In the River Darkness (6 page)

By then my face was so close to the picture that my nose was almost touching it. All at once, I was 100 percent sure: this woman had a secret. Her eyes, there was something strange about her eyes . . .

Shuffling steps. Startled, I jumped back. Iris Wagner came into the room with a tray on which two glasses slid back and forth.

“I was just looking at the picture,” I said quickly.

“I saw that,” she noted dryly.

“I’m sorry,” I stuttered, suppressing the impulse to chew on my fingernails. “I didn’t mean to be impolite, but . . .” Unable to control my curiosity any longer, I pointed to the young woman in the photo. “Who is that?”

“My daughter, Katarina.”

“She’s very pretty.”

“Yes. Pretty, and not quite right in the head,” the old woman huffed, and set down the tray so hard that the glasses clattered. “Iced tea?”

I didn’t dare say no. With a big gulp, I tried to swallow my questions:
Where is she now? Why did she go away and leave her kids here?

With a quiet groan, Iris sat down on a stool across from me. She sipped at her glass (which definitely didn’t contain iced tea but some other liquid that smelled suspiciously like brandy). And then—I couldn’t believe my luck—she continued talking without any prompting.

“Did you see the pictures in the front hall? She wanted to be a photographer, Katarina. Tsk, tsk, such wild notions. She didn’t get that from me! My husband and I finally convinced her to first get some training at the photo studio in the next town over. Something practical! But it didn’t amount to anything.” She shook her head and drained her glass. “Katarina even gave the other apprentice girl ideas with her fantastic tales. Before long, Ruth was just as crazy as she was. Faraway countries the two of them wanted to visit, get to know how people live there. ‘As soon as I’m eighteen, I’m out of here!’ Katarina always said.”

I was liking this Katarina more and more.

“And did she make it? Did she live her dreams? Where is she now?” I asked eagerly.

With a sudden jerk, Iris set down her empty glass on the tray—as if she were trying to shake herself awake from a half-forgotten dream. Then she stood up, with some difficulty.

“Enough words wasted on days gone by,” she murmured. “Now I really have to start making dinner. My men will be hungry when they come home.”

I followed her into the kitchen. “Please, continue your story. It’s really interesting.”

“Really?” She studied me for a long while. Her eyes weren’t unfriendly. “Well, if you’re going to stand around you can help me peel the potatoes. We’re having vegetable soup today.”

I stared at the vegetable peeler she put in my hand. Until then, my culinary abilities had been limited to baking a frozen pizza.

“What are you waiting for? Get started!”

So I did. Astonishingly, I found that it was actually fun. As the smell of frying onions and bacon wafted to my nose, I even felt genuinely hungry for the first time in weeks.

“Of course, everything always turns out completely different than what you think, young lady,” Iris said gruffly as she chopped her third potato already (I was still struggling with my first). “And so it was for Katarina. Because one day . . .” She stopped abruptly. “Hello you two lazybones, you’re just in time!”

Her grandsons stood in the doorway with their eyes nearly popping out of their heads when they saw me standing in the kitchen. “Stop staring at my guest! It’s rude!” Iris snapped as her eyebrows shot up menacingly. The boys immediately looked in a different direction.

I suppressed a giggle; it was clear who was in charge here!

“Don’t just stand there like a bump on a log, Jay, go set the table,” Iris turned on the lanky guy with the uncanny eyes, who immediately slipped away. Then she handed her peeling knife to the astonished Alex. “Here, make yourself useful. I still need to get parsley from the garden.”

As soon as she had turned her back on him, Alex lifted his eyebrows and crumpled his face in an expert parody of his grandmother. And when he started fumbling around with a carrot just like she must always do with her cane, I almost burst out laughing.

But only almost.
Pull yourself together, Mia!
I quickly bent over my cutting board so my hair covered my face. Through the protective curtain, I glanced over at Alex, who held two carrots to his mouth like orange fangs:
she’s a real dragon.

Then he shrugged his shoulders and graced me with his widest grin.

I didn’t smile back, just fixed my eyes firmly on the work in front of me. But it didn’t help. Alex seemed to fill the room completely with his energy, his good mood.

I wish I could be like that!
I suddenly thought.
I wish it were that simple!
And just like that, the kitchen seemed to be much too small for both of us. We stood so close to each other at the counter that I imagined I could feel the heat from his body. Much too close.

It was hot. My hands trembled. I chopped into the potato, hacking it into tiny slices. And the whole time I could feel him watching me.

“I haven’t seen you smile yet. Why don’t you ever laugh?” Alex suddenly asked.

Then I cut into my finger.

“Uh oh, you cut yourself,” he said. My hand was in his, no idea how that happened so quickly. “Let’s see.” He bent over my hand.

Suddenly, I thought of a scene I had observed at school a while ago: Alex defending his little brother against some guy who had made fun of Jay. The other guy was at least two heads taller than Alex. If only I had had someone looking out for me.

“The cut isn’t deep, but you should still put a bandage on it,” Alex said.

I saw my blood dripping onto the floor. Red, very red against the white tiles. And then I knew: he might become dangerous to me! Nicolas, Nicolas . . . droned through my head.

