The Language of Sisters (47 page)

“Who would take care of your sisters without us? Your uncle Vladan had been gone for years. Your uncle Yuri and uncle Sasho were gone, too, in the last year. I would have had to sacrifice my wife, your mother, your sisters, and I couldn't do that. It was a small village anyhow, no orphanage. I picked you up and you stopped crying. I comforted you. I needed to move quickly, and that's what I did. I didn't have time to clean you up, to clean us up. I put you in the car wrapped in a blanket.

“On the way home you fell asleep against me, your head in my lap. It was a long trip home. When you woke up I sang to you, fed you a sandwich your mother had made me. I could not take you to an orphanage in Moscow. Those are no place for children. No love or kindness. Abuse. Not enough food. I could not do that to you. There were no viable choices. I could not sacrifice my family by trying to find yours, and I could not sacrifice you by putting you in an orphanage. The decision was made. You had to come with us, to America.”

Dmitry was white. “But let's get this straight. I am the son of your torturer.”

My father closed his eyes. “You are
my
son.
Our
son. You are not my biological son, but the son of my heart. I loved you from that first day.”

“You are our love son,” my mother said. “The son of our souls.”

“
I am the son of your torturer,
” Dmitry said again, his face twisting. “The son of the man who tortured, starved, beat, and killed your father and who almost killed you.”

“You are a Kozlovsky. A
Kozlovsky,
” my father said, his face insisting that Dmitry understand. “We are a proud family, and we are proud of you.”

“When I held you in my arms, Dmitry, I felt the same as your papa,” my mother said. “It was as if you were always supposed to be with us, always, a son who came to us later, a gift.”

“No. I don't believe this,” Dmitry said, his face flushed, the tears falling. “How can you love the son of the man who did what he did to you, to your father?”

“Because you are not his true son,” my father said. “You are mine. Mine.
Our son
. Rurik did not deserve you. He did not treat you as a father should. He did not treat your mother with love and kindness.”

“Why didn't you tell me any of this sooner? You knew. You both knew my struggle. I knew I had a mother. And I remembered someone else, someone who scared me. That would have been my father. I remembered blood.”

“I didn't tell you the truth, son, because this is a story that rakes your soul over coals and back again. Your poor mother, killed by her husband. I didn't want this blackness, this well of hate and violence, to have any place in your mind. You were so young when you came to us. I wanted you to forget. I thought it would be better if you thought you were from an orphanage. As a boy, you used to ask me where your mother was, and I said that she loved you and gave you up because she couldn't care for you. That is a hard story, but it is a better story than this one. This one is much more difficult to live with.”

“We wanted you to put everything in the past, to shut the door,” my mother said. “To never think of it again. You were young. We thought you would forget, that you would block it all out, but you didn't. Parts of your life have followed you.”

“Dmitry,” Ellie said. “You've always talked about a woman with golden hair. Papa, did Rurik say what color her hair was?”

My father's face sagged. “Rurik said his wife had hair like gold.”

“I have seen that gold hair my whole life,” Dmitry whispered. “I remember bloody golden hair.”

“That must have been the night he killed her, son.”

It was a nightmare. Dmitry's past was a nightmare.

“What is my last name?” Dmitry asked. “What is it?”

“It is Nikonov,” my father said. “Nikonov.”

“And what ...” He choked on his loss, his eternal loss. “What was my mother's name?”

“Nelly.” My father's eyes were so sad. “Your beautiful mother's name was Nelly.”

Our parents heaved out long, tearful sighs, then my father got up and removed a picture from the living room wall.

“Papa?” I said.

Behind the picture was a safe. I had no idea there was a safe there. Neither did my sisters or brother.

My mother did, though.

My father started turning the lock. He pulled out a piece of paper. There was a Russian address on it. He also pulled out a tiny white box and handed it to Dmitry. Dmitry lifted the lid. We all gasped as he held up a golden, heart-shaped locket and opened it up.

