Notes From My Captivity

by Kathy Parks

  The girl who killed my father went on trial for manslaughter. Mom let me skip school for four days and go to the trial and sit with her and stare at the back of the blond head of the sorority girl who had blown .23 on a Breathalyzer (I was taking notes of the testimony) and had refused the offer of at least two sorority sisters to drive her home. Later, I got to stare at her horrible face and her sob-ruined blue eyeliner as she tearfully stated that she did not recall any events of that night, and her first conscious memory was coming to in the back of a squad car.

  I looked straight at her, staring her down like her headlights had stared down my father. Nothing she said moved my heart. My mother sat beside me, never commenting, her expression totally blank, even when they read the verdict: guilty, as of course was the case. Not even when it came time for sentencing and this stupid drunk girl was given ten years’ probation plus mandatory alcohol counseling and six months’ suspended license for killing my father.

  I hated her. I wanted to find her house, throw a rock through the window. Find out her number and call her in the middle of the night shouting things at her. I wanted to see her on the street and run her down with my bicycle. I wanted to send her anonymous letters full of curse words. Wanted to cut her hair off as she slept. Let the air out of her tires. Have a bunch of big kids hold her down while I ask her to her face: Do you know what it’s like to try not to cry when you’re doing the dishes? The way the back of your throat hurts and the steam makes your nose run but you don’t want your mother to notice that the joke she reminded you of that your father used to tell made you cry instead of laugh? Well, do you?

  My ten-year-old mind teemed with revenge possibilities. I didn’t know how to un-hate her or how to turn it down into the low boiling resentment my mother seemed to have—the way her eyes narrowed when people stopped her in the grocery story to say “ridiculous” and “travesty of justice.” I couldn’t even say her name.

  That’s when I decided to grow up and be a journalist. Tell the real story. The real truth. So girls like that girl couldn’t hide in her story. I’d rip it out page by page.

  Fourteen

  Night birds call. Things buzz and rattle. The forest cracks. My nerves jump. A light rain starts up, wetting my hair and driving away at last the mosquitos that have been pestering me. I scratch at the vicious welts on my face. My stomach, shrunk from fear and lack of food, feels like an overboiled egg. The pain from my broken arm comes in waves.

  Somewhere in the dark, a wild family hunts for me as though I’m a wounded animal they need to drag back and salvage part by part.

  Siberia means business. I’m still astonished at the speed with which it destroyed my trip, killed everyone I knew there, and left me alone. And yet, I’m proud of myself for getting away. Using my own grave as camouflage. The article I write, defending my stepfather and condemning this murderous family, will also contain this little fact.

  That’s the hope I cling to now. I have an article to write. I have a story to carry. I stand up on tired and aching legs, using the hand of my good arm to massage each leg in turn, listening to the forest around me for sounds of my captors. They must have given up on me, the way they had to finally give up on the other creatures that outran them or outmaneuvered them and left their stew pot needy.

  It’s hard to see in the gloom in front of me as I move through the trees. I inhale groups of bugs, exhale mist. Claw vines away from my face. Step on the sponginess of the forest floor, breaking through every few steps and sinking up to my ankles in wet ground. My progress is slow and painful, but finally I reach the edge of the forest and the great dark expanse of the giant sunflowers, their heads lit by the starlight. Half a moon shines nearby. Low-lying dark clouds make monster shapes. I stop, listening for footsteps or voices or breathing. I look up, watching for that deranged owl to swoop my way again on orders of the witch.

  The hut is out of sight, farther down the slope. My fervent hope is that the family sleeps inside, surrendered to the possibility that I’ve escaped forever, content, at least, with their clothing and their salt.

  The sunflower heads tickle my fingers. My wooden cast bumps against my thigh. I feel like a ghost girl, invisible to the naked eye. Every few feet I stop and swivel my head around, listening. But there seems to be no intrigue tonight beyond the swirl of the usual Siberian nightlife: little things being hunted by bigger things, wind in the trees, the clouds releasing rain and the sky waiting for the new light of dawn.

