After She's Gone

by Camilla Grebe

  “That’s okay,” Manfred says, putting his large hand on Hanne’s. “We’ll help you.”

  “Berit told me you haven’t found any trace of Peter yet.”

  Hanne’s voice is brittle.

  “That’s right,” Manfred says. “We’re still looking. And we will find him, I promise.”

  Hanne stares out through the window, at the snow-covered field and the evergreens beyond it.

  “It’s so cold now,” she says. “So cold. Imagine if he’s somewhere in those woods in this cold.”

  Manfred squeezes her hand.

  “We found a dead woman in the forest yesterday,” he continues, and looks at Hanne. “At the cairn. She’d been murdered. And one of your shoes was found nearby.”

  “What are you saying?”

  She twists her hands together and blinks several times.

  “Hanne. I think you were there, in the woods, when this woman was murdered.”

  Manfred pauses as if to give Hanne time to take in what he’s saying. Then he continues:

  “I know it’s difficult to remember, but anything at all will help. A sound, a scent, an image with no context that seems uninteresting.”

  Hanne nods and closes her eyes.

  “Greenland,” she says. “That’s the last thing I remember clearly. Then it’s all a blur. Though I do have a few fragments, which I think might be from the day Peter disappeared. I remember being in the woods. I was running, as if I were fleeing from something, or someone. Yes, at least that’s the feeling I have. That I was afraid and out of breath. My whole body hurt, but I kept running. And I was freezing, of course. It was so unbelievably cold.”

  “Very good,” Manfred says, and squeezes Hanne’s hand. “Do you remember what time of day it was?”

  Hanne closes her eyes and takes a deep breath. The corner of one of her eyes twitches.

  “It was dark.”

  “Good. And the weather?”

  Hanne squirms in her chair and wrinkles her forehead.

  “I remember rain against my face. And…a branch falling from a tree. Yes, a storm. It was stormy.”

  Manfred turns to me and mouths: “Friday.”

  Hanne must have been in the woods on Friday night during the storm.

  That means that she must have wandered for a full day before she was found.

  “Okay,” Manfred says. “Very good. You’ve been saying ‘I’ this whole time. Was Peter with you in the woods?”

  Hanne opens her eyes and sits very still. She looks out through the window at a snowy field bathed in morning sun.

  “I don’t remember. I think…No. I don’t know.”

  “Okay,” Manfred says. “Can we back up a little? Do you remember why you were in the woods?”

  “We…No. I’m sorry!”

  Hanne slowly shakes her head and then goes on:

  “I’m really sorry. It’s all so blurry. But it must have been connected to the investigation. Why else would we go out in those woods? Bird-watching? Making out behind some trees?”

  Manfred smiles crookedly.

  “What do you remember from the investigation?” I ask.

  Hanne doesn’t answer right away, and when she does, her expression is troubled.

  “To be honest?” she says slowly. “Nothing.”

  Manfred’s eyes meet mine, and I can see the disappointment there.

  “Okay,” he says. “Don’t worry. What else do you remember?”

  Hanne nods and closes her eyes again. A few rays of sunshine make their way through the window, and a lock of her coppery hair begins to glow.

  “We were in a dark, cramped room.”

  “Wait a minute—what kind of room?”

  Manfred stares intensely at Hanne.

  “Well, a room. Or a space, I guess. Maybe a garage or a small cottage. I don’t know if that was before or after the forest. Then I remember…”

  Hanne looks up toward the ceiling. She wrings her hands.

  “Boards. Or at least that’s how they felt under my palms. Sort of prickly.”

  “What kind of boards?” I ask.

  “No clue. Just…boards. And…”

  “What?”

  Manfred looks eager.

  “Books,” she says emphatically.

  “Books? What kind of books?”

  “I don’t know. Regular books. Just…”

  Hanne is quiet, her eyes closed. She puts her hands to her temples.

  “English books. In stacks on the floor. On that disgusting, dirty floor.”

  Manfred throws me a quick glance. There’s a crackling sound from the fire, and Hanne opens her eyes.

  “Where?” Manfred whispers.

  “I don’t know.”

  Hanne bends her head, and for a moment I think she might start to weep.

  “Speaking of books,” I say. “You don’t happen to remember where your diary is, do you?”

  Hanne shakes her head.

  “My diary? No. And believe me. If I knew where it was I’d have grabbed it, because I wrote down everything in there.”

  We talk a bit longer, but she doesn’t remember more, so we decide to head back to the office.

  Just as Hanne rises to give Manfred a farewell hug, I see a necklace glimmer inside the old, washed-out men’s shirt she has on. When she turns to me, I can’t help asking about it.

  “What a beautiful necklace, Hanne. Is it new?”

  Once again her face goes blank, which I’ve come to realize means she doesn’t remember.

  “I don’t know,” she says hesitantly, her face troubled, moving a hand to her throat. Then she pulls the necklace out so I can see it.

  A gold medallion hangs on a thin gold chain. The medallion has a green border that appears to be made of enamel, and there are what might be small diamonds set in the middle. Around the stones, a wreath is engraved.

