Strangers: A Novel(37)

This is clear proof of the fact that I’m not myself right now. I wipe the tears from my face, then gently inspect my upper arms. They hurt. By tomorrow the bruises will appear, and the police would have to take me seriously if I filed a charge.

But it’s not my arms which are hurting the most. It’s … I’m not even sure. Where are the feelings coming from?

The way he looked at me. His exhaustion, his vulnerability, everything that had just broken through, was far more convincing than his tenth or twentieth but I love you. Some things can’t be faked. Whether he’s lying to me or not, whether we really are engaged or not—he definitely has feelings for me, and very strong ones at that.

My own feelings on the other hand … I’m unable to make sense of them. His outbreak of rage was unforgivable and it has doubtlessly torn a new rift between us, but for one confusing moment, where he put his arm around me to protect me from Bartsch, I had to fight the urge to move closer to him. To simply let myself fall into his embrace.

It would have been so simple. It would have felt so good.

But the part of me that stopped me from doing so had clearly been right. Just a few minutes later, Erik had shown what he’s capable of. Rage. Lack of self-control. Violence.

I can’t let the fact that, seconds later, he was even more shocked than I was count as an apology. No more than I can accept his pitiful attempt at a genuine apology.

Instead, I should see it as being evidence. It’s entirely possible that this isn’t the first time he had handled me roughly. Dr. Schattauer’s attempt at an explanation is becoming more and more plausible—that I know Erik, but have suppressed all my memories of him because of trauma. Systematic amnesia.

How bad must it have been; what he had done to me? And—did Dr. Bartsch already suspect? “The most important thing here is you and your safety,” he had said, before expressly offering me his help.

Was it possible that Erik’s problems at work are also rooted in the fact that he’s unable to control his rage?

If that were the case, then it’s not surprising he couldn’t wait to get rid of the company psychologist. Or that he interrupted the man again and again.

Yes, it all paints a logical picture—with a few flaws, nonetheless. I stand up slowly and go over to the window. The silver Audi is still parked in front of the house, meaning that Erik left on foot. So he will be coming back, at some point this evening.

His car is here, but that’s all. Erik’s things—his shoes, his books, his photos, all the small things of daily life—I haven’t suppressed the memory of them, they are simply not there. So how can I believe that we live together? How could he, indeed, how could anyone believe that?

On the other hand, there are some things I’m feeling which I don’t understand. The disappointment that he told people at work about my supposedly confused state, for instance. If a stranger had done that, I don’t think I would have cared. And before, when he had shouted at me and shaken me—I’d been shocked, yes. But if I really listen to my heart, I wasn’t afraid he could hurt me. Unlike the first time he had appeared here in the house, when I’d felt nothing but fear. Cold, overwhelming fear.

That was five days ago, and these days were among the worst I had ever experienced. How can it be that I could have built up trust, in so little time, with the very person who had set off all of these events? Were the two days he had spent sitting by my bed in the hospital enough for that?

I don’t know.

I really don’t know.

I also have no idea what I should do when he comes back. Throw him out again? Talk to him? Lock myself in the bedroom and put the problem off until tomorrow, or get out of here and find a hotel room?

I glance out of the window again. There’s still no sign of Erik. That gives me time to think, to put together a plan.

The half-full glass of water left by Dr. Bartsch is still in the living room, along with the scent of his aftershave.

I know the brand, but can’t think of the name. Too sweet for my taste. And with a note of tobacco which I find nauseating.

Picking up the glass, I go into the kitchen and wash it; all normal actions, and they do me good. I concentrate on the task, and start to feel calmer.

Dr. Schattauer. Maybe I can call her tomorrow—no, it’ll be Saturday. Never mind, I’ll get through the weekend, and then put my energy into resolving this crazy situation. Waiting for things to come to me—that’s not how I do things, and there’s no way I’m changing now.

The pack of shrimp is still lying next to the stove, and by now a small pool of water has formed beneath it on the work surface. They must be at least half-thawed by now.

Earlier, when Erik had offered to cook for me, I had felt relaxed for the first time in five days. Had I been looking forward to the meal and a conversation with him? His company?

Maybe. I’m not sure. In any case, the sight of the packet gives me a melancholic feeling. It’s probably just a result of my tiredness. Exhaustion, really, because I am exhausted, even if I don’t want to admit it, not even to myself.

Maybe I’ll lie down on the couch for a few minutes. With a magazine; I don’t have the concentration span for a book right now.

But what if I fall asleep? And Erik comes back?

The thought unsettles me, but doesn’t scare me. The man had pulled me out of the shower when I was unconscious and risked his own life in the process. He had …