Trafficked (19 page)

Volva had let her out of the taxi then. It could have been worse, she thought, staring at Lillian's white wallpaper with the perfect blue flowers. She told herself to breathe. It could have been worse.

Through the open bathroom window, she heard music blasting from a car in the street with that
boom-boom-boom
noise Sergey had told her was the bass. It made the air inside her ears vibrate—she couldn't believe people thought that was music. There were female voices. The screen of the next-door neighbor's front door squealed as someone stepped outside.

“Not too late,” Colin's mother said from the front door.

“It's just for a little while,” he said.

“By eleven,” she said.

“It's not a school night,” he said.

“Fine. Midnight.”

The front door shut. Colin kicked a stone down the driveway. Hannah peered out the window to see him, but she couldn't see the front yard, just the side of his pink house.

The car roared down the street.

Chapter Thirty-eight

H
annah stood next to the old green fence in the pouring rain, looking into Colin's empty bedroom. She'd been waiting for over an hour. It was after one in the morning and he still wasn't home, even though he'd told his mother he'd be back by midnight. He had a curfew too. And he'd broken it. Just like she had, that last night she'd seen her mother alive.

Hannah tilted her face up to the rain as it beat down on her. It was cold, but her tears were hot, and for once she gave into them. Her chest clenched with pain and she crouched down and hugged her knees. Her body shook as she cried silently. She'd tried to leave Moldova behind, but the misery had followed her. First, Volva, whom she'd tried to forget, and now Paavo, who made her remember.

Blyat!
She grabbed a handful of gravel and threw it angrily across the lawn, but it didn't satisfy her urge to destroy or fight back. She couldn't live like this.

A car slowed on the street and then the backyard lit up from the headlights shining down the walkway, the light distorted from the rain as the car pulled into the neighbor's driveway.

Hannah crept down the pathway along the fence and peeked over the gate. With a start, she realized that it wasn't any old car. It was a police car with bright flashing lights but no siren.

LAPD was written in large block letters on the side of the car. She crouched down low. A police car coming to your house at this time of night was bad for anyone in any country. What if Colin was dead?

She remembered the knock on her family's apartment door at ten o'clock at night when she and Babulya had been waiting for her parents to come home. Four police officers had stood in the doorway, and they'd looked at her with grim faces. Her first thought was that at least their hats were still on. If they were off, it meant someone was dead. But she'd been wrong.

A tall, white police officer got out of the LAPD car, with his hat and uniform on, and opened the back door of the car. Someone was getting out. She saw a flash of blond hair before she saw his body. Colin was alive, but he looked sadder than she'd ever seen him. He was staring at the ground, wearing wet jeans and a Lakers jersey splattered with paint.

The front door of his house swung open and his mother ran out. She ran down the stairs, her blonde curls bouncing, mouth clenched tight, eyes furious.

Colin took a step back. His mother flew toward him. At first Hannah thought she was going to strike him, but then she pressed her two hands against his large cheeks. “How could you do that?” she cried.

“I'm sorry, Mom.”

She dropped her hands. “Why would you spray-paint a school?”

He looked down at his feet. “I didn't actually spray anything. And it wasn't my idea. They bought the paint because we lost the game to the other school. Anyway, I thought it would wash off with the rain.”

“That's so stupid!” His mother spat. There was a moment of silence. “You're wet. Are you cold?”

“Yeah.”

Rain dripped down Hannah's face, into her mouth. She licked her lips and brushed the water out of her eyes.

“He's a good boy,” his mother said to the officer. “I don't know what happened. I can't believe he would vandalize a school. Will they—will they press charges?”

“It sounds like he was the sober one and got pressured into driving. We impounded the car and we'll bring him in for more questioning when we talk to the other kids.”

More questioning
. Hannah knew that word and remembered the ten hours of interrogation she'd endured after the bombing. What did “sober” mean? And what did they say about a car? There was so much she didn't understand.

The officer continued. “But you know, he didn't run off and he answered all our questions. He'll get off easy.”

The crank on the window squealed above her and the police officer looked toward the gate. Hannah froze. Did he see her or was he just looking in the direction of the window? They must have all heard it. If Lillian looked down by the gate and saw she was outside, she'd be in big trouble, but if the officer saw her and suspected she was illegal, she'd be sent to jail. She didn't dare breathe.

She waited until the police officer got into the car, and then, crouching low, she hurried along the walkway, little pebbles flying into the air, chattering out her escape. She ran into the house, took off her slippers, tiptoed to the garage, and then waited.

