Held (11 page)

CHAPTER 13

Later that evening I wrote another letter to Mom. I thought of inserting a secret code that spelled out
warehouse near forest
and aluminum fence in industrial compound, arrived by private
plane with man and woman
.

But I couldn’t think of any code my hostage-taker wouldn’t be able to see through.

In the end the letter was almost identical to the first one, because there was so much I wasn’t allowed to say.

I felt very depressed when I’d finished writing.

I thought about all the fights I’d had with Mom. It was always the same fight, about the same thing. Mom used our big old house, which my father inherited from a great-aunt, as a hostel for freeloaders from her past. She traveled a lot when she was younger, and she met all sorts of bohemian types from the world of dance and theater. She kept in touch with them, and as soon as she heard that anyone was having a hard time, she invited the person to stay with us.

She didn’t consult me, and I found myself sharing my home with an endless stream of people I didn’t know and often didn’t like.

I kept telling Mom we couldn’t afford to support these people. Once my father died, our entire income came from the dance school. Mom worked long hours, seven days a week; there were always crises and problems to be solved. While she solved them, I was left alone in the house with her guests. Some of them were all right, but most were eccentric and often messy, though Mom did set some ground rules—no smoking, no drinking. I added a rule of my own: no one allowed in my room.

When I was little, the guests babysat me, so their presence at least made some sense. But when I got old enough to be left on my own, I didn’t want them around, and I complained and sulked. I was rude to the visitors I didn’t like, I accused Mom of imposing weirdos on me. “It’s like living in a hotel with random strangers!” I used to exclaim, sometimes within earshot of the guests. Then I’d storm out and sleep over at Angie’s.

I felt wretched, thinking about those outbursts. How could I have been so selfish and childish? I was telling Mom off for being a kind-hearted, generous person. Now that I myself was so alone, I understood that she’d done it partly to help her friends, but also because she was lonely. She wasn’t interested in dating after my dad died, and she was too busy with the dance school and with bringing me up to make new friends.

Maybe I resented that I wasn’t enough for her, that she wanted adult company and more variety. Maybe I was jealous. Instead of enjoying the presence of interesting people and making them feel at home, instead of being glad that Mom had so many friends, I acted like an obnoxious brat.

Guilt and regret fueled my depression. Mom must have been disappointed with her selfish, control-freak daughter. When I bitched about the wet towels in the bathroom and the empty mugs in the living room it was my own obsessive personality that was the problem. And now I might never have a chance to tell her how sorry I was.

If only Dad hadn’t died! I was six when he died, and for a long time I didn’t accept that he was never coming back. For several years, whenever I was at a gymnastics meet or in Mom’s end-of-year dance show, I imagined that Dad was in the audience. My grandparents came over almost every day at first, and Dad began to get blurred with my granddad, who looked and spoke a lot like him.

Now, suddenly, I felt myself plunging into a bottomless well of grief. It was as if I was experiencing Dad’s death for the first time.

I began to wail inconsolably.
Daddy, Daddy
, I cried over and over. I didn’t know how I’d be able to cope with so much anguish.

Memories of my father came back to me—climbing on his shoulders when he read the paper, playing Hungry Bear at dinner, painting the garage with him. He’d made a big heart for me on the wall; I wanted it to stay forever, and I cried when he painted over it. He laughed and took me out for ice cream.

I thought about the storybooks and poems he read to me at bedtime. He loved poetry and even though I was small he read me poems written for adults—

On either side the river lie, long fields of barley and of rye …

I loved that poem, though I thought the Lady of Shalott was the lady of shallot, named after the fields of barley and rye and shallots. I wished I had that poem now.

She hath no loyal knight and true, the Lady of Shalott.

I cried myself to sleep. It was a long, deep sleep and when I woke I felt heavy and groggy. My depression was like a physical weight pressing down on me. I didn’t want to move, but eventually I got up to eat. Then I returned to bed and lay there for a long time. Cockroaches attacked the dirty dishes I left on the table. I watched them with apathy. I didn’t care about anything, and I couldn’t imagine ever feeling better. The world was a bleak, horrible place, full of cruelty and misery. How could anyone be happy in it?

I was alone for two and a half days. I only got up to eat and go to the bathroom. I didn’t bother showering or brushing my hair and I slept most of the time. My hostage-taker had brought me many of the things I’d asked for—skin lotion, slippers, a hairbrush—but they only made me feel worse. They were a confirmation that this was now my life, this was where I lived.

My hostage-taker returned at noon on the third day. He didn’t say anything about the mess. He was loaded down with groceries, and he began tidying up.

I turned my back to him and lay in bed facing the wall.

He said, “Do you have the letter for your mother?” I couldn’t tell if he was just making conversation or if he wanted to get the transaction over with.

“It’s inside
David Copperfield
,” I mumbled, still not looking at him.

“I brought you some music. Do you want to listen to something?”

“I don’t care.”

I heard a few clicks, and then the exotic sounds of an old Sting favorite—“Desert Rose”—ringing out in the silence, but it didn’t penetrate my dark mood.

“I also brought you
Beginners’ Italian
and a few more books.”

I didn’t bother replying—what was there to say?

“Do you want me to go?” he asked.

“I don’t care.”

“Maybe I’ll stay just for dinner. I brought some chilled white wine, if your stomach is up to it. And I turned on the boiler, in case you want to shower.”

I wondered vaguely if I smelled. I hadn’t done more than splash water on my face in two and a half days.

When the shower was ready, I found a present waiting for me there: a basket filled with tiny bottles of fruit-scented shampoos, conditioners, body washes, a variety of delicious-smelling carved soaps.

