘When did you last see Leah?’ I ask as Anton sits down across from me.

  ‘I told you. A few days ago. Uh, Saturday.’

  ‘When did you see her before then?’

  ‘On Friday morning last week.’

  ‘You were with her on Friday morning?’

  ‘Yes. I stayed over and in the morning we had breakfast, then went for a walk. I left around ten thirty.’

  ‘Right.’

  ‘Look, I took a picture of us.’ Anton pulls his phone out from his jeans pocket and scrolls down until he finds what he is looking for. He turns the screen to show me. It’s a selfie of himself and Leah posing in front of a fountain I recognize as the one in St Hanshaugen park, drained for the winter season. They are both smiling and Leah is looking slightly off into the distance, as though she didn’t know exactly where to look into the phone camera.

  ‘Show me when it was taken,’ I say. Anton stares hard at me, visibly annoyed, then seems to decide it’s a better idea to continue the conversation. He clicks on the photo settings to show me that the photo was indeed taken last Friday, at 9.20 a.m. Leah’s entire face is visible, and without doubt, completely unscathed. Just hours later, she’d turn up for our session, terrified and incoherent, the right side of her face beaten to a pulp. My hand hurts and I realize I’ve dug my fingernails hard into my palms. I am barely able to contain myself, because I have the terrible suspicion I could be sitting here, sipping coffee with Leah’s killer. Then something else occurs to me – what if something happened between them and he attacked her, and she came to my session, disorientated and afraid, trying to tell me she was about to go to her cabin to get away from him? She would still be there, too afraid to return to Oslo, pregnant and vulnerable, trapped with her own thoughts. Leah has told me many times that it’s the only place she feels safe. Only, he’s gone there, and I find it hard to believe that he just went to check on her. But she could still be there, hiding from him. Waiting for me.

  ‘What happened after this picture was taken? Anton, did you have an argument?’

  He stares at me hard and again, I feel a flush of fear spread out in my stomach, there is something unnerving about his ice-blue gaze. He surprises me by nodding.

  ‘Yes,’ he whispers. ‘That’s why I went to the cabin. I couldn’t reach her and I wanted to apologize. Which I did. I even called you. Twice, on the Sunday, days before I went there, because I didn’t know where she’d gone or why she wasn’t responding and I figured you’d know. I thought she told you absolutely everything.’ Anton’s face creases in a slight grimace, as though it is difficult to think about those days when he was unable to get hold of Leah.

  ‘That was you? On Sunday afternoon?’ I recall the two missed calls as I drove home from Camilla’s – I looked the number up in the phone registry, but it was unlisted. Hours later Leah called, but said nothing – the last I’ve heard from her.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘What was the argument about?’

  ‘Old stuff.’

  ‘Old stuff?’

  ‘I’m sure you know she wrote a fucking book about me. She sold what we had together as though it were a product. Then she fucked off, saying she needed therapy to deal with all the terrible things I did to her? I didn’t do terrible things to her, we did terrible things to each other at times. But none of that came out in her so-called autofiction book. Everyone just gobbled it up as truth. How do you think it felt to be cast in that light? Watching her go buy this fancy apartment, a Range Rover and a cabin, too, while I had to move back in with my parents? I even lost my fucking job. I was a radio host and my channel dropped me, saying they couldn’t employ a wife-beater. How are you supposed to defend yourself against someone who is apparently being a brave survivor by telling the truth, when actually, it’s all lies?

  And then she came back, earlier this year, full of promises and regret, saying she still needs me, and that therapy had made her see that so much of what had happened between us went both ways. I believed her. I took her back because I love her, but still, all the while, she was lying to me. I know it. She was fucking someone else.’

  ‘Who? What do you mean? Anton, look at me.’ He won’t look at me. His knuckles grow pale around the coffee mug and I picture it smashing in his hand, its shards sinking into the soft white skin of his palm, spraying me with his blood. I swallow hard. ‘Who, Anton?’

