Trafficked (24 page)

The word hit her like a wooden plank slamming against her head. “What?” she breathed.

“They're dead.” He smirked at her like this was a good thing, and then tapped his silver pen on the metal table.

She stuck her chin out, defiantly. It was impossible. “You're just lying to get information.”

“I'm not.” His face was serious and she almost believed him. Again he tapped the pen. It was loud on the metal and it made her jump. She glared at him.

She'd been left in this little room for hours and all along her parents were dead? She didn't think so. “When did this bombing happen?” she asked.

“I ask the questions,” he responded.

“I'm not a fool, you know. My uncle would have called.” She looked him up and down, hating him with every part of her soul.

“I never lie about death. Your uncle is in detention. He couldn't call.”

She swallowed. “You're lying,” she said, tears lacing her words.

“Do you need to see the picture?” he asked.

“Yes,” she said, sitting up taller.

He pulled out a snapshot and dropped it down in front of her. “Your mother has no head.”

If he'd punched her in the stomach, it would not have been as painful as what she saw in that photo. “It could be any woman without a head,” she whispered.

Chapter Forty-nine

H
annah pushed open the door to Sergey's office. He was gulping down vodka, straight out of the bottle, which was unusual for him. He was wearing a gray suit but no tie. The top buttons of his white shirt were undone, revealing his hairy chest.

“Who is Petr Sokolov?” she asked.

He squinted at her and she saw he was more than a little drunk. “Hannah,” he said, staring at her. “I forgot what Lillian did to your hair.”

“Who's Petr Sokolov?” she repeated.

“Nobody.” He reached into the pocket of his suit jacket and pulled out a prestamped Moldovan envelope. “You have a letter,” he slurred. “It came in the mail today.”

“A letter?”

“From your family,” he said.

He handed it to her nonchalantly, like it didn't matter to him. Surprisingly, it hadn't been opened. She looked down at the scratchy handwriting. It was from her uncle Petru. Babulya's eyes were too weak to write, but perhaps she'd dictated it to him. The envelope was made of thin paper, and it was easy to rip open. She pulled out the flowery stationery, probably Valeria's, though the writing was her uncle's.

 

Dear Hannah,

We have only just received your letters to your babushka. Unfortunately, there is some bad news. She's had a heart attack. . . .

 

Hannah gasped.

“What is it?” Sergey asked and moved close to read over her shoulder.

She grabbed the envelope to see the date it had been sent, but the stamp was too faint. She held her hand over her mouth as she continued to read.

 

She is in the hospital. I am sorry I could not reach you earlier, but I did not have your address or a phone number. Do you have a phone number? Call us.

Your uncle,

Petru

 

A sob rushed out of her and Sergey wrapped his arm around her, reading over her shoulder. “Do you want to call them?”

He picked up his cell phone from the desk and asked her for Petru's phone number. After he dialed it, he handed her the phone. She heard the low double buzz of a Moldovan phone line, different from the single ring she heard when she called Lillian's cell from their home phone. In Moldova, she'd never thought about that double ring, but now it was the most beautiful sound she'd ever heard, and it made her feel as if she were traveling to Moldova over the telephone.

It rang and rang.

Perhaps they were at the hospital. At last, her uncle's groggy voice came over the line. “Hello?”

She realized it was the middle of the night for him. “Petru? It's Hannah.”

“Hannah?” There was a pause. Maybe he was sitting up in bed. “We received no news from you for months, and then, all of a sudden, we get four letters, and another one week later.”

She looked at Sergey. He had sent them after all. “How's Babulya?” she asked.

“You received my letter?” he asked.

“Yes.”

“My dear niece, there is some news.” His voice was grim.

“What news?” Hannah asked, gripping the phone.

“Your babushka suffered another heart attack.”

Hannah gasped. “Is she worse?”

“She passed away two weeks ago.”

Hannah dropped the phone and fell to her knees on the hardwood floor of Sergey's office. She panted, dizzy with grief.

Sergey picked up the phone. “Hello? This is Sergey. Hannah works for me.” He was still slurring. “What happened?” He looked down at Hannah and she looked up, hoping she'd heard wrong, but from his face she saw that she hadn't. Babulya was dead.

She reached for the phone and he handed it to her. “Did Babulya get my letters?”

There was a pause. “I'm sorry. We read them to her, but she couldn't hear anything, I don't think. She was in a coma.”

Babulya had died thinking that she hadn't written, hadn't sent money, had abandoned her. She'd died with cataracts. Hannah felt her chest constrict with pain, and then she remembered that dream she'd had, the hot wind when Babulya told her to listen to her nose.

