Girl in Ice(38)

No answer.

As if she were afraid my attention might lag, she raced through another drawing, each circle more sloppily drawn, until she came to the last one. Tossing the black marker aside, she seized the red one and attacked the final circle with it, tearing through the paper, not stopping even as she stabbed at the rug, staining it, crying in a helpless way before hurling the marker at the wall. She rocked in place, holding herself, panting.

“Hey, Sigrid, hey.” I reached out and touched her shoulder, but she swatted my hand away. Jumped up and whirled around to face me. A crescent-shaped knife glinted in her fist. “Whoa, put that down,” I choked out, hands up in surrender. “I’m not going to hurt you. Now give me the knife.” I held out my hand.

She circled me, knife held high. Through choking cries of rage and disappointment, she rambled on in her language, “Bahl” interspersed between phrases. I kept my eyes front, inhaled the fusty rug smell, focused on the Dome, a blip of banana-yellow cheer in the bleak landscape.

“I’m so sorry I let that happen to you. I’ll never let them touch you again.”

She stood behind me now, crying and talking at the same time, the knife hovering at my neck; its silver face mirrored in the window, glimmering. I closed my eyes. Felt her hot breath on me. Is she really going to try to hurt me? Does she feel no one can help her now? What can I say to calm her down?

She lay the tip of the knife at the base of my neck below my left ear. I stiffened at the touch of shocking cold metal. Held my breath.

Of all the words in all the languages I knew, not one rose to the surface of my consciousness to help me.

Chanting in her singsong voice, she dragged the white cold tip along the base of my neck. I pictured her plunging it into my jugular, my spine. Braced for the pain, for blood to pour down my back. I could have reached back and grabbed the knife but would have been too late to stop her from cutting me.

“Sigrid…” I breathed.

She rested the point of the knife on the other side of my neck.

My skin vibrated where the edge of the knife had traveled. I couldn’t tell if she had cut me shallowly or my flesh was merely remembering the blade’s touch.

“They think you’re sick, so they needed to look at your blood,” I whispered. “So we can help you.”

The knife lifted from my flesh. She began to sob; in the corner of my eye, the blade still quavered, flashing. Slowly I turned to face her. Blinded by tears, she held the knife high, thin arm quaking.

I whispered the seven words that prefaced her sentences: “Stahndala, tahtaksah, oosahmtara, mahkeensaht, sahsahnaht, neneesaht, verohnsaht…”

She lowered her arm and hiccuped; her face breaking into a confused smile. I repeated the words as I reached up to take the knife from her. She took a step back. “Bahl,” she said, wagging her head no at me as if I were a child being silly.

I lunged for the knife, but she was faster and scuttled under her bed with it. Moments later she emerged, smile erased by a look of exhaustion.

“Can I have the knife, Sigrid?” I made a slicing motion with my hand.

She gave me a blank look as if she didn’t understand. I didn’t buy it. Slowly, evenly, I reached back and touched my neck.

No blood.

I exhaled. “Jeanne’ll be looking for it. It’s not safe for you to have it.”

Cheeks ruddy with emotion, she gazed at me with the oldest eyes in the world, as if not understanding why I still didn’t understand. Keep the knife, I thought, if it makes you feel better.

The drawings frightened me more than the fact that she was collecting knives. I picked up her final one, the one she seemed to draw especially for me, and flattened it with my hands. “What does this mean?” I sighed, running my fingers over the bloodred hole she’d made. “What are these circles?” I repeated, as always, in Danish, West Greenlandic, English.

She went around gathering up all the drawings, piled them in my lap. Maybe because I’d been listening to her cry, I began to cry quietly myself as she stacked the peculiar pictures on my knees. Her efforts felt so passionate, so full of her own urgent needs.

She pointed at the red circle. Took my hand and pressed it on the gouged-out drawing.

I searched her dark eyes. “You haven’t eaten in a couple of days. Aren’t you hungry?” I pointed at her mouth, rubbed my belly.

With a cry of frustration, she swept the drawings off my lap and disappeared under her bed. Tiring of the game, I dove down onto my belly and wormed my way toward her.

“Come on, Sigrid, don’t do this. Everyone is sorry. I’m sorry.” For several minutes I rattled on about nothing, trying every bribe imaginable to get her to come out. She knew the words fish, hamburger, seal, caribou, beans, cookie. Even outside. I slung them all at her. No effect. Then I remembered Raj’s plan to go diving that day. Impossible to forget her look of unmitigated joy as she watched Raj burst out of the water after his dive.

“What about going to the Dome? We can watch Seal Man.”

From her nest of pillows came Sigrid’s faint voice, “Seal Man?”

“They’re doing a dive today.” I went to the door. Made sure I made a lot of noise creaking it open. “I’m going to go watch them, want to come?”

A scuffling sound, then silence.

“I’m going to go get dressed. See you outside for Seal Man.”