Trafficked (17 page)

Chapter Thirty-three

O
n Saturday afternoon, Hannah was sitting on a blanket with Sergey on a huge expanse of lawn while Michael and Maggie kicked a ball back and forth. Her belly was full. The leftovers of their picnic were in two paper bags—Sergey had bought enough pickled herring, brinza cheese, and macaroni salad to feed twice as many people.

It was a hot day, even though it was already nearing the end of November. Hannah rested her head back on the blanket, closed her eyes, and breathed in the smell of the manure coming from the polo horses on the adjacent field. Briefly, she worried that she was getting too relaxed, but this was a rare opportunity. She listened to the
clomp-clomp
of their hooves kicking up the grass as they ran back and forth.

“Maggie gave me the money you found in my pocket,” Sergey said.

She opened her eyes and looked up at him. He was leaning on one elbow next to her, looking down at her. He wasn't touching her, but it was a suggestive pose. Anyone who saw them would think they were a couple.

“I was surprised you didn't keep it,” he said, grinning.

She sat up, resting on her elbows, and cocked her head to the side. “I wanted to.”

He laughed. “I like your honesty.”

That very morning, she'd slid fifty dollars out of Lillian's purse while Lillian was in the shower. She never would have done it if Lillian hadn't stolen it from her first. Was it stealing if you were just stealing back?

“You like this park?” he asked.

“Very much,” she said. “I like the sound of the horses running.” She thought of all the books in Sergey's study. Anything she could say to make a connection with him would help her. “It makes me think of my favorite scene in
Anna Karenina
when she's watching the races and her lover Vronsky falls. Remember how she can't stop from showing her horror? It's such a huge turning point in the book because she can't go back from there, and it's so true in life, you know, how sometimes there are things we can't go back from, even something small—” Hannah stopped talking. Sergey's face was blank. He had no idea what she was talking about. “Never mind. It's stupid.” She rested her head back and looked down, noticing how large her chest looked. Sergey was noticing the same thing.

He grabbed one of her feet and began massaging it through her sock. “You need to relax.” She'd noticed men said these kinds of things when they realized you were just as smart as them, and maybe even smarter. She glanced toward the children, who were still kicking a ball back and forth, and tried to pull her foot away.

“They are having fun,” he said. His blue eyes crinkled at her and he picked up her other foot and started rubbing it. “This is a good country to grow up in, don't you think?”

“Yes.” It might have felt nice to have her feet rubbed if it weren't by him. But she didn't want to risk Maggie saying anything to Lillian. This was definitely against rule number ten.

“Better than Ukraine,” he said. “More freedom. Better schools.”

Hannah had never had less freedom in her life, but she didn't contradict him. He had to mail her letters. She had asked both Babulya and Katya to try to find out some information for her. If they could track down Olga, maybe Katya could find out something about her uncle.

Sergey slid off her sock. She didn't like men taking off her clothing without asking her permission. “Please,” she said, pulling her bare foot away. Maggie glanced over at the blanket, then looked away as if she were embarrassed.

“What?” he said.

“The children.”

“It's just a foot rub.” He continued massaging her calf.

Finally, when she couldn't stand it anymore, she jumped up. “That's good. Thanks,” she said, noticing his look of rejection before she ran over to kick the ball with Maggie and Michael. She felt bad. Had she led him on? The poor guy was probably just lonely.

A few minutes later, she looked over and saw Sergey packing up the picnic supplies and the blanket, and soon they were driving down Sunset Boulevard, past the restaurants with white tablecloths where Sergey had told her famous people liked to eat.

This was her chance. She made her voice casual, light, as if it weren't a big deal. “Could we stop at a post office?” she said. “I have some letters to send to my family.”

He glanced at the clock on the dashboard as he drove past a country western-themed bar with a fake horse out front. “Lillian will be coming home soon,” he said.

She was ready with a response. “I can pay,” she said, knowing he didn't want to seem cheap. Even if he was.

He took a few turns and then stopped in front of a long white building with an American flag in front.

He held out his hand for her letters. “If the line is long, I'll bring them tomorrow.”

