Trafficked

by Kim Purcell

  She’d heard Lillian say it plainly. “Did you promise my uncle?”

  Sergey’s forehead wrinkled. “Your uncle?” he asked, looking right at her, with clear, guilt-free eyes.

  “My mother’s brother, Vladi. He disappeared two months before I came here. After my parents were killed, he was the one who helped me and my babushka with the farm and the bazaar. He helped us survive.”

  “You said he disappeared two months before you came here.” Sergey seemed sincerely puzzled. “How would I talk to him if he’d already left before I met you?”

  “The agent . . .” Hannah hesitated. She hated saying his name. “He said that my uncle wouldn’t listen. So he knew something about him, and I thought maybe you talked to him. . . .” Her voice trailed off as she realized how ridiculous it sounded.

  “The agent said this?” Sergey asked, stroking his chin with his thumb and forefinger, deep in thought. “What was the agent’s name?”

  Her insides tensed and the name she didn’t want to say croaked out of her. “Volva.”

  “Volva,” he repeated.

  “Yes.”

  His face was losing color. It wasn’t good news. “He told you that your uncle wouldn’t listen?” Sergey asked.

  She bowed her head and nodded, tears coming to her eyes. She couldn’t think of that man and her uncle at the same time. One was evil. The other was the sweetest, most loving man she’d ever known. He’d been her mom’s best friend. He knew how to make them all laugh, even when there was nothing to laugh about.

  “Hannah, I don’t know what happened to your uncle, but I’ll try to find out. I’m sorry he disappeared.” Sergey stood up and reached his arms out as if to pat her shoulders.

  The stairs creaked. Hannah stepped back suddenly, tripped on a lump in the rug, and crashed to the floor.

  “What are you doing in this room?” Lillian boomed from above her. She had her hands on her hips and was wearing a new red silk jumpsuit with a gold belt.

  Sergey spoke up. “Lily, she brought me this.” He pulled a fifty-dollar bill out of his pocket. “She found it in my jeans while she was doing laundry and thought I might need it.”

  Lillian pasted a fake smile on her face. Her teeth had red lipstick on them. “Well, isn’t she an honest girl?”

  Hannah stood up slowly, reached for her broom, and hurried past her, realizing too late that Sergey still hadn’t told her who he’d promised. If it wasn’t her uncle, then who was it? And certainly, if he’d promised someone, it meant she hadn’t been brought to America randomly. They’d picked her before she knew anything about them. But how?

  Chapter Twenty-two

  Hannah still hadn’t figured out how they’d picked her, but she knew why. Lillian had clearly wanted her because she thought she could treat her like some stray dog.

  Hannah dusted the top of the black entertainment center, whipping her hand back and forth angrily. That day, the whole family had gone to the beach and come back with the smell of what had to be the ocean on their bodies, leaving a trail of sand everywhere in the house she’d just cleaned. They’d gone to celebrate because it was the end of summer and the next day, Maggie would start fourth grade, but they’d left Hannah at home.

  Maggie followed her from room to room, jabbering away, oblivious to her anger. “I ran through this super huge wave, and it almost carried me away,” she said. “You wouldn’t believe how big the waves were. Tons of people were bodysurfing on these small surfboards. I really want to do it. Did you ever go surfing?”

  “No,” Hannah said. “I’ve never been to the ocean.”

  “Why not?”

  “I was too busy studying,” Hannah said, unable to admit the truth. She’d always dreamed of seeing the sea. Smelling it. Moldova was landlocked, but lots of people went to the Black Sea in the Ukraine, and for years, her parents had promised to take her there. It was where they’d met, on vacation, and they’d always wanted to go back. But there was never the money, especially after her father started his drinking.

  Michael came dancing in the living room, shaking his sandy body all over the place. Hannah glared at him. He shouted, “I go in the waves and I jump.” Then he threw himself at Hannah, hugging her leg.

  “You did not,” Maggie said.

  “I did,” Michael argued.

  “He didn’t,” Maggie said. “Mommy didn’t let him. He made a sand castle.”

  “I make a castle,” Michael went on, tugging at Hannah’s shirt to get her attention.

  Hannah pushed her anger away. She’d seen what anger could do, how it destroyed the person who held on to it. Anger had made her father drink, and it was probably the reason her parents had been killed in the bombing. She couldn’t become one of those angry people.

  She bent down and gave Michael a hug. “You made a castle?”

  He nodded, grinning. “It was big!”

  “I know how to swim,” Maggie said. “But Mama wouldn’t let me go deep. She said the sea would be too strong. Anyway, it was lots and lots of fun.”

  Hannah rested her hand on Maggie’s back. “I’m glad you got to go, my belka.” This was the nickname she’d given Maggie because she reminded Hannah of a squirrel: always curious and a little tricky.

  “You should come next time,” Maggie said, as if it were Hannah’s choice.

  She couldn’t help it—the anger came back. “Tell that to your mother,” she said, and stalked into the kitchen before she said too much.

  They still hadn’t paid her. She’d given them a million excuses in her head: Sergey was waiting for money to come in, they’d forgotten, they were busy, Lillian was holding on to it for her. But now she had to admit that the real reason she hadn’t asked was that she was afraid of what they’d say.

  She went into the kitchen, dropped the chicken in the frying pan, and started to cut up the carrots. Lillian strode in, wearing a flowing silk dress that Hannah had never seen before. “Smells good,” she said brightly, and poured some cold cola into two glasses for her and Sergey. She still smelled of sand and fishy salt water. It wasn’t asking for too much, Hannah thought, to smell the ocean for real.