“When's the funeral?” she asked her uncle. For some reason, she thought she could go.

“We had it last Friday,” he said. “In the church.” He recited all the people who'd come. It seemed completely unreal. How could these neighbors have been at Babulya's funeral, while she was here in America, completely oblivious?

She interrupted him. “Was she in pain?”

“Hannah, it was beautiful. She saw the light. And she smiled before she passed away—it was such a smile, something of God, it was so beautiful.”

Beautiful. Hannah knew he was just trying to reassure her, but that word made her want to scream. How could he say that? Nothing was beautiful. Nothing would ever be beautiful again. Babulya was dead.

“Hannah?” Petru said.

“Yes?” she asked.

“Do you have some more money you can send?”

Hannah felt sick that he was asking about money at a time like this. Her voice was shaky when she spoke. “I sent fifty dollars in the letter.” She worried that a worker at the Moldovan post office had taken it out.

“Yes, but the funeral was very expensive. Valeria is worried about the money, and if you can manage anything more . . .”

You got rid of me
, she thought,
and then you didn't even take care of Babulya, your own mother
. “I will send what I can,” she said.

He thanked her but didn't ask how she was. Just wanted the money she didn't have.

She hung up the phone, feeling numb.

“They always want money,” Sergey said, resting his hot hand on her back.

She nodded slowly, staring down at her hands. Petru was the one who'd given her forty American dollars, a fortune for him, which Volva had then stolen, but maybe he'd only done that because he hoped she'd send him even more.

“Come on,” Sergey said, sliding his hands under her arms to help her stand. She wobbled on her feet. The insides of her body had been turned into mashed potatoes. “I'll help you downstairs,” he said, and wrapped his arm around her.

When they got to the stairs, she wished he'd just push her. She wanted to feel the
bump-bump-bump
of her body on each stair. She deserved some kind of punishment for leaving Babulya. But Sergey had a secure grip on her, despite his inebriated state, and he helped her down each step, gently reassuring her, telling her everything was going to be okay.

Chapter Fifty

S
ergey rested her on the old flowery sofa in the garage. “I'm sorry, Hannah. I know it is hard when something happens in the family and you are here, and not there. It has happened to all of us.” It was nice of him to say that, she thought.

“I found your uncle Vladi,” he whispered. She looked into his shiny blue eyes. He seemed to be telling the truth.

“You did?”

“He's on his way home.”

“Thank you,” she murmured, even though she didn't know what to believe. Maybe he was just trying to make her feel better.

He knelt down beside her, kissed her cheek softly, and ran his hand over her butchered hair. His fingers tickled her scalp.

“Don't leave me.” She meant that she didn't want him to leave her with Lillian, but it sounded like she didn't want him to leave the room.

He kissed her lips. It was a soft, tentative kiss, and though she didn't kiss him back, she didn't turn away either. “I'll take care of you,
moya lubov
,” he slurred. “Don't worry.”

She closed her eyes, hoping he'd take this as a sign to leave. She just wanted to curl up in a ball and not move for days and days.

“I love you,” he said.

And then he was kissing her face, her neck, her hands, and she didn't know whether she wanted him to stay or whether she wanted him to go. The places where his lips connected were the only places she felt any heat. The rest of her body was cold, as if she'd died with her babulya, the last person on earth who had really loved her.

Sergey said he loved her. In the midst of the fog that filled her brain, Hannah wondered how he could possibly love her. He didn't even know her.

Sergey took off her socks and rubbed her feet. It felt kind of nice. He lifted her arms above her head and tugged off her T-shirt. Her limbs felt wobbly, not her own. His calloused hands glided across her skin. He climbed on top of her. His curly chest hairs scratched against her skin; his heat pressed against her. When had his shirt come off? Then she realized his pants were off too. Her eyes flew open. She was lying on a cold sleeping bag with a married man on top of her and the thing she'd promised herself would never happen was happening.

“Stop.”

“You're shaking,” he said, squeezing her tightly. “I'll keep you warm.”

It was December and the garage was freezing, but she was shivering from more than the cold. At least her bra and the gray sweatpants were still on. He groaned and breathed in her neck.

“Please. I don't want this.” She tried to push on his shoulders, but he was too heavy. “I'm a virgin.”

He jerked back and gazed into her eyes in disbelief. “You are?”

She nodded. It was almost true.

“I just want to feel your skin,” he said, speaking through his teeth, as he did when he was nervous.

“Get off me,” she said, struggling to get away.