Hannah hesitated. If Lillian found out that he had the letters, she might open them again and then she'd know Hannah had stolen from her. But this was her only chance. She reached into the plastic bag she'd brought for her things and handed him the seven letters.

“That's a lot,” he said, surprised. “You haven't given any to Lillian to send?”

He doesn't know.

“I—I just wanted to send a lot,” she stammered. “Because they go missing. And you know, I haven't received any mail back.”

He gave her a long look and the wrinkles around his eyes creased up, like maybe he felt sorry for her. Or maybe he was going to change his mind.

“I'll pay,” she said, reaching into the bag, as if she had more money in there.

He cleared his throat and opened the door of the SUV. “Don't worry. I have it,” he said, and disappeared into the building, leaving Hannah in the car with the children.

“Aren't those the mailboxes?” Hannah asked, pointing at a row of blue metal contraptions where an older man was dropping a letter.

Maggie shrugged. “Yeah.” But she didn't seem to think it was strange, and Hannah realized that of course he needed stamps. A few minutes later, he returned without the letters.

“No line,” he said. “I mailed them fast delivery.”

She reached over and squeezed his calloused hand. “Thank you. You have no idea how much this means to me.” If the children weren't there in the car, she'd even kiss him for that. On the cheek.

Chapter Thirty-four

B
ack at the house, Hannah chased Michael down the driveway, pretending she was a monster. He'd fallen asleep in the car on the way home from the picnic and sometimes he could be grumpy when he woke up, but the monster game always worked. Giggling and screaming, he ran into the house and down the hall, wearing his shoes. Hannah slid hers off in the foyer, put on her pink slippers, and continued chasing him.

“Mommy!” he said, lurching to a stop at the doorway to the kitchen.

“Michael, your shoes,” Lillian said in a sharp voice that left no doubt about her mood. “Come here.”

Her heart racing, Hannah forced herself to walk the rest of the way down the hall to the kitchen. Michael was sitting on Lillian's lap as she pulled his shoes off. A pile of the USMLE books sat in front of her on the table, along with a notebook, a pen, and a glass plate with crumbs on it.

“I thought you were working at the doctor's office today,” Hannah said.

“I came home early,” Lillian said. Maggie and Sergey sauntered into the kitchen. Lillian continued, glaring at Sergey, “I wanted to go on a picnic with my family.”

All the laughter disappeared from the house, all the lightness of being outside and having a good time. It was all Lillian's fault. Everyone would be happy if she weren't around. Hannah wished Lillian would just die, but then she felt horrible. She'd never wished for anyone to die in her whole life.

“You're back already?” Sergey glided past Hannah with the paper bag of leftover deli food, acting as if he hadn't done anything wrong, and dropped the bag on the counter.

“I left the office early to go on a picnic with you,” Lillian said.

“You did?” He came up to kiss her on the cheek, but she jerked back. “You should have called my cell.”

“I did,” Lillian said.

He looked down at the phone and shook his head. “Didn't hear it.”

“I can't believe you took the baba,” Lillian said.

“You should have met us there.” Sergey patted Maggie's back, as if enlisting her support. “It was fun, right?”

Maggie didn't answer—she understood her father was in trouble.

Lillian's whole face was tight and pinched, her fury just under the surface, waiting to explode. “Whose idea was it for her to come?” It was a calculated question—she'd clearly been thinking of how to start her interrogation since she'd arrived home to an empty house.

Hannah knew she was the one who'd be punished, not Sergey. But if Lillian had mailed the letters, she never would have agreed to go.

“It was difficult for me to take the children alone,” Sergey said. “And I thought it would be good for her to get out.”

“It's hardly appropriate for the girl to go on picnics with you and our children.”

“Well,” Sergey said, looking away, “Hannah had an errand to do.”

“It was her idea?”

“Lily, it's nothing.”

Lillian stood up, strode across the room to Hannah, and spoke to her in a cold voice. “I told you to stay away from him.”

“I didn't—”

Lillian raised her hand, preparing to slap her.

Sergey grabbed Lillian's wrist. “Stop it.”