  ‘I don’t know. I just know there’s someone else.’

  ‘What makes you think that?’

  ‘I found messages from him on her phone. Someone else’s cufflink behind the towel rail in the bathroom. Once, I happened to walk past and there was a man in the apartment. I could see his shadow outlined against the wall, from the street.’

  ‘Happened to walk past.’

  ‘Yes.’ He won’t meet my eyes and I feel a flash of pity for him after all. I remind myself that nobody is all bad, people can’t be cast in black and white.

  ‘Anton. That sounds very painful. It’s not surprising that you’re deeply hurt by this. Anton. Look at me. I need you to tell me the truth. Why would she lie about all of this?’

  ‘She told me recently that it was to punish me. For leaving her. And that she was sorry. She feels trapped by that narrative, now. She says it’s stifling and awful to have to maintain that what she wrote in Nobody was the truth.’

  ‘Anton. Let me ask you this and please be honest with me. Have you hurt Leah?’ Sometimes a careful but direct question is the best approach.

  ‘No.’

  ‘Never?’ He shakes his head curtly and clamps his lips together in a tight line, as though he might say something he doesn’t want to if he opens his mouth even a little bit.

  I need to extricate myself and get home and call the police. Something is very wrong here and I just can’t tell what to believe. I place the coffee cup back down on the table, and focus on keeping my expression open and non-threatening. I glance around the room again, committing it to memory. I feel Anton’s eyes on me and clear my throat.
>
  ‘Never.’

  ‘Okay,’ I say. ‘Thank you for taking the time to talk to me, and to explain your version of events. I clearly haven’t had the full story. The client–therapist relationship is a very unique one. Would you please ask Leah to get in touch with me as soon as she gets home?’ Anton nods. ‘Did she say anything about when she’d come home?’

  ‘She said she needed to finish something and that she’d most likely come back this weekend.’

  ‘Okay.’ I’m about to walk out the door when something occurs to me. ‘Oh, hey, Anton, do you happen to know what Leah’s new book is about?’

  ‘Uh. New book?’

  ‘The one she’s working on?’

  ‘Right. No.’

  ‘Has she not mentioned it to you?’

  ‘Only very briefly.’

  ‘Okay. Thank you. Well, I’ll be expecting her call.’ I don’t believe for a second that Leah, a celebrated author who has struggled for over a year with the process of writing her second book, wouldn’t have extensively discussed this with her so-called boyfriend.

  Anton nods, and fidgets with the strap of his watch, which has come loose from its leather hoop. I stare at his nimble, strong fingers and wonder if they closed around Leah Iverson’s neck.

  When I’ve left the building, I cross the street and can’t resist the urge to turn back around and look at the row of windows on the fourth floor belonging to Leah’s apartment, but when I do, I catch a glimpse of Anton standing there in the middle window, looking straight at me.

  17

  Kristina

  At home, I close the door to the apartment softly, then lean against it. All the lights are off and the hallway is gloomy, deep shadows stretching across the oak floorboards. I slip my boots off, trying to steady my breathing and calm my racing heart after the brisk, cold walk home.

  I walk through to the living room and sit down on the sofa – I need a few moments to center myself and sort my thoughts after the disturbing meeting with Anton. I fix my gaze on the huge canvas hung across from me on the matte charcoal wall – Eirik’s favorite. It’s a medley of blues and grays and looks like something my nephew might have produced at nursery, and yet, it cost more than my BMW. At least it isn’t Elisabeth’s – the others are all off the walls now and in the cupboard of the spare bedroom. Eirik says this one represents the storms of the mind and that the tiny slash of white toward the bottom left of the picture apparently represents hope. Sometimes I enjoy the picture and lose myself in the chaotic, hypnotic blur of its swirling brushstrokes, but I feel fundamentally annoyed at the suggestion that this image has an underlying objective meaning that should be apparent to its observer.