Dmitry tilted his head back, a mixture of grief, relief, and devastation on his face. On one side was a picture of a baby, on the other side a picture of a blond, smiling woman.

“On the way out, I saw that necklace, on a table. I grabbed it,” my father said. “I knew it was your mother's, and I took it, for you, and later I realized that I shouldn't give it to you, because I wanted you to leave your life in the Soviet Union behind you, those memories behind.”

Dmitry stared at the picture of his mother, then he wiped his eyes. He stood up, walked unsteadily to the door, and put on his shoes.

“Please stay, Dmitry.” I grabbed his arm.

“Don't take off again,” Valerie said. “We'll miss you. We always miss you.”

“Be with us. Let's talk,” Ellie begged.

“Son—” my mother said, then cried, ragged sobs.

He hugged my mother, he hugged my father, who had a hard time letting him go, then us. He left, closing the door behind him quietly, the golden locket with photos of his mother and himself in his hand.

He would wander, he would travel, as if the pain would not go away without it, as if he walked long enough, searched long enough, wrote enough poems and songs, he could bury it down, further than a grave next to a rock and covered in cement.

“He is gone again, my son,” my father wailed, his voice defeated. “I only just got him back, Svetlana, and now, gone. Is he gone forever this time? Will I see him again? He hates me, I know he does. I cannot blame him. I killed his father.”

“You killed the man who killed your father,” my mother said, wrapping him in a hug, still sobbing. “You did not know, my love, that he was a father, too.”

My father had aged years in an hour. I had never seen him like that before, as if life had finally pushed him down so hard, he couldn't get up.

“See what revenge does,” he said. “Revenge is toxic. It spreads. It never ends. Rurik killed my father. I killed him. I took Dmitry and Dmitry leaves me. Rurik has had his revenge on me.”

“Dmitry will come back,” my mother said, her voice a raspy whisper, her tears running into his. “He will come back.”

My father cried until I thought he would run out of tears.

* * *

I told Nick that night what happened. He listened, holding me close, and we went to bed. I couldn't sleep. In the morning, he took me out on his boat and we watched the sunrise. He brought coffee and bagels and jelly.

We hardly said anything. He knew I needed the sunrise, the color, that vibrant sign of life, to even begin thinking about starting my day.

Dmitry was the son of my father's torturer, my grandfather's murderer.

He would hate himself for it, though he had no connection at all.

“I love you, Dmitry,” I whispered. Somewhere out there, I hoped, with all that I had, that he felt that love.

* * *

“That's it, Toni, I'm done.” Boris's cheerful voice came over the phone as I sat at my cubicle at work, editing an article on a home that had been built with all recycled materials.

“Done with what?”

“Stealing, uh ...” He coughed. “Borrowing a car now and then from the wealthy and spoiled. I have three full-time mechanics working with me and I'm running an honest shop.”

“Perfect. I didn't like seeing you in jail. The orange jumpsuit didn't go well with your coloring.”

“Orange doesn't go well with anyone's coloring. I cannot wait to see what's upcoming in the next opera season, can you?”

No, I couldn't.

I chatted with Boris.

I missed Dmitry. Having him gone again felt like a slash against my heart.

* * *

“I'm leaving my business, Toni. Shutting it down. Doors closed.”

“You are?” Lindy and I were making two apple pie crusts in my kitchen, rolling out the dough.

“Yes. I'm tired of it. I don't want to have so much sex anymore. I don't want middle-aged and old men touching me. It's disgusting now.”

“Glad to hear it.” Wow. Boris, now Lindy. Lucky week. “What are you going to do?”

“I'm going to become a librarian.”

I stopped rolling out the dough. I envisioned that. Lindy, a librarian. Yep. It would work.

“I loved your idea,” Lindy said. “I love books. I read all the time, as you know, and I love libraries. I love the smell of books. I love the feel of books.”