  I reach the stream and cross the bridge, my feet silent on the wooden boards. The path is a welcoming rectangle of gloom, and I enter it and begin slowly moving down the mountain. After fifty yards or so, I start to hear the roar of the water. That seemingly endless river that shows the way back.

  Just keep breathing. Just keep moving.

  Maybe I can catch fish from the river. Unlikely, I know, with a broken arm, but maybe I can trap them. Or eat cattail tubers. People can survive on plants. . . .

  Just keep breathing. Just keep—

  I freeze.

  I jerk each time I hear a gunshot.

  It’s far away, somewhere in the darkness. I can’t tell which direction they are coming from, but the sound is unmistakable.

  They’ve got Sergei’s gun. Somewhere, they are using it. On who or what, I don’t know.

  I fight the temptation to curl into a ball. The rain has stopped. The mosquitoes have found me again, but I don’t move. I just let them feed on my face and the backs of my hands as I hold my breath. One more shot—that makes five—and all is silent. At last I slap the mosquitos away, clawing my face until the itch excites itself and then subsides.

  Oh, Adrienne, my father used to say. The things you get into.

  I force myself to smile at the memory, only because I need the smile. I need something, anything, to force myself to keep walking down the path instead of just giving up right now, letting them find me and doing with me what they wish.

  I keep moving toward the water, reaching out to touch the tree trunks to help guide my path. Finally I reach the gravel banks of the river; its familiar sound drowning out the birds and the crickets. Even water isn’t the same in Siberia. In Colorado, you float down it in the summer and keep your lawn green. Here, it breaks boats and drowns stepfathers. Even water is not a friend here.

  And yet I kneel at the bank, the gray stones hurting my knees, and scoop it up in my palms as best I can, as it soaks the cords of my cast and chills my hands. It tastes clean and cold and I don’t stop until I’ve quenched my suddenly rabid thirst.

  It’s still dark when I begin to make my way down the river again, holding my arms out for balance, stumbling over the rocks, trying to find the stable footholds. I force myself to keep going, counting my steps through chattering teeth. Hundreds of miles down the river, past a few dozen impossibilities, exists the hope of rescue. My arm feels heavy, and my entire body aches. I round a corner and stop.

  I gasp.

  Woody saunters toward me, rifle cradled in his arms, several dead rabbits slung over his shoulder. I’m so shocked that I just stand there as he catches sight of me, and an expression of anger and surprise crosses his face.

  I turn and begin running down the riverbank, feet sliding, trying to get away from him, and he’ll be on me before I can try to run uphill into the shelter of the forest. I hear the pounding of his feet closing on me fast. I do the only thing I can do. I flounce into the river like a fish.

  The shocking brace of it closes over my face, and the current grabs me and rushes me along as I try to keep my mouth above water. In a matter of seconds I slam into the branches of a fallen tree. They snap in all directions and I am pinned there fast, trying to extract myself one-handed but helplessly trapped by the current. I struggle and kick my feet in the freezing water, my lungs on fire, screaming, “Go away go away go away!” as he drops the rabbits, sets down his rifle and picks his way down the bank.

  His face has turned beet red; he’s shouting back at me in anger someth
ing I can’t understand.

  “Glupaya devchyonka!”

  He wades out to me, bracing himself against a boulder until he can reach my foot and pull me toward him. I can’t do anything but allow myself to be fished out of the water and thrown like a rag doll over his shoulder where I dangle, the eyes of the rabbits staring at me blankly, as he continues up the bank.

  Woody says nothing. I say nothing. What is there left to say?

  I ride on his back and try not to feel like one of the dead animals across his shoulder. I smell sweat and blood, hunter and hunted. The arm holding me is shockingly strong. He could have given even Lyubov a run for her money. I have a quick flash of memory about her tossing supplies from the boat to the campsite. If a woman that strong and that capable cannot survive out here, what does that say about me? I decide not to think about it. Instead, I name the dead rabbits. Benjamin, Jared, Gaga, and Kanye. They dangle and turn. Water drips out of my clothes and taps on the rocks.