Chapter Thirty-nine

N
obody came. Hannah lay on the sofa in the garage, waiting, adrenaline coursing through her. Finally, when she realized the house was silent and nobody was getting up, she closed her eyes, but she was too wired to sleep. So she'd reached under the sofa for Sergey's English version of
Anna Karenina
and started to read.

After reading until sometime past three, she fell asleep with the light on. That night, she had a bad dream, the same old one, about her mother's body burning. In the dream, Hannah ran through the flames to save her, and when she got to the body, it didn't have a head. But something new happened at the end. She felt a windy heat on her forehead, so hot, like it was happening in real life, not in her dream, and she heard Babulya say, clear as anything, “Listen to your nose.”

She woke up, gasping. It had felt real, but she was here and Babulya was far away. She glanced at the alarm clock. It was seven thirty.

Breakfast was supposed to be ready and the table set by seven thirty, but if she hurried, perhaps she'd beat Lillian to the kitchen. She jumped out of bed wearing the gray sweat suit, which she'd fallen asleep in, ran out of the garage, down the hall, and into the kitchen. Miraculously, she was the first one there. As fast as she could, she put a frying pan on the stove and began melting butter for eggs.

A few minutes later, Lillian came into the kitchen wearing another new red suit. “We won't be needing eggs. We're going out. While we're gone, you will wash all the windows in the house. I expect them to be finished by the time we return.” She gave Hannah a cold stare as if she was contemplating further punishments.

“Where are you going?” Hannah said, opting to pretend the night before had not happened—she had not talked back to their friends and she had not gone outside to meet Colin.

“That is none of your business.”

Maggie ran in. “We're going for brunch.”

Lillian interrupted her. “Don't speak to Hannah. She needs some silent time to think about her actions yesterday.”

“What did she do?” Maggie asked, glancing at Hannah with a mixture of awe and fear.

“Every time you
do
talk to her,” Lillian continued, “I will throw out one doll.”

“What?” Maggie said in English. “That's totally unfair.”

“Maggie,” Lillian barked sharply. “Russian.”

Maggie rolled her eyes at Hannah.

So that was her punishment. The kids couldn't talk to her. That sucked, but Hannah wasn't too worried. It wouldn't last. If they couldn't talk to her, she couldn't take care of them. Soon, they'd drive Lillian crazy and she'd be begging Hannah to take them. Hannah grabbed the window cleaner and a rag and began spraying the windows in the kitchen.

Sure enough, an hour after they got back from brunch, Lillian was sitting at the dining room table with her books, Michael was scooting his train by her feet, and Maggie was interrupting her every few minutes with another question or request for food.

“Maggie,” Lillian said, in a low, barely controlled voice. “You can talk to Hannah now. She'll get you what you want.”

Maggie skipped into the living room where Hannah was vacuuming. “Can I have strawberry compote, with some cheese and crackers?” They shared a smile, and Hannah went into the kitchen to make her the snack. “And take them outside,” Lillian shrieked. “I can't get anything done.”

Hannah went outside to play soccer with the children, relieved but also worried about her minimal punishment. She worried Lillian had something else planned. After they'd been playing for half an hour, it started to rain, and they came back inside.

Hannah glanced into the open dining room. Lillian wasn't at the table studying. There was a stack of her textbooks next to an open pad of yellow paper, half-filled with notes.

The book. She'd forgotten to hide the book.

She hoped Lillian was in the bathroom, but she heard sounds coming from the garage. Something being thrown. The sound of fabric tearing.

Maggie ran ahead of her down the hall. She lurched to a stop at the doorway to the garage. “Oh my God, Mom,” Maggie said in English.

Hannah came up behind, filled with dread. Lillian was ripping out the inside of her father's suitcase. The garage was in shambles. Hannah's things had been thrown all over the concrete floor, which was never clean no matter how much Hannah swept it. The toys had been pushed off the shelves. The pictures of her parents and Katya were missing too. Sergey's book was next to Lillian's foot, along with a stack of the underwear that he'd given her. Evidence.

Michael ran into the garage and grabbed a truck from the ground, as if nothing were wrong. He vroomed it across the floor, over the stack of Hannah's clothing.

“What are you doing?” Maggie asked her mother.

“I'm looking for Hannah's documents,” Lillian grunted, tearing at the fabric. “She's a liar, Maggie. Don't believe anything she says.”

Maggie glanced at Hannah, raising her eyebrows at her to show her that she thought her mother was acting crazy.

