JESSICA.
Jessica opens her eyes. The living room is dark; the timer has turned off the television. The time on the cable box reads three thirty a.m. The wind is howling outside, setting the windows creaking.
Someone has called out to Jessica again. The voice was Erne’s. Healthy Erne, not that frail man laid low by an agonizing, rapidly advancing illness. Erne, on whose grave she laid a dandelion bouquet.
Jessica.
Now Jessica is no longer sure if the voice is a man’s or a woman’s. Suddenly she finds herself on her feet. The towel she wrapped around herself after her evening shower has slipped to the floor. Jessica takes a step. And then another. Her limbs feel light; nothing hurts. It’s as if she is gliding above the hardwood floor. Levitating, without any friction between the soles of her feet and the floor, no contact with material.
Come here, sweetheart.
The person speaking is both man and woman. It could be Erne, Nina, Yusuf, Tina, Dad, and Mom together.
Jessica walks toward the long dining table, the straight-backed people sitting around it. The beautiful black evening dress is spread out in the center of the table, pressed and clean. The fifth dress. Next to it, a pair of high heels, lustrous and exquisite. They have to be the most beautiful shoes in the world.
Jessica stops in the midst of her weightless movement and turns her face to the mirror. Something isn’t right. It feels as if the reflection staring back at her is repeating her movements at a slight lag, as if, instead of being a precise copy, it is reacting spontaneously to the reality Jessica represents.
Respice in speculo resplendent.
It’s me.
Of course it is, sweetheart.
Out of the corner of her eye, Jessica sees the woman in the black evening dress sitting at the head of the table, reading from a thick book. Next to her sits Camilla. Not frail old Mrs. Adlerkreutz, but the young Camilla, the force of her physical presence extending all the way to the mirror.
Remember what I did, Jessica. Remember that I saved you and your friends. It’s a gift I can take back whenever I want.
Jessica nods. Camilla gives an almost imperceptible smile and turns her gaze away.
Suddenly a powerful wave of childish love and affection for her parents surges over Jessica; she wants to please them. She wants her mother to be proud of her.
The woman slowly stands. It looks like her mother, but her movements are stiff and mechanical. She’s like a marionette in the hands of an unskilled puppeteer who has tangled the strings.
Jessica closes her eyes, and when she opens them a moment later, her mother has appeared behind her. Mom’s face is anything but beautiful. It is mangled, almost unrecognizable; blood trickles down from the crushed scalp, over one eye, and toward the chin.
Jessica feels tears welling up in her eyes.
Why are you crying, sweetheart?
I know what you did, Mom. That morning in the car.
I didn’t mean to make you cry, darling.
Her mother’s cold hand is on the skin of her shoulder.
No. I’m not crying because you did it.
Why, then?
Because I understand.