Chapter 8
After dinner Mom asks me to take our dog, Bellman, for a walk. Dad is slumped on the couch in front of the TV. I don’t know if he’s even really watching.
At least he isn’t drinking. I often think about that when he doesn’t have work for weeks at a time. A lot of people out here drink. As winter drags on, their eyes become bloodshot and they start to smell sour. Nobody talks about it, but everyone knows.
Bellman comes trotting down the hall as soon as I pull my boots on. I wish I didn’t have to go out—I don’t want to be alone out there—but there’s no point in arguing.
The island is deserted and gloomy this time of year. Very few people live on Haro all year round—thirty-five at most. Most of the buildings are starkly empty summer houses with drapes drawn in their dark windows.
The sky is pitch black, and I trudge carefully after Bellman, who has already taken off at a run. He wants to investigate everything, squealing in excitement at every new scent, peeing against tree after tree.
The tension in my chest eases a little when I see how happy he is running around and sniffing in the bushes.
Dad brought Bellman home a couple of years ago. He was a thank-you gift for painting someone’s fence. When Dad came home carrying a puppy in a tatty basket, I thought Mom would say no. But instead, a soft look came over her face; she let the pup lick her hand and asked what we should call him.
I had to nag for a long time before they let me take Bellman out on my own. Mom was worried, after what had happened to our previous dog, Taube.
Now I’m usually the one who walks and feeds Bellman. He listens to me more than he listens to Dad.
I have to tug on the leash to keep him from rooting around the flower bed outside Old Man Ingvar’s house.
He’s our nearest neighbor and was born on the island, just like Mom and Grandma Gerd.
I don’t know exactly how old he is, but I can’t remember him ever not being wrinkly and stooped, with large brown liver spots on his hands.
I look up at the house to see if we’ve been spotted, and catch my reflection in the window.
The image is distorted. But I see the murky-green eyes, the tangled white-blond hair I always wear loose and messy to hide the scars on my neck. My hand automatically reaches up, but I stop myself. It’s better not to touch the scar tissue.
My eyebrows are so fair that I can barely see them in my reflection. My mouth is wide, with thin lips, but my nose is much too small and almost sinks into my face. My skin is very pale, but it never burns.
Tadpole. That’s what they used to call me in elementary school.
Among other things.
Worse things.
I shake my head and try not to think about it.
Suddenly, the door opens and Old Man Ingvar appears on the threshold.
He is wearing a tattered robe with a frayed belt tied carelessly around his waist. His fingers have a slight tremor, as usual.
Mom has explained that his hands are damaged after many years in freezing water.
Old Man Ingvar worked as a fisherman ever since he left school at the age of thirteen.
The light from the doorway is blinding.
“What are you doing out here all alone in the dark, girl?”
I nod at Bellman, who is yapping and wagging his tail.
“Evening walk,” I say.
“Don’t stay out too late now, you hear?” he says. “Nights like these, it’s best to stay inside in the warm.”
Something in his tone makes me wonder. Does he know about Axel? And those other accidents? Is he worried about me too? Just the other day he muttered something about being careful, not going out on the water after sunset. Bad news travels fast in the archipelago.
“Did you see that fog this morning?” he continues. “Swallowed up everything in its path. Haven’t seen the like for many years . . .”
He looks past me in the direction of the sea, whispering beyond the pine trees.
“Best to stay indoors when unnatural weather comes over the archipelago,” he murmurs. “You hurry home now.”
Bellman pulls at the leash. I have to stay out with him a little longer.
So instead of turning back, we continue along the narrow forest path.
Bellman knows where he wants to go. He wants to get to the shore.
We usually go down to the beach so he can run along the water’s edge and roll around in the sand.
But I stop him and hold the leash tight.
I don’t dare go any closer.
Bellman lets out a surprised whine. I squat down, and he shuffles back toward me. I give him a hug and bury my face in his fur. Soon he lays his big silly head on my shoulder, and I let the tears flow. My jeans are getting damp, but I don’t move.
The sea hisses at me. Waves smack the shore, and the smell of briny water and rotten seaweed fills my nostrils. Fragments of dreams from the past few nights churn in my mind. Misty figures reaching out to grab me, my throat burning—no, screaming—for air.
I dig my fingers into Bellman’s coarse fur and shut my eyes. He doesn’t move. I stay there for a long time before I get up again and stroke his nose.
“Come on, boy, let’s go home. That’s enough for tonight.”
There’s a rustle in the bushes as we leave the beach behind. My pulse quickens.
I run home with Bellman by my side. He yelps with delight; he thinks it’s a game.
If only it were.