“It’s okay.” I pulled my hand away from Alex so forcefully that he looked at me in surprise. I sucked on my finger as if I wanted to hide the cut.

Everything was swirling around in my head. All I wanted was to get away. “I think . . . I think I’d better go now,” I said.

“But wait, don’t you want to stay and eat with us?” Alex asked, irritated. “After all, you helped cook.” But I was already on my way to the door.

“No, my parents are probably waiting for me.” At least I still knew how to lie.

“Well at least say good-bye to my grandma. She’ll be disappointed if you just leave.”

This guy didn’t give up so quickly. And then he asked, “Why do you always run away, anyhow?”

Caught in the act.

I didn’t know how to respond. Attack is the best defense, so I said the first thing that occurred to me. To my own surprise, I even meant it seriously: “Your grandmother shouldn’t go shopping alone anymore.” My voice sounded more forceful than I had intended. More involved.

Alex’s face suddenly became a closed book, and I saw that I had instinctively said just the right thing to put him off.

“We manage just fine,” he said, suddenly reserved.

“Sorry, it’s none of my business, but . . .”

“You’re right,” Alex interrupted, holding the door open for me. “It’s none of your business!” My attempt to flee had turned into being thrown out. I felt a sense of bitter triumph as I left the Stonebrooks’ house. Behind me, the door slammed shut.

It was better this way. That was dangerous territory. But then why was I so disappointed?

A small, stupid part of me hoped Alex would call me back. But no one called, so I slowly made my way down to the garden gate. And then I noticed them for the first time: prints of bare, wet feet that led all over the paved garden path and got lost between the rose beds.

I put my own foot next to one of them. The prints were made by feet even smaller than mine, so it couldn’t be anyone from the neighboring house. Everyone in the family was quite tall. Apparently, someone was prowling around the Stonebrooks’ house who didn’t have any business being there. Someone was watching them . . . just like me. How strange that I had never noticed anything suspicious from my post at the window.

I felt a cold prickling sensation on the back of my neck as I stared at the footprints slowly fading away in the evening sunlight. They disappeared as if they had never existed at all.

Maybe I should warn the Stonebrooks that someone was sneaking around their house? I glanced at the closed front door. No, I and my opinions were not welcome there. It was none of my business what problems these people had. I had enough of my own.

Nicolas’s name still droned in my head as I quickly ran down the garden path.

“Careful, it’s fresh out of the oven!” my mother warned as she set the casserole down on our dining room table. In the dish was a brown-green mass that she described, with great pride, as herbed leek soufflé. “Hopefully your dad will be home soon,” Mother said, looking impatiently at the clock. “It has to be eaten while it’s hot, before it collapses.”

Since we had been living here, my mother spent a lot of time in the kitchen, where she funneled her ambition into trying out exotic recipes “for the next time we have guests over again.”

I knew she was feeling lonely. One time I happened to overhear her talking on the phone with one of her friends in the city. “This is the most backward place you could imagine!” she complained into the phone. “But the worst of it is the people! They’re like a secret society; as the new person in town I feel like a total outsider.” Her friend apparently said something, because my mother was quiet for a moment. Then she laughed a bitter laugh: “My husband? Mark always has so much to do and only comes home late. No sign of having more time for the family, and I can’t reach Mia at all anymore. She’s changed so much in the past year. She’s so secretive and always wearing those awful black clothes.”

I had been standing on the landing of the stairs and listening so hard that my insides were tied in knots, as if I were wearing a hard shell under my skin that was getting tighter and tighter around my heart. But now it was too late to break it open, too late . . . because I didn’t know how anymore.

My mother had whispered into the phone, it sounded like a sob, but I didn’t want to think about that: “Erica, I don’t know what to do . . .”

I hurried up the stairs and tried to ignore the desperation in her voice. It sounded too much like mine.

Tick-tock went our antique grandfather clock. The soufflé had collapsed. While I poked around in the pathetic pile on my plate, I looked around our lovely new dining room. The evening sun fell through the carefully chosen draperies and shone on the old cherry-wood furniture. It was my mother’s pride and joy. Before, she had always complained that they couldn’t be appreciated in our old apartment.

Now her dream of a house in the country had come true—but looking at her tense expression as she stared at the clock, it didn’t seem to mean much anymore. Dad’s dinner was cold by now. And he hadn’t missed much. I had only eaten a little of it for my mom’s sake. I couldn’t do any more for her. I couldn’t help her any more than she could help me.

“I’ll go up to my room,” I said quietly. My mother just nodded.

Then I sat upstairs at the window again in my darkened room and looked over at the Stonebrooks’ illuminated house and finally satisfied my craving for chocolate-covered raisins. Downstairs I heard the door opening, then the murmuring of voices.

As they slowly grew louder, like the muted, threatening buzzing of hornets, the lights of the neighbors’ house swam before my eyes. Now I knew why I was always looking over there: because it was less real than things here.

So, I’ve been wanting to ask you. . . . Uh, would you maybe like to . . . ?

No, not like that. That would never work. It’s always a bad idea to think too much in advance about something. That just pulls you down. I’ve tried it myself. So I didn’t think for long about whether or not I should talk to her. I just did it and waited to see what would happen.