“You're a book addict.”

“Yes. A book addict. I can help anyone find a book. Even my clients ask me for book suggestions sometimes. I loan my books out to them. They always bring them back. Plus, I love research, love studying. So I'm going to college to become a librarian. I want to work at a university.”

“I think that's a dandy idea, Lindy. I do.”

“A dandy idea. I like the way you say it.”

“You're supersmart and you know a whole bunch about everything.”

“Not about everything, but I do have this need to learn something new each day. Being an expensive call girl, that profession, I didn't learn anything. Same old, same old. The men want to talk, they want you to listen, they want to think that their sticks are bigger than other men's sticks, so you lie and tell them yes, they are, praise them, make some noises, and they think they're Superman in bed. Like I said, I never learned anything new.”

“It's important. Learning, I think.”

“Me too, and thanks, Toni.”

“For what?”

“For saying that I'm supersmart.”

“You are supersmart. You're a brain.”

“I think I'll use my brain instead of my secret passageway from now on.”

“I think it's your dream job.”

“Me too.”

We used our hands to scoop up chopped apples, cinnamon, brown sugar, and nutmeg.

“I really like you, Toni.”

“I like you, too, Lindy. And I'll definitely come and check out books at your library.”

“I'll waive your late fines for you.”

“You're a true pal.”

* * *

On a Monday night, at eight o'clock, reading a book in bed, hoping it would distract me from a prison in the Soviet Union, a sadistic jailer, and a house out in the country with a little boy slipping in blood, I heard Valerie in my head.

I closed my eyes as my whole body tightened, my breath coming to a halt. I blocked everything out, even warm and cuddly Nick snuggled up with me.
Where are you?

“What is it, Toni?” Nick sat straight up. “Are you all right?”

My lungs lost air. I felt dizzy.

“Can you breathe, Toni?” Nick leaned over me. “Baby, can you breathe?”

I hit my chest with my hand and dragged in air, sagging. “Valerie needs help. She's going to get hurt.”

“What? How do you know?”

“There's one thing I haven't told you, Nick.” I flew out of bed and started to dress.

“What is it?”

“I can hear Valerie and Ellie in my head. Now and then. Rarely. I just heard Valerie.”

I told him what I knew. He looked as if I'd hit him with a two-by-four.

“Please, Nick. We'll talk about it later. You have to believe me.”

“Okay.” He made a call, then another, getting dressed.

I called Kai. He said that Valerie had said she was going by the restaurant. “She said she'd be home by nine-thirty.” His voice was sharp, worried.

“Where are the kids?”

“They're here.” I told him what I heard.

“I'm calling Chief Crighton.”

Ellie called me. “12756. We have to go now to the police station. Now!”

Nick and I raced down the dock to his black truck and met Ellie and Kai at the police station. Chief Crighton was there. There were police officers and detectives buzzing around, working the computers, on the phone, trying to find Valerie. Valerie's security officer had been found knocked out and bleeding in the back corner of Svetlana's Kitchen parking lot.

“Look for 12756,” I told them. “It's the address of a home across the street from where Valerie is being held.”

“She called you?” Chief Crighton asked. Crighton was a tall, strong, tough, honest man. I knew him from my work at the newspaper. I liked him.

“No.” I saw his confusion. “It's ... it's weird. It's down our family line. From the Sabonises. We have it. We have a language, only in the worst circumstances, we can ...”

“You can ... ?” the chief prodded.

“We can hear each other in our heads.”

Everyone in the room froze. I could feel their disbelief, ridicule from a few of them.

The chief stared at me. He evaluated.

“Believe her,” Nick said.

And that was it. Nick knew the chief, too. Chief Crighton said to everyone, “We're working this from all angles. We've got people at Svetlana's, we've got addresses and cell phones for the Barton family, we've got officers going to their homes now. And we're going to investigate this number, 12756. Joe, Ismael, Sierra, you're on it. Move.”