“Stay still,” Sergey murmured. “I won't hurt you. I told you I won't. Kiss me.” He pressed his lips to hers and forced her mouth open with his tongue. His mouth tasted of vodka and fish.

She turned her head away. “No!”

“Don't be a tease,” he said. “You know you want this. I've seen how you look at me.”

“I don't!” she cried, and then wondered if she had been a tease. She knew, or at least sensed, that he was attracted to her, and she might have used it a little to get what she wanted, but she didn't intend this. “Please,” she cried, panicking.

“Shh,” he grunted, pressing himself into her. “Stay still. I won't hurt you. I love you.”

He rubbed himself against her belly but left her sweatpants on. He wasn't going to stop, no matter what she did. She clenched her eyes tight, as if she could make it go away. Tears leaked through her closed eyelids. The house was silent except for the occasional moan that seeped out of him. If Colin were outside, he'd hear Sergey through the thin walls of the garage.
Please don't be outside.

Sergey was rubbing faster now against the top of her loose sweatpants. He gripped her head with both hands. “Tatiana,” he cried.

Her stomach was moist. She wanted to vomit. He rolled off her. Her hands clapped to her face and she stifled a sob.

He stared down at her. A crease formed between his sharp blue eyes. “What's wrong?”

“I said no,” she cried. “I said stop.”

He frowned. “I did.”

Not enough.

He picked up her monkey T-shirt from the floor and tenderly wiped off her belly.

A blast of anger shot up through her. Did he actually think she'd forgive him? She snatched the T-shirt away from him and threw it on the floor. “Don't you dare,” she said.

“Hannah,” he began.

“Why did you say my mother's name?”

He shook his head, gritting his teeth together, and shut his eyes, as if it was too painful for him to say. Then he murmured, “You look so much like her.”

“Did you have an affair with her?” she asked in a dull, bitter voice that she didn't recognize as her own.

He opened his eyes. “No.”

Hannah let out the breath of air she'd been holding. It was such an incredible relief to know that the person she believed to be her mother was real. There were so few things she could count on anymore.

He continued. “I tried, but she wouldn't see me. Not even after your father became a street drunk and shamed her. I came to Chişinău to see her and ran into her when she was walking to the hospital. She was friendly enough, but when I asked her if I could meet her after work, she refused. She said your father would love to see me, but I couldn't stand it. She gave herself to him instead of me and then he threw it away. I hated him.”

Hannah glared at him.
You didn't know him.
You didn't know his passion. The way he used to read a poem, like there was beauty in the world.

“Did you plant that bomb?” she asked, keeping her voice even. She had to know everything.

“No.”

“You know Petr Sokolov.”

He didn't say anything.

She couldn't control herself anymore. “Just admit it,” she yelled. “You killed my mother. She refused you and you killed her!”

“I didn't kill her,” Sergey said urgently. “Your father was supposed to go to the café alone, where the Minister of Internal Affairs was having breakfast. He was told the minister was on the take and that the briefcase had money for him from the resistance. He was supposed to leave it under the table. That was all he knew. Petr was going to blow it up when he left. Your father would be arrested, and I would be there to console your mother. It almost worked. Apparently, they walked out of the café together, arguing. Your father had her arm, but then your mother broke away and ran back in, yelling that there was a bomb. Your father followed her, and Petr blew up the cafe.”

Hannah blinked, taking it all in. Her father had not killed all those people
.
He thought the briefcase held money, and her mother was the one who'd realized. Maybe she had smelled the explosives. Only then did Hannah realize that a part of her had believed the police when they'd said her father did it.

“Believe me, Hannah, one day I'll get my revenge. For both of us. I loved her too.” He paused. “Just as I love you.”

“Do you really think I'm going to believe that? All you do is lie. You were never going to let my father live. You knew my mother would never leave him. She loved him. Even when he was drunk and puking all over the place, she used to rub his back and—” Her voice broke off. “You don't even know what love means.”

His face reddened with anger. “How about a little gratitude? I've done so much for you, I risked so much. I got your uncle out of the work camp, paid a lot of money, and now you have the nerve to say—” He looked toward the chained doors of the garage. He'd heard something she hadn't. A car.

It drove straight up the driveway as if it was going to ram into the garage and then stopped suddenly. Sergey jumped up and tugged on his pants. He reached into his pocket, pulled out a billfold, and dropped a few hundred-dollar bills on the sofa next to Hannah, like a payment.

“Merry Christmas,” he said, reaching down to stroke her face. She cringed and he pulled his hand away.

The car door opened. Sergey grabbed the rest of his clothes and sprinted out of the garage.