Hannah could smell the old dust that had made its way to the inside of her father's suitcase. It was one of the few things she'd had that had belonged to her father in the end, but if she got angry, Lillian would win. If she acted like it didn't matter, Hannah figured she'd win. So she sat on the sofa and watched Lillian impassively. He was already dead. Nothing Lillian did would change that. Actually, nothing Lillian did could hurt her, really. The worst had already happened—her parents had been killed. No matter what anybody did, nothing was worse than that.

She looked for Michael's fire truck and saw it in the corner of the garage, next to the chained-up garage doors. It was turned upside down and the seat was up. The ball and
Goodnight Moon
were missing, but Lillian must not have noticed the documents in the book or she wouldn't still be looking.

Lillian lifted her head, lips pressed together, and surveyed her damage. “Maggie, take Michael upstairs. Hannah, stay here.” Her tone left no room for argument, but Maggie gave Hannah a quick, scared look before she pulled Michael out of the garage.

Hannah listened to their footsteps going down the hall as she scanned the mess, searching for
Goodnight Moon
, and her documents.

Lillian snatched up the stack of underwear and shook them. “How did you get these?”

“I bought them,” she said.

“A village girl from Moldova does not go to a lingerie shop in America to buy eight-dollar underwear.”

“I'm not from a village. I'm from the capital city of Moldova, in case you forgot.” She paused. “Sergey gave me fifty dollars.” She realized too late that Sergey gave her that fifty after the bus trip, but Lillian didn't catch on.

“You sent that fifty dollars to your grandmother.”

Which you stole.
“He gave me another fifty,” she said.

“Why would he give you another fifty?” Lillian asked.

Hannah shrugged. “To be nice.”

“My husband is not nice,” Lillian said. “He only acts nice to a woman if he's screwing her or he wants to screw her.” She flung the panties to the side and they landed near
Goodnight Moon
. It was closed, her documents safely hidden.
Ha,
she thought.
My documents are right there, out in the open, and you're too stupid to see them.

Lillian lifted another book from the floor—
Anna Karenina
, in English—Sergey's book. Hannah's stomach clenched. “When did he give this to you?” she asked.

Hannah stared at the book, trying to think of a plausible excuse, besides admitting she'd snuck into the office.

“He didn't give it to me. I found it,” she said. “It was on the coffee table downstairs.”

“Are you trying to tell me he was reading it?” Lillian asked. “My husband doesn't read.”

Hannah shrugged.

“What did you give him for his little gifts?” she asked.

“He didn't give me anything,” Hannah said.

“Don't lie to me,” Lillian roared.

“I haven't done anything with your husband. He didn't give me the book—I found it. My panties were ripped and falling off of me, so I asked him for money. He gave it to me, and the next day, when I went to the Russian store for the madeleines, I bought the panties at the store across the street. It's not a big deal.”

Lillian's eyes bugged out of her head and made her look like the cockroach in Kafka's
Metamorphosis.
“He convinced me to allow you to go on the bus that day,” she said, her voice filled with betrayal. She stepped toward Hannah and grabbed her arm. “I know something happened between you. Stop lying to me!”

Maggie ran into the room. “Mama, stop!”

Lillian's voice was shaking, barely under control as she spoke. “Maggie, go back upstairs. Now.”

“She's not lying, Mama. She's had those panties for ages. I saw them a long time ago and she told me the same thing, that she bought them at that store.”

Hannah gaped at Maggie. She was sticking up for her. Lying for her.

“This doesn't have anything to do with you, Mag—”

Maggie rushed on, her large hazel eyes blinking. “Papa didn't do anything to her at the park. They didn't even, like, touch or anything. She just helped, like she does at home.”

Maggie thought she was helping, but she really wasn't. Lillian hadn't even mentioned the park and now it was clear that Maggie thought something had happened. Hannah remembered how embarrassed Maggie had seemed about that silly foot rub, and she wished she'd stopped Sergey earlier. Her face began to heat up.

“Nothing happened in the park?” Lillian's face was set in an expression of ill-masked fury.

“She wouldn't do that, and Papa loves you, Mama,” Maggie said. “I think you're just imagining things 'cause of that other woman.”

Lillian stiffened. Hannah worried for Maggie then, scared that Lillian would strike her, and if she did, Hannah knew she'd protect her.

“How do you know about this?” Lillian asked slowly, an odd tone to her voice.

Maggie's eyes widened. “I heard you and Papa arguing.”

Lillian let go of Hannah's arm and lifted her chin proudly. “Maybe you're right, Maggie. Maybe I am paranoid because of that other woman.” She strode out of the room, her back stiff, but Hannah wasn't fooled.

Lillian was just biding her time, until Maggie wasn't watching.