  “It looks old,” I say, bending forward to get a better look.

  Hanne nods and blushes.

  “Maybe you got it from Peter,” I suggest.

  “Maybe,” Hanne says, and blushes even more deeply, as if ashamed she can’t help us.

  Jake

  They found a woman murdered at the cairn.

  Dad told me this morning before I left for school. He also said he’d bet a month’s salary that the victim and murderer came from the “Arab colony” in the old TrikåKungen factory.

  Everyone was talking about it at school, too, but no one knew what happened.

  Saga and I talked about going out to the cairn and checking it out, but she had to babysit her little sister after school so I went home instead.

  I’m at my desk now, with Hanne’s diary in front of me.

  I’ve placed it inside my history textbook, so I can hide it if Dad or Melinda walks in. The Eiffel Tower stands next to me. It’s done, or as done as it’ll ever be.

  On Thursday I have to hand it in.

  Something’s happened to me, but I don’t really know what. Maybe it’s because Saga kissed me, or Hanne’s story, which has crept into my head and made a place for itself among all my other thoughts. Anyway, everything feels different, as if the Coke tastes more like Coke and the trees and the creek outside are more beautiful than I remember. Each evergreen tree is a perfect white-powdered cone, and the creek runs by like an infinite, shining snake through the hills and stones.

  And it’s as if Hanne has her own voice, which speaks directly to me through the tightly written pages of the book. As if every word, every syllable, was meant just for me.

  It’s exciting, but at the same time scary, because the further into the story I get, the more responsibility I feel for her and P, even though I don’t really know how I feel about him. I am after all the only one who knows what they did those last day
s before disappearing into the woods.

  When I think about it, my stomach goes cold, like someone forced me to swallow a big piece of ice. I feel guilty that I’ve spent the last few days building the Eiffel Tower and hanging out with Saga instead of finishing the diary.

  I run my hand over its pages.

  The paper is a bit dented and feels rough. When I see that familiar spindly handwriting, my heart jumps in my chest.

  “Hello, Hanne,” I whisper.

  Saturday & free.

  I worked a bit in the hotel room in the morning. Searched online for violent criminals who kept shoes as trophies. Found a serial killer in the United States who stole his victims’ shoes. He was a fetishist & schizophrenic, who wore the shoes after the murder and masturbated. He also cut a foot off one of his victims, brought it home and put shoes on that as well.

  Odd: I’m able to put on my analytical glasses and state that this murderer’s tendencies had deep-seated psychological causes. I can sift through his childhood to find mitigating circumstances.

  But I still can’t UNDERSTAND.

  It troubles me, because it clarifies that invisible but undeniable boundary that separates individuals from each other. You can never fully understand another human being. Or trust them, for that matter.

  I’m thinking about P.

  We went for a long walk in the woods after lunch. Went to the cairn. Climbed up Orm Mountain. The sun was shining, the air was cold & clear.

  P was in a terrific mood, talked about the investigation. I asked who Malin was. It just popped out of me. I should have checked the diary instead.

  It was as though a light extinguished in his eyes, to be replaced by watery emptiness. He let go of my hand.

  I tried to explain away my faux pas, but he didn’t fall for it.

  P is many things (unreliable, insensitive at times), but he’s not stupid. After thirty years as a cop he knows a lie.

  He made me promise to call the doctor on Monday.

  (I lied, of course. I never want to see that doctor at the Memory Clinic again. The one who likes to tell me about all the WONDERFUL group homes available to dementia patients—as if she were selling me a charter trip, not health care facilities where you sit in a chair in front of a television and pee into a diaper.)

  I’m not there yet, but I will be.

  Unless…

  I’ve started thinking: I don’t have to let it happen. I can choose to end my life before I become a vegetable.

  The difficulty is, of course, knowing when. I do fine for now. And I really have no wish to die. Still: I’ll have to do it before I completely lose myself. There will be a point-of-no-return: a time when a plan can no longer be implemented. After that, I’ll be forced to sit compliantly in front of a TV at a nursing home & eat my purees.

  I close the book and look out the window. It’s dark, but I can still make out the glitter of the black creek winding through the trees.

  A lump has grown in my throat.

  I don’t want Hanne to die.

  I don’t want anyone to die, but especially not Hanne. I think of that thin figure in a wet blouse with bare feet in the woods. Of her hair lying in wet strings on her shoulders.

  I thought she was dangerous, a murderer.

  I grab my phone and google “fetishist” and “schizophrenic” to stop thinking about Hanne, but she won’t let go of me. It feels like she’s whispering to me from the book, as if she’s asking me for help.

  What is she doing at this very moment?

  Dad told me she’s staying with Berit in the house behind the church. He said it’s crazy that they let that “old fool” take care of Hanne. Still, he admitted there’s so much crazy shit happening these days it’s only logical.

  It made me wonder if it was different before. If things were better then, less nuts. But I didn’t have time to ask before Melinda came in wearing a very short skirt, and she and Dad started shouting at each other.