“Let go of me,” Lillian said, struggling to yank her hand away.

“Just because you didn't pass your doctor exam doesn't mean you can be a bitch to everyone.” He flung her hand down and looked disgusted with her.

Lillian pressed her hand to her chest as if he'd just wounded her. She'd failed! Hannah felt a smile pushing from behind the mask she always wore around Lillian, who tried so hard to make her feel stupid.
At least I've never failed a test,
Hannah thought.

“It was a difficult test. Half the people failed.” Lillian bit off each word as she spoke. “I'm taking it again.”

Sergey gave a shrug and turned away. Lillian glared at Hannah, furious. Hannah looked out the kitchen window, but it was too late to pretend she hadn't heard.

“Did you tell her about your secret when you went for your little adventure? I bet she wouldn't think you were so wonderful then. Why don't we tell her now?”

Secret?

“Don't,” Sergey barked, warning her.

“What?” Hannah asked.

“There is no secret. Take the children to the playroom.”

Lillian gloated. Michael jumped off his mother's lap and ran to Hannah, but Maggie stayed next to the counter, watching her parents in alarm. Hannah hesitated. She wanted to know the secret, especially if it had something to do with her.

“Hannah,” Sergey snapped.

She pulled the children out of the room and walked slowly down the hall, hoping she'd hear something.

“What was the errand?” Lillian demanded.

Hannah couldn't hear his answer because he was keeping his voice down, but then Lillian yelled so loud that the neighbors must have heard. “You mailed her letters?”

“Of course not.” He lowered his voice, but Hannah could still hear. “I threw them out.”

Maggie stopped at the doorway to the garage and looked up at her. Hannah's eyes filled with tears. All she wanted was to let Babulya know she was okay.

“Come on,” she said, nudging Maggie into the garage. “We'll do a puzzle.”

She couldn't believe Sergey had lied to her so convincingly. Daniil had said she was too naive to go to America. Maybe he was right.

Chapter Thirty-five

H
annah snuck down the hall and put on her brown leather shoes, which still had bits of grass on them from the park that day. They weren't really for running, but they were the only shoes she had besides her black dress shoes, and they were good for walking—she'd used them every day in Moldova to walk to and from the market. Fortunately, her feet hadn't grown much in the last six months.

It was after midnight. Everyone was asleep. It had taken her a full week to get up the nerve, but she'd decided she had to do it, no matter what it cost her. She'd do it for Babulya.

She opened the front door, closed it quietly, and crept across the grass, rather than the driveway, to avoid any sound. She stepped around the bush with the lights and hit the sidewalk, sprinting away from the house before someone saw her leaving. She hadn't dared to lock the door because of the noise, but she had Lillian's front door keys in her hand, just in case Sergey came home and locked her out.

In her hand, she clutched two letters, one for Katya and one for Babulya, nearly identical to the ones Sergey had thrown out, but without the fifty dollars. There had been no other chances to sneak money out of Lillian's purse. Lillian watched her every move. But she did find a pack of twenty stamps in the groceries and she'd split them between the two letters, hoping it was enough.

She sprinted down the sidewalk. Once her letters were safely sent, she'd be able to relax a little. Hannah had seen the blue mailboxes in front of the post office, and if she had to run there, she would, but maybe there'd be one that was closer.

She was out of shape. Her legs felt leaden and her body was clumsy. It had been a long time since she'd run. She remembered running in Gura Bicului through fields of sunflowers, the large flowers thwacking against her sides, and feeling like she could run forever. She'd hear her mother calling for her and she'd duck down to hide by the stems. Her mother would say, “Hannah, I can see you.” And she'd giggle.

She loosened up and stretched out her stride. Tomorrow she'd be sore, but for today, she needed to run at full speed, to feel like a kid again.

A couple was walking toward her, holding hands. She ran past and they didn't even glance at her. She was anonymous here, and it was a good feeling. In Moldova, everyone thought of her as the girl with the father who'd set off a bomb and killed six people, even though they never proved he'd done it. It didn't matter how much Hannah insisted on his innocence, how emphatically she swore that he'd never kill anybody, especially not her mother—nobody believed her. And because her father was guilty in their eyes, she was too. Everywhere she went, people stared at her. Katya told her that in time, people would forget, but in Chişinău, people never forgot.

