Should I call the police myself? No, nonsense, what could the police do here? There was no burglary. My fiancée has lost her mind, but that’s something a doctor would need to tend to. A psychiatrist, even. I could call an emergency doctor. They’d probably commit her to a mental institution right away if they see her like this. And once she’s in one of those places … what with her being a foreigner and only having a temporary residence permit … No, first I have to try to talk to her again. Who knows what happened; maybe she’s just completely disorientated. For whatever reason.
I turn on the light in the hallway, and a violent pain surges through my shoulder. I take a deep breath and look around. The front door is shut. If Joanna had run outside, she would have either left it open or hastily slammed it shut, upset as she is. I would have heard that.
So she’s probably still in the house. I walk over to the stairs, look up, then pause. Something’s not right here, I can feel it. I slowly turn around and let my eyes wander through the hall again. The front door, the dresser next to it, the slip of paper on the floor, the coat rack … the coat rack. The realization feels like a punch in the gut, knocking the wind out of me. My things. They’re missing. There are two empty hooks where my jackets would usually be hanging. Below them, on the shelf … her sneakers, three pairs of casual shoes in different colors, but that’s it. They’re all hers. What the hell is going on here?
I pull myself together. I have to find out. I rush over to the front door, open it, and take a look outside. Everything’s quiet. I close it again and decide to lock up, just to be sure. Then I climb the stairs, taking firm steps. I want Joanna to hear me, I want her to know I’m coming. I want to find out once and for all what’s going on here.
I look into the bathroom: nothing, it’s empty. With grim determination I approach the bedroom door, firmly grip the handle, and push it down. Locked.
“Joanna.” My voice sounds forceful. Not angry, but enough so she’ll realize I’m serious. “Joanna, will you stop this nonsense! Open the door so we can talk. I’m not going to hurt you, damn it.”
Silence. I wait. Ten seconds, fifteen … Nothing. “Joanna, please, will you think about this for a second? If I really wanted to hurt you, do you think this pathetic little lock would stop me from getting into the bedroom? One kick and that’s that. But I don’t want to break down the door, because it’s my door as well, you see? We live here together. And if that doesn’t seem right to you, then we’ll … Joanna. Are you listening?”
I realize I’m speaking very quickly. That’s something I always do whenever I have a thought I urgently want to tell somebody about.
“I have an idea, Jo. Are you listening? Ask me something. Something only I could know. Something I’d have to know if I really live here with you. OK? Then you’ll see. Come on, ask me something, anything.”
Again, nothing but silence for a while, but then I hear something behind the door. At the door. A click. The handle is pushed down, the door slowly opens and swings inward. Thank goodness.
Joanna is standing there in front of me, a little off to the side. She’s looking at me, frightened, still holding on to the handle. My eyes move past her and into the bedroom. A hand, as cold as ice, reaches for my heart. And, for the first time, the thought crosses my mind that maybe the person who’s lost their mind here isn’t Joanna, but me.
My blanket, my pillow … My wardrobe … Everything’s gone.
3
I did everything wrong, everything, one mistake after the next. I realize that now. Now, while the intruder is rattling the handle of the bedroom door.
Dead end. No way out. Why didn’t I run outside instead of imprisoning myself? Because I felt safer in my own bedroom? What a fallacy. I’m sitting in a trap here; there’s no exit, just the window.
“Joanna.”
I close my eyes, press the pads of my thumbs against my eyelids. Go away, I think, just go away.
“Joanna, will you stop this nonsense! Open the door so we can talk. I’m not going to hurt you, damn it.”
Of course not. After all, we are engaged.
I feel a sudden urge to laugh, out of pure hysteria, and if I do I know I won’t be able to stop. I take a deep breath and bore my fingernails into the palms of my hands until the urge subsides.
What do I know about people with delusions? Nothing, really. That you should agree with them, not provoke them—I think I remember that much.
“Joanna, please, will you think about this for a second? If I really wanted to hurt you, do you think this pathetic little lock would stop me from getting into the bedroom? One kick and that’s that.”
I immediately back away from the door. He keeps talking, saying something about how it’s his door too and that’s why he doesn’t want to break it down, but I’m well aware that he’ll do it sooner or later if I don’t open it.
I frantically look around. For a weapon, something heavy. Next time I’ll hit the mark. Really take him out. Except there’s nothing in here that I can use. I would have to take a curtain rod apart, but there’s no way I have time for that.
“I have an idea, Jo. Are you listening? Ask me something. Something only I could know. Something I’d have to know if I really live here with you.”
I have to get to my cell phone. Or make it out onto the street, but neither of those will be possible unless I open this door. And that would mean taking all the risks that come with doing that.
I feel sick.
“Come on, ask me something, anything.” The man on the other side of the door sounds hopeful now.
Maybe he’s dazed. The paperweight had hit him, after all, and I’d thrown it as hard as I could. Surely I have a chance against him now.
OK. If I’m going to do this, it has to be quick. Like ripping off a Band-Aid. I turn the key and open the door, and at that moment I realize I’m still standing there in my bathrobe … such a stupid, stupid fool.
For a moment the man smiles at me, then his gaze goes past me into the bedroom behind. The smile vanishes all at once, and is replaced by … Bewilderment. Disbelief.
Who knows what he’s seeing, what his illness is leading him to believe. Maybe he’s on drugs.
The opportunity is too good to let slip away because of fear. I edge through the door, squeezing past him, I’m almost at the top of the stairs now, and then …
I make it exactly two steps, then he’s beside me again, grabbing my upper arm.
“Stay here.” His tone sounds more pleading than threatening, but his grip on my arm doesn’t slacken. “We’ll talk now, OK? Jo? Let’s talk, please.”
I try to wrench myself free once more. If I could just get to my phone and lock myself in the downstairs toilet …
Even though his shoulder is clearly bothering him, I have no chance against him. He pulls me back into the bedroom, closes the door, and leans up against it.
My fear comes flooding back. I could still try to open the window and shout. Hell, I should have done that right away. Instead of unlocking the door.
The stranger doesn’t take his eyes off me for even a second. He slowly shakes his head. Breathes in shakily. “You really don’t recognize me, do you?”
“No. I really don’t.”
He laughs for a moment, but it’s a laugh that sounds far from cheerful. “Then I guess you also don’t know what happened to my things.”
What? His things?