  That’s what they do, Dad and Melinda—argue about things that aren’t important to avoid talking about what does matter.

  Like Mom.

  We never talk about her even though it’s been less than a year since she died, even though all her clothes are still hanging in the closet and her side of the bed lies untouched.

  I look at the clock and then out into the darkness again.

  Half past four.

  There’s nothing preventing me from going to Berit’s to check how Hanne is doing. Not to visit, but just to get a glimpse of her, make sure she’s okay.

  The more I think about it, the more convinced I am that that’s the best course of action. Not just that I could, but that I should go look in on her.

  I carefully place the diary into the desk drawer, turn off the desk lamp, and get up.

  * * *

  —

  Berit’s little house is lit up like a Christmas tree. Warm light streams out through the windows, turning the snow outside gold.

  I’ve hid my moped in the woods and walked the last bit on foot. Even though there’s nothing forbidden about coming here, I don’t want to be discovered—how would I explain why I’m here, why I’m so desperate for a glimpse of Hanne?

  It’s really, really cold tonight.

  My breath turns to smoke, and my cheeks are numb. Even though I have my thickest gloves on, my fingers are frozen.

  I make my way slowly toward the cottage, trying to figure out which window is the best to peek in through. The window to the right of the front door is low, so low I could easily stand in the flower bed and look in.

  Everything is calm. No movement, no sound. It’s just me, the cottage, and the silence of a scentless winter evening.

  The bushes under the window stick to my pants. I take a step toward the window and realize too late it’s a rosebush. The thorns tear me at my thighs, sting and bite.

  But I can see inside.

  The room is empty.

  On the right, two sofa beds stand along the wall, and to the left sits a small table with stools around it. At the far end there’s a door. It’s slightly ajar, and I can just make out some movement in there, as if someone walked by.

  I back away from the rosebushes, think for a few seconds, and then walk around the corner of the house, over to the next window.

  It’s too high up, impossible to look in if you don’t have anything to stand on.

  A snowflake lands on my face, and then another.

  I look around, but can’t find anything to climb on, no box or bucket or ladder sticking up from the snow. Instead, I grab ahold of a wooden panel and climb up from the ground, wedging my feet into the small gap between the façade and the stone foundation, hold on to the batten. I peek in through the bottom edge of the window, where a potted plant conveniently sits.

  They’re by the table in the kitchen.

  Berit has her back to me. The short, thick nape of her neck sticks over her shirt, like risen dough. Hanne sits opposite her, facing me. On the floor in front of the woodstove, Berit’s old dog lies stretched out on its side.

  My first impulse is to jump down, but then I realize they can’t see me. It’s dark outside, and I must be hidden by the potted plant.

  I almost don’t recognize Hanne.

  Her hair is long, curly, and fluffy. She’s holding a cup of tea in her hand and laughing at something. She has a shawl draped around her shoulders and a big necklace peeks out from her neckline.

  She looks so strong, so happy, and filled with energy. Not at all like someone who wrote that she might want to die. But that’s just how it is: These terrible thoughts are invisible from outside; they exist only internally, in a dark box with a very thick lock. Inside there’s room to long for death, or for The Sickness to hide out.

  I guess that’s where Dad put his memories of Mom.r />
  Berit rises, walks over to the stove, and reaches for the teapot. She limps a bit, as if she’s in pain. Hanne holds out her teacup and lets Berit fill it with hot liquid.

  The kitchen table stands near a window on the opposite side of the house, the church side. A straw Christmas Star hangs from a hook in front of the window. On the windowsill there’s a sad, sickly potted plant. The leaves are yellow and hang from the stem. A few lonely pink flowers stare into the darkness of the windowpanes.

  My arms burn from the exertion, but I hold on to the wood paneling, enchanted by the scene in that little kitchen. It’s almost impossible to believe Hanne’s sitting there. In a way, I know her better than any other adult, but still she’s a stranger.

  A sound echoes through the night: a muffled thud, but I can’t tell if it came from inside or out.

  Berit sits down again. I can hear their muted voices, but can’t make out what they’re saying.

  Then that sound comes again, sort of like a scratching, as if someone were slowly dragging their nails over a metal sheet. I stiffen, because now I’m sure the sound is coming from outside. Someone or something is moving around out here in the garden.

  But Hanne and Berit don’t seem to notice; they keep talking and laughing and drinking tea.

  Then I see it.

  Beneath the Christmas Star in the other window—a pale, expressionless face surrounded by night. The eyes are holes of darkness. The mouth is a thin line.

  I lose my grip on the wood panel and fall back into the snow. As my back hits the ground, I realize the person standing outside that other window must be around the corner, less than ten meters from me.

  My back hurts, and I gasp for air. I get up and start running over the thin layer of snow toward my moped.

  My chest burns from the effort. My nose is running, but I don’t dare slow down or glance behind me. I’m too scared that the person standing outside that window might catch up with me.

  But no one is coming.

  Nobody puts a bony hand on my shoulder just at the moment I think I got away. Nobody breathes on my neck as I climb onto my moped. No one pulls me down as I start the engine.