A blue mailbox stood there on the corner, waiting for her. Maybe she should drop one letter in this one and one letter in another, she thought, but then told herself that in America, all the mailboxes worked.

Her letters slid inside. She opened it up again to make sure they'd gone down and then took in a shaky breath. If just one letter arrived, they'd both have a way to reach her. Katya had promised to visit her babushka and take her for walks to the park until Hannah could pay for the surgery.

She hesitated there for a moment, wondering whether she should return to the house now. Someone might have discovered she was missing, but if they had, she might as well stay out a little longer while she could. She continued down Santa Monica Boulevard, past the small restaurants and boutiques, picking up her speed, leaping over curbs and sprinting across empty streets. Her hair flowed down her back, the cool night air flowing through it, as if she were a deer running through a field of Moldovan sunflowers.

“You go, girl!” someone yelled, followed by laughter. There was a group of white and Latino transvestites, with styled hair and glossy lips, wearing leather tops and jean shorts outside the donut shop, and they were all looking at her. They looked so different from Vladi. She picked up her pace, not feeling quite so anonymous anymore.
There's nothing to be afraid of,
she thought.

She stepped into the street to avoid a large homeless man with a cart on the sidewalk. In Moldova, the homeless people were skinny, wasted even, and it was odd to see someone living in the streets who looked so well fed. She thought of the legless beggar named Pedro who pushed his wheelchair through traffic for a few coins a day near the chocolate factory by her house.

A few blocks farther, she passed Trader Joe's, a grocery store where Lillian went, now closed, but with all its lights on. Inside, she could see some workers restocking shelves.

The Russian store and Whole Foods were the next places she recognized. A group of Russians walked out of a Russian restaurant and Hannah looked away, in case Paavo happened to be with them and recognized her. When she was entering the ritzy part of Santa Monica Boulevard, a police car passed her. She slowed her pace, hoping the police wouldn't notice her. The brake lights went on and the police car pulled over on the side of the road. Other cars drove by; nobody was paying much attention to the police car, except for her. She stopped and turned around. If she started running in the opposite direction, maybe they wouldn't notice her.

“Hey,” a male voice said behind her. It was a commanding voice, the voice of a police officer.

Run.
She started a casual jog, pretending she didn't hear.

“Hey,” he said. “You. Girl. Stop!”

She glanced back. A tall black police officer had stepped out of the passenger side door of the car. He was running toward her with a flashlight pointed down. Through the back window of the police car, she could see the head of another police officer who was sitting in the driver's seat. His door opened. She stopped.

“Me?” she asked, pointing at herself.

The officer slowed down to a trot and came up to her. “You okay?” he asked, raising the flashlight to scan her body.

“Yes. I okay.” She squinted into the bright light. Was there a law against running at night? She hadn't seen anyone else running, but then again, she never saw anyone running at night in Chişinău either, and it wasn't illegal there.

He lowered the flashlight and squinted at her, as if he was honestly concerned about her. Maybe he was. But he didn't know she was illegal. “What are you doing?” he asked, in his deep American voice.

“I am running.” She looked down at her brown walking shoes and wished she had real American sneakers.

“For exercise? At this time of night?”

“Yes.”

“You're wearing jean shorts in November and you're running after midnight. Are you sure you want to stick with that story?” He took another step toward her and looked beyond her, as if to see what or who she was running from.

“Yes.” She hadn't thought wearing cutoff shorts would attract more attention. The sweatpants Lillian had bought her were two sizes too big and would fall off if she ran in them. “I no have many clothes.”

He stared at her as if something was bothering him. Finally, he said, “Prostitution is against the law.” He looked behind her. “Where's your pimp?”

She didn't know the word “pimp,” but she understood what “prostitution” was. It was almost the same in Russian. “I am not prostitution.” She felt insulted. She wasn't wearing the clothing of a prostitute—she was wearing the only shorts she had, walking shoes, and her monkey T-shirt. Prostitutes definitely didn't wear walking shoes—they'd have heels on.

