Held (12 page)

“The worst, of course,” he said, sipping the white wine.

“Like what?” I asked.

“Like all the things you were worried about when you first arrived.”

“Creepy,” I said. Suddenly the idea of people inventing horror stories about me was repellent—even scary, for some reason.

“You can be forgotten as soon as you get back, if you want.”

I watched him as he ate. He cut everything before eating it, even bread, and the pieces were always tiny. Or if the food couldn’t be cut, he put tiny bits on his fork. He seemed barely to chew. “What do you have against being hugged?” I asked him.

“I don’t want to benefit from you in any way,” he said. His answer surprised me. He was admitting that he would enjoy it if I hugged him.
He likes me
, I thought.

“But I’m the one who needs you.”

He didn’t answer immediately. He stared at me, but I was used to his stares and I stared back. Finally he said, “I don’t want your forgiveness. I’ve taken away your freedom, and I almost let you die. If we manage to maintain some kind of equilibrium, we’re doing well. Anything else would be completely inappropriate.”

“Fine!” I said, slouching in my chair. Trying to cover my embarrassment, I grumbled, “You know, you’re a very poor hostage-taker. You’re not supposed to care so much about me. Didn’t you read the hostage-taking manual?”

He tilted his head sideways again, as if trying to see me from a different angle; I knew by now that this was his way of smiling. He said, “I understand your desire to joke, but it’s a serious matter after all. Women are almost always exploited in these situations. You narrowly escaped such a disaster yourself.”

“You think I want to be harmed? I’m not a masochist.”

“I think it’s hard for you to see clearly right now.”

“You’re so patronizing!” I said, sinking my teeth into a deep-fried croquette of some sort. Eating was a welcome distraction from being rejected. I was starving, and I helped myself to seconds of everything.

“I’m glad to see your appetite has returned,” he said.

“What else did you read about me? Apart from that I used to do gymnastics?”

“I don’t follow everything, there’s too much.”

“Too much?”

“You’re a good story for the media. Attractive, talented seventeen-year-old in captivity, someone people can watch on YouTube.”

“That’s not my fault, the school posted it. They post all their competitions.”

“I was quite impressed.”

“I don’t know how I feel about all that publicity.”

“The coverage is all very positive,” he assured me.

“There’s not much to say, I’ve had a pretty boring life so far.”

“The media can always find something, if they try hard enough.”

Neither of us spoke for a few minutes. I put another CD in the player—this one was classical, and the enchanted melody of “Moonlight Sonata” floated in the air.

My hostage-taker produced a paper bag filled with chocolate-chip cookies. I fished one out and munched on it. It was the best chocolate-chip cookie I’d ever had. “You’re a very good cook,” I said. “Maybe you should consider a career in the catering business instead of hostage-taking.”

“I can’t stay long today, but I’ll be back tomorrow.”

“Do you have a job?”

“I’ll just do the washing up and then we can go out for a few minutes.”

He carried the dishes to the old rusty sink in the bathroom and began washing them. I sat down on the toilet lid and watched him. I was in a mischievous mood. I felt like a little kid who wants to pester the babysitter. “You missed a spot,” I said.

“You really are feeling better.”

“This place is crawling with roaches.”

“Yes, there’s not much to be done about that. Once you have them, they’re hard to get rid of.”

I yawned. “I think I felt one on my foot during the night. Yuck!”

“I think they avoid people,” he said.

“Oh no, no, no, you’re wrong! Very wrong. You aren’t up on your cockroach information at all. My granddad lived in Cyprus when he was young, and he said the cockroaches traveled all over his face at night.”

“That must have been quite an infestation.”

I stood up, yawned again, and leaned slightly against his arm. Not in any serious way—more the way you’d lean on someone at a party, just for fun. He was much taller than me—I only reached the top of his shoulder blades.

He put down the dish he was washing, dried his hands, and moved away from me.

He carried the washed dishes to the table and stacked them on a towel. Then he turned to me. “Once and for all, this has to end.”

“You’re so serious about everything. Can’t you relax a little?”

“This isn’t an easy situation for you or for me. It would be strange if I felt relaxed about it.”

“Whatever,” I sulked.

“You aren’t yourself. People want to feel safe and in control, so they identify with the aggressor in their lives—I’m sure you can see that. You’re acting out of loneliness and denial.”

“Denial? Denial about what? You think I can actually forget that I’m cooped up in here all day like a caged animal!”

“Denial about my role in your life. It’s true that I’m doing what I can to make things easier for you, but I’m the one who’s locked you up here in the first place.”

“You’re so patronizing,” I repeated.

“I’m only trying to explain.”

“It’s the appearance of exploitation that worries you?” I asked.

“Not the appearance, the reality.”

“It would look like you were taking advantage of me?”

“It would look that way and it would be that way,” he said.

It was the second time he was admitting that he was attracted to me. He just didn’t think it was right to act on those feelings.

“Not if I’m the one deciding,” I pointed out.

He said, “There must be equality in a partnership. We aren’t equals now. You’re angry with me, but anger is hard to sustain, so you transform it into something else. Think about it logically. You don’t know anything about me, only that I’ve taken away your freedom.”

“Okay, okay. I get the point.”

“You have to force yourself to be logical.”

“You sound like Spock. Do you know
Star Trek
?”

“Yes.”