  The woods lighten. The minutes pass. The blood slowly pools in my head as I contemplate plan B, since plan A did not come off as spectacularly well as it does in James Bond movies. Clearly escape is not an option, not when they are so at home in the woods and I am such a hapless, bungling stranger. I decide to beg for my life, to appeal to whatever’s left that’s human in them. Right now I’m at dead-rabbit status at best. But a status can change.

  When he reaches the part of the bank where the stream feeds the river, he turns and hikes straight up the mountain, as effortlessly as though it’s flat land, and as he hauls me up toward the hut, my heartbeat speeds up and my skin prickles with sweat. Is this the end of me?

  When we arrive, the tiny family is gathered around the stones, eating gruel out of their bowls. Woody says nothing, just drops me to the ground and then dumps the dead rabbits on top of me, and there we are, welcome food and unwelcome girl, staring up at them. Nobody says anything. None of their expressions are particularly friendly, except Clara’s; she seems glad to see me back. She gives me a smile and a quick shrug.

  I sit up, dead rabbits sliding off me. “Ya ustala,” I say in a strong voice as I rise, unsteadily, to my feet.

  I’m sorry.

  Or maybe that doesn’t mean I’m sorry. Wait a minute. Now I remember. “Ya ustala” means, I’m tired. So now I’m not only not sorry, I’m whiny too.

  Clara evidently tries to argue for me, but her mother holds up her hand and Clara falls silent. The mother glares at me. I feel the urge to fill up the world with talking. If I just can keep talking, then maybe I can be spared whatever punishment is in store for me. I abandon their language. English pours out of me in a flood. “I’m sorry, I’m alone and afraid and you people are scary. The truth is, I had no right to interrupt your peace and quiet. I know you want to murder me, but it you spare me, I promise—”

  I stop. Out of the corner of my eye I’ve caught sight of my open grave.

  My grave is full of potatoes.

  Relief floods my body. I sink to my knees and begin to cry. Tears pour down my cheeks, irritating my mosquito bites. No one says anything. When I get hold of myself and look up at their faces, they seem bewildered, as though I am one of the dead rabbits and I’ve just recited a verse from Revelation.

  The family starts arguing among themselves. I wait, trying to make sense of the blur of words. Then the older brother takes out a knife from his belt and moves toward me. I cringe and cover my head, but he brushes past me. He disappears behind the hut and comes back holding a length of cord. He comes up to me, leans down to me, and ties one leg roughly. I cry out in pain as he pulls too tight, and Clara bursts out with a shriek. He glares at her and adjusts the cord slightly, then ties the other end to my left leg. There’s about fifteen inches of cord between them. Enough to waddle but not to run. If I had any thoughts of escaping again on foot, they are gone now.

  “So, what’s for dinner?” I ask in English. It’s my pathetic attempt at a joke. They stare at me.

  Still holding his knife, the angry man picks up the rabbits and strolls toward a wooden plank table standing a short distance from the hut. Meanwhile Clara heads toward the garden with her mother. No one pays any attention to me. The message seems clear: I am being deliberately ignored for the breach in courtesy of running for my life. I try to follow the women, but it’s super awkward to try to get up and walk with my legs tied this way. So I stay on the ground. They know, and I know, that I can’t escape. Wherever I go, they’ll come and find me and take me back. I’ll have to come up with another plan. In the meantime, I’m just glad to be alive.

  When Clara and her mother return a couple of hours later, they carry a bucket of potatoes. I suppose it’s peeling time again, and I’m determined to show them I can make a good guest, or at least a good prisoner.

  I wait a few moments after they disappear into the hut, then I struggle to my feet and make my way in. It’s weird, walking with your legs tied this way. Kind of a shuffling thing I’m doing. There’s something about being tied that really confirms one’s prisoner status.

  They are already spreading out the potatoes on the table. Clara smiles at me, but her mother stares at me, her face as neutral as broom scratchings on a dirt floor.

  “Privyet,” I say cautiously.

  Hello.

  “Ya khochu pomoch.”

  I want to help.

  “Da!” Clara affirms, but her mother glares at me, shakes her head, and waves a gnarled hand toward my chair.