He gave her a firm look. “I don't want to see you in the streets,” he said. “That's all. You're a young girl. Go home.” Then he headed back to the police car.

Go home. Wouldn't that be nice. She didn't even know what home was anymore.

He got into the police car and drove off. She let out a shaky breath and ran back toward the house.

Twenty minutes later, she opened the gate. Her face was red-hot and her chest and throat burned from breathing so hard. It was a beautiful feeling. She hurried along the walkway, pushed open the slat in the fence, and peeked into Colin's room.

He was sitting on his bed, drawing in his sketchbook. By his feet, at the end of the bed, there was a pile of balled-up paper, a giant bottle of Coke, and an empty bag of tortilla chips. He was wearing one of his large football jerseys and a pair of basketball shorts, his standard home clothes. To school, he often wore very baggy jeans that hung down low like he was a rapper and made him look larger than he was.

She wished she could see what Colin was drawing, but the sketchbook was resting on his knees, tilted up. He stopped drawing and swore. Then he ripped the page out, balled it up, and chucked it across the room.

“What are you doing?” Lillian was standing there, looking down the walkway at her. Hannah hadn't even heard her come out of the house. Lillian was wearing a sheer white nightgown, which shimmered in the light from the back porch. She was all angles and shadow. Her cheekbones looked hollow and her eye sockets looked ghostly.

Hannah hurried toward her, hoping she wouldn't see the broken slat in the fence.

“Are you meeting someone back here?” Lillian asked.

“No.” Hannah came forward, into the light, still panting from the run.

“You're sweating. What were you doing?” Lillian was getting hysterical.

“I went for a run,” Hannah said, lifting her chin up. It was perfectly legitimate. Lillian didn't need to know about the letters.

“A run?” Lillian screeched, as if she'd never heard the word, and then looked behind her, as if trying to find someone.

“I went running down Santa Monica Boulevard. I need exercise.”

“Do you really think I'm going to believe you went for a run?
Shlyuha!
” Lillian said “slut” so loudly, Hannah was sure Colin had heard. “You're meeting someone.”

“Who would I meet?” Hannah asked, trying to get past her. “Is Sergey not home? Is that the problem? You think I'm meeting him?”

“Of course not.” Lillian pressed her lips together. “Maybe you met someone at the Russian shop or the bus. You probably go to meet him every night. This is why you are so slow in the day. Because you are tired.”

“I'm not like that,” Hannah said. “I would never—”

“Do you know what the police will do to you? Have you heard what the jails are like? If they catch you, you have no rights. You are not a citizen. They put you in with the men and they rape you. They'll let you rot in prison.”

Hannah thought about her close call with the police. “This is the only time I've gone out, and nothing happened.”

“Do you think I'm an idiot? I've heard you out here before.”

“I bring the garbage,” Hannah said, her heart beating fast. “Today I decided to go running. You never said I couldn't run. I figured that nobody would see me if I ran late at night.”

“You think you can lie to me? You're wearing tight jean shorts for running.”

“I have nothing else to wear,” Hannah said.

“Whore! Nobody goes for a run at midnight. Tell me the truth and I won't punish you.”

Hannah stared into Lillian's sharp hazel eyes. She was right, of course. Hannah had mailed her letters. If she told her, at least Lillian wouldn't think she was meeting some strange man to have sex in the middle of the night, but she didn't owe her anything.

“You're meeting the boy next door, aren't you?” Lillian asked.

Hannah's eyes darted toward the fence before she could stop herself. “No.”

“Really?” Lillian looked at her. “His mother asked about you the other day. She said the boy had met you on the bus, that you were welcome to come over anytime. Naive American. She doesn't know you're having sex with him in the backyard like a whore.”

“I am not a whore,” Hannah spat, brushing past her.
Punish me and you'll regret it.

She marched toward the back door, expecting Lillian to chase her, but when she reached the back door, she glanced back. Lillian had gone down the walkway to look at the fence.