What does it say about me that strawberry shampoo and pine-scented soap made me so happy? I felt my depression lifting, and by the time I’d finished washing my hair I was in a good mood.

I realized that I’d almost forgotten, since my abduction, what it was like, a good mood—though that had been the usual thing for me. The sadness I’d felt about my father was still there, but it had moved to its own corner, covered itself with a blanket, and gone to sleep for now.

I dressed, rubbed my hair with a towel, and went straight to the CDs he’d brought me. The one with “Desert Rose” had ended and I was desperate for more music.

I looked through the pile but there were no labels, so I chose a disk at random and slid it in the player. Another song I liked, “First Day of My Life,” came on. Was my taste in music really in the news? It seemed farfetched.

I looked up at my hostage-taker. He was sitting at the table, reading one of the stories in the anthology he’d brought me.

All at once I remembered a dream I’d had about him. I must have remembered it in the morning, but I’d gone back to sleep and forgotten all about it.

In the dream my hostage-taker was swimming toward me. At first he was swimming in water and then in fields of barley and rye. I was surprised that it was possible to swim through fields but then I realized that plants gave you more support than water and also that you couldn’t drown, and I thought,
What a good idea—why doesn’t everyone swim in fields?
The movements of his arms were strong and gentle and in the dream he was compassionate and good. I realized that I’d been wrong about him. He was there to save me, not to hurt me. I wanted to join him, and in the dream I felt I loved him.

Now, partly under the spell of the dream and partly under the spell of the fragrant soaps, I felt an overpowering urge to throw my arms around him. He seemed sweet to me, sitting there at the table, waiting to eat with me.

He was kind, too. He’d saved my life, and it wasn’t his fault that things had gone wrong with the other man. That sort of thing happened all the time, at least in movies.

I liked his hands, his sensuous mouth, his eyes. I liked his expressive body and the way he listened to me. He had brought me a stuffed monkey when I was sick, and now he’d brought me a gift basket he knew I’d like. It meant he felt bad for me, it meant he was really trying.

And apart from everything else, I was just happy to see him. I was happy he’d come back. I walked over to where he was sitting and, standing behind him, I clasped my arms around his neck.

Everything about him suggested that he was unapproachable. He was too serious, too restrained. He seemed untouchable. Some people are like that—they give you the message that they don’t want you to come close, they don’t want you to touch them. He’d set up a barrier around himself, and it wasn’t negotiable.

But he’d broken all the rules by abducting me. He’d broken the law and he’d changed the rules of ordinary life. That meant I could change the rules too. It meant there weren’t any rules—not here, not now.

And so I casually laid my arms on his shoulders and crossed them. It was bliss, feeling his shoulder muscles under my arms, feeling his body close to mine. My cheek brushed his hair, and my own hair fell on his neck.

I knew he’d move away. He carefully lifted my arms and without turning said, very firmly, “No.” I was a little afraid of that tone of voice. It was the first time he’d sounded slightly less casual, slightly less composed.

I sat down opposite him. It was wonderful having music—“The Scientist” was on now. The song seemed to be about us.
Yes, tell me all your secrets
, I wanted to say.

He put the bottle of wine away, as if afraid of what I might do if I drank. I fought back my fear—he hadn’t meant to hurt my feelings. He was just making a point. “Can’t I hug you?” I asked.

“No,” he said, back to his usual self. He began slicing a loaf of olive bread.

“Why? Why can’t I hug you?”

“You know why.”

“No, I don’t.”

“Let’s eat, we can talk about it later. Would you like some bread?”

“‘Would you like some bread?’” I echoed, imitating his serious, formal voice. “Yes, that would be lovely, thank you,” I answered in a fake British accent.

“I’m glad you’re in a better mood.”

“Any more messages from my mom? Tell me everything about her. And my grandparents, and Angie. Why can’t you bring me a newspaper? Or print something off the Net?”

“Everyone is fine, the message is exactly the same as last time. There’s nothing in the papers that you don’t know.”

“I’d still like to see it. I’m going crazy, being so cut off.”

“I’ll see what I can do,” he said, but I could tell he wasn’t planning to do anything. He didn’t want me to see magazines or newspapers, and he didn’t want to say why.

“I was really down yesterday and the day before,” I told him. “And this morning.”

“Yes, I noticed. It’s from being alone and because of what happened to you.”

“Oh, really?” I said sarcastically. “Who would have thought.”

“I’m sorry I couldn’t come. I won’t always be able to come, I’ll have to miss some days.”

I said, a little frantically, “You promised to let me out. Even if just for five minutes. I promise I won’t run away. You can tie a rope around my waist.”

He tilted his head. “In fact, I was going to suggest sitting outside for a few minutes. You’re looking pale. But I don’t think we’ll have to resort to the methods of Silas Marner.”

“I know that story! We did it in school … You’re smart. You know a lot. Did you go to school in England?”

“No.”

“But you have a British accent. On top of your other accent.”

He didn’t answer.

“Can we go out now?”

“Why don’t we eat first?”

“All right,” I agreed. “Something to look forward to.” I lifted the loaf of olive bread to my face and inhaled. It had a wonderful homemade smell. “I’ll gain weight here,” I said. “What does it say about me in the paper?”

“Nothing new.”

“That’s so weird,” I said. “I guess I’m famous now.”

“I’d say so.”

“Well, at least I haven’t been forgotten.”

“Far from it.”

“Thanks for the bath stuff, by the way.”

“I’ll bring you a tennis set next time.”

“Great. What are people saying about me?”

“There are a lot of guesses about what’s happening to you, whether you’re alive, what sort of people are holding you. That’s all.”

“What are they guessing?”