  “Ya khochu pomoch,” I repeat, but the old woman just goes on peeling potatoes and Clara shakes her head sadly. I suppose that peeling potatoes is a sign of status in this house, and I will have to earn my way up.

  I surrender and slump in my seat, watching them. It’s going on two days since I’ve eaten, and I’m so hungry I could eat the potatoes raw. I could eat the rabbits raw. Even the boards of my cast look gnawable to me.

  I glance at the window and catch my breath. There’s a face staring back at me.

  It’s Woody.

  I want to tell him that swinging from his shoulder with a bunch of dead rabbits was the best date I’ve had in ages, but I don’t quite have the words. I wonder if he’s still mad at me for running off, but I meet his glance and hold it. He blinks and smiles shyly but doesn’t look away.

  Maybe he’s not dangerous. Maybe he’s just a guy who has never seen a girl who is not his sister. His eyes are wide, his mouth slightly agape. I astonish him, and I wonder if he knows that he and his family astonish me. Just then Clara notices him and laughs, says something in a teasing tone of voice. These woods and these primitive conditions haven’t buried the duty of little sisters to embarrass their brothers.

  He scowls and ducks away. The mother turns to me, her expression severe, as Clara continues patching her dress with the clothing of the dead. I look away. The mother scares me almost as much as the intense, angry older brother, who I’ve just decided to call Scowly because Killer is probably too on the nose. I wonder if she thinks I’m going to take her boys away. I want to reassure her that I have absolutely no plans to wear a wolfskin wedding dress any time soon.

  I picture that scene and almost smile at the thought of standing at an altar made of beaver tusks with Woody by my side.

  And then suddenly I have an idea.

  I’ve accepted the fact that I can’t escape on my own. I’m weak and woods-dumb, and I have no supplies, no food, no technology, and a broken arm. But I am a girl, last time I checked, and this boy has probably never seen a girl in his life besides his sisters.

  I’m going to do what I never bothered to try to do in high school. I’m going to make a boy fall in love with me. And instead of a date to the prom, I’ll win my own survival.

  Clara and her mother keep cutting potatoes, unaware that I am sitting here with a new, devious strategy in my heart. To get Woody to swipe right, Siberian style. Then convince him to take me back to civilization, all while managing to avoid the attention of Scowly, the older brother, who looks
at me like he’d like to bash my brains out against a tree. Not so much the romantic type. Somehow in the past twenty-four hours, I’ve convinced myself that Scowly acted alone when he killed the crew. Woody and Clara seem too gentle and the mother, too frail.

  At least that’s what I tell myself. I have no way of really knowing what happened out there, and I’m guessing no one will be holding up a hand to confess.

  Just then, Woody’s face appears in the window again and he throws me a quick, soulful glance. I wave at him, just the merest turn of my fingers, before he disappears.

  This could work.

  That night, just before the family sits down to dinner, Clara approaches me with a plate of rabbit stew. They all watch me as I take my first delicate spoonful and then throw caution to the wind, driven mad by the smell and taste of it—the meat rangy, the soup stock watery, but who cares it’s food it’s food it’s food. I drop the spoon and attack the stew with my fingers, devouring the rabbit meat until it’s gone and then throwing back my head to drink the contents of the bowl. When at last I pause for breath, I look up to see the whole family staring at me with horror.

  Apparently I’ve violated some kind of Siberian Emily Post manners guide.

  “Ofitsiant,” I say, which I think is the Russian word for delicious, then I realize, too late, it’s the word for waiter.

  I have just accused them of cooking and eating a waiter.

  I shrug and smile apologetically.

  Scowly scowls, and the rest go back to their dinner.

  They glance at me once in a while but don’t speak to me. I mostly keep my head down. After dinner there is a time where they all go to their own activities: The women sew, Scowly stalks out to hobbies unknown, and Woody reads what must be the giant Bible Yuri Androv reported. Its pages are blackened and torn at the edges. That book would go for seven cents on eBay, tops. I’m wondering where in that Bible it says, “Kidnap and murder.” Come to think of it, people in the Bible weren’t very nice.