I stared at him. I was partly embarrassed by the whole situation, partly glad that we were really talking. I said, “Logically, I feel what I feel. And what I feel is that I love you.”

I had no idea I was going to say those words, and they shocked me as much as they shocked him. I could tell he was upset, though he tried not show it.

I turned away from him in confusion. I didn’t know why I’d spoken out that way, or whether I regretted it. But I did know that the words I’d said were true. I loved him.

He stood up. “If you continue on this track I won’t stay here. I’ll bring you the things you need and go.”

“Fine!” I snapped again. I was hurt, and also angry. He was taking even the little control I had away from me. “You make all the decisions here, excuse me for forgetting that! Do whatever you want. I don’t care if you stay or not. I don’t care if I never see you again!”

“Do you want to go out for some fresh air before I leave?”

“Yes,” I said crossly. “Yes, of course I want to go outside. Sorry I have to bother you with my presence.”

He scrounged around in one of the bags and handed me a large white shawl, oversized sunglasses, and a black hat with a floppy rim—probably the one they’d made me wear when I was abducted. “Pull the hat down low, please,” he instructed, “and wrap yourself in the shawl. And you must promise not to give me a hard time.”

“So I’m not allowed to shout
help
at the top of my lungs?”

“I’m glad you haven’t lost your sense of humor.”

We stepped out of the warehouse, taking the two chairs with us. There was a narrow navy blue awning along the front wall of the warehouse; I hadn’t noticed it before. But even under the awning, with the sunglasses on and the hat shading my face, the sunlight hurt my eyes, and I had to keep them shut for a few seconds.

Then I looked up at the blue sky. I was stunned by the sky, the stones on the ground, the dry grass and purple weeds growing along the edges of the warehouse. It was as though I’d only ever seen those things in photographs.

“I’ve already forgotten what grass looks like,” I said. “And I’ve only been in this stupid warehouse for two weeks.”

“Yes, it happens fast. I’m not often able to be here during the day, but when I am we’ll try to sit outside.”

We set the chairs against the wall and sat down. I lifted my head to the sun. I was so grateful to be outdoors that my anger dissolved. I plucked a weed, twirled it in my hand, brought it to my face. “One thing about being confined,” I said. “It makes you appreciate things. I never thought a weed could be so amazing. My mom says ‘Chloe’ means the shoot of a plant in Greek. Hello, Chloe …” I said giddily.

I looked around me. The view was blocked on both sides—by the aluminum fence on my right, and the cement wall of a building on my left. But the forest up ahead was magnificent. My eyes absorbed every twisting tree branch, every shade of green. I’d never noticed the millions of details in the world around me. Angie did, because she had an artist’s eye, but I’d always taken my surroundings for granted.

“What will I see if I look around the corner?” I asked.

“Only another fence.”

“So this is really like a courtyard?”

“Yes, it’s closed off.”

“Poor Mom. She must be so worried. And Angie—she’s anxious even when things are normal.”

“They’re both working hard for a retrial.”

“A retrial? You mean instead of an exchange?”

“A legal process allows them to release someone innocent without seeming to give in to us.”

“Sometimes you say ‘us’ and sometimes you say ‘I.’ Are you part of a group?”

“The less you know about me, the better.”

“Are you the only one I’ll see?”

“Yes.”

“But … I mean, just the fact that a criminal is asking for this guy’s release, wouldn’t that be enough to make the prisoner seem guilty? I mean, if that’s who his friends are, it’s worse for him, not better.”

“We made ourselves sound convincingly insane.”

I laughed. “So it would seem you chose someone at random?”

“That’s right.”

“If you sound insane, doesn’t that scare my mother?”

“Luckily, she’s an optimist.”

I linked my fingers and stretched my arms in front of me. “Where’s your car?”

“Parked in back.”

“Is it also a limo?”

“No, just an ordinary car.”

“But that was a private plane … you must be very rich.”

He didn’t say anything, of course, and we sat in silence for a while. It was so peaceful, sitting there quietly in the sun. No one seeing us would have believed that I was a prisoner and the man sitting next to me was my jailer.

“Time to go back,” he said. “I have a lot to do.”

“I’d like to see your to-do list. Laundry, shopping, visit hostage …”

It was hard, going back in. I longed to do a cartwheel on the grass. Instead, I had to return to the dreary warehouse.

Without warning, my depression returned. I curled up on the bed and covered myself with the sheet. I began to think about Dad again. I wanted to sleep and sleep, and wake up when it was all over.

CHAPTER 14

Over the next few days I struggled against my depression. My occasional dose of sunshine helped, and I was glad to have music in my life again. My hostage-taker brought me a tennis set, which kept me occupied for far longer than I would have imagined.

I also had more books now, including two gorgeous coffee table books—one about Greece and one about the history of Olympic gymnastics.

I wrote out a schedule for myself and tried to follow it:

Days without a visit were the hardest. I’d get cabin fever and I’d feel like tearing my hair out. Attacks of homesickness and loneliness would sweep over me in huge waves. I missed Mom, my friends, my house, my room. I missed Pumpkin and everything else about my life at home, even vacuuming the carpets.

Then, suddenly, my hostage-taker vanished.

I think it was some time between the fourth and fifth week, but I can’t be sure because my calendar was pretty hopeless by then. I didn’t always remember whether I’d already checked off the day or not, and I also lost track when I was sick. After a while it didn’t seem to matter all that much.