  Michael was watching Sesame Street in the living room, Maggie had gone outside and was reading a book in a long wooden lawn chair, and Sergey was taking a shower. Hannah told herself there was no better time. Do it, just do it.

  Lillian picked up the spatula and turned the chicken, which Hannah had just turned. Now it would be dry. And she would be blamed. Lillian would say something like, “You can’t cook the chicken on such high heat,” or “You should marinate it for longer.” Lillian picked out a slice of fried onion from the pan and began to hum. The humming made Hannah more nervous.

  She continued chopping carrots. It was never a good time. She’d even told herself to ask that morning before the beach so that Lillian would have time to cool off before she came home, but then Lillian had yelled at her about hairs in the upstairs shower—Lillian’s own hairs, which Hannah was sure she pulled off her head every time she showered, and deliberately stuck on the tile walls for her to clean up. Every time Hannah’s finger touched one of those knotted up bunches of blonde hair, she gagged.

  Do it, she told herself. She stopped cutting and held the knife still, sharp point down on the cutting board. Lillian gave her a funny look. The chicken sizzled, all the moisture escaping from it.

  “I was wondering about my wages.”

  “Yes?” Lillian said sharply.

  “I haven’t been paid,” Hannah said.

  Lillian tossed back her extravagant blonde hair and flipped the chicken again. “You still owe us money.”

  “What?” Hannah pushed the knife down hard on the carrot, and a piece flew off the board onto the white tile floor.

  “You have to pay us back for the plane ticket, the agen
t’s fee, and the passport.” Lillian flipped another piece of chicken as if it was no big deal. “You’re cutting those up a bit small,” she said, referring to the carrots. “And the chicken is getting dry,” she added, pouring more oil into the pan; too much, Hannah thought.

  “But Olga said that was included.”

  “Then she lied.”

  “Why would she lie?” Hannah turned toward Lillian with the chopping knife pointed up.

  “Put that down, baba. You’re making me nervous.”

  Now Lillian was calling her “baba.” Hannah placed the knife on the cutting board. “She’s my uncle’s wife’s friend.”

  “Only to meet you,” Lillian said, then pressed her lips together, as if she realized she’d said too much.

  “What do you mean?”

  “Volva gave her a commission to find someone.”

  Volva. He was the one they’d used; he wasn’t merely Olga’s connection in Bucharest. He was the one who’d mentioned her uncle Vladi. And Sergey had almost slipped up when he was drunk that one time. He’d said she looked like someone he knew. Was Sergey lying about Vladi after all?

  “Someone? Anyone?” Hannah asked, thinking that it was clear they were after her, but she couldn’t figure out why.

  “Anyone who wanted to come to America. If the woman didn’t succeed, she wouldn’t have gotten a commission.”

  “But you said she befriended my uncle’s wife to get to me.”

  Lillian shrugged. “Maybe you looked desperate.” Then Lillian handed her the spatula, a little too fast, as if she were in a hurry to leave. “I have to take a shower. Get this salt off my body. You can finish up.” She strode out of the room.

  “Wait!” Hannah ran after her with the spatula. “How much do I owe?”

  Lillian looked back. The light from the entryway shone from behind and made her blonde hair light up like a halo around her head. “I have to do some calculations.”

  “I’ve been here for two months. I was promised four hundred a week. That’s thirty-two hundred dollars.” It sounded impossible, even to Hannah’s ears, and she wasn’t surprised when Lillian laughed.

  “Thirty-two hundred dollars?” Lillian exclaimed. “Do you think we are millionaires?”

  “That’s what I was promised,” Hannah insisted, her voice choking up.

  “Use your brain, girl. We could have hired someone here if that were the case.”

  Hannah blinked back the tears. Now was not the time to cry. She needed answers.

  “Why are you complaining?” Lillian asked. “You live in a beautiful home and you’ve got all the food you can want. Be grateful.”

  “I am,” Hannah rushed, not wanting to be thrown out into the street with nothing.

  Lillian disappeared into the foyer. Hannah heard her firm steps moving up the staircase, as if that was the end of the conversation.

  “Wait!” Hannah ran down the hall, turned into the foyer, and gripped the banister at the bottom of the stairs. “How much are you going to pay me?”

  Lillian paused halfway up the stairs and looked down at her, annoyed. “The wage was four hundred a month. But you have to pay off your debt first.”

  “Four hundred a month?” Hannah was devastated. This was a quarter of what she’d been promised, though many times more than she’d made in Moldova. “How much do I still owe?”

  Lillian hesitated, then rolled her eyes. “More or less? About four thousand.” She said it like it was nothing.

  “Four thousand?” Hannah screeched, despite her desire to remain calm.

  “The agent charged almost five,” Lillian said.

  “Do you have a receipt?” Hannah asked.

  Lillian seemed indignant. “They don’t give receipts.”

  “How do I know you’re telling the truth?”

  Lillian placed one hand on her elegant hip. “Are you calling me a liar?”

  “I would never have come if Olga had told me that. It’ll take almost a year to pay that off.” She’d hoped to save up enough in a year to start college in America. Now she would be at zero in a year, like she hadn’t done a single bit of work. She’d never felt so poor in all her life.

  “Did you have so many other choices, baba?” Lillian asked, and then her voice softened. “After you pay it off, you can start saving four hundred a month. This is a fabulous wage.”

  If Lillian actually paid her. “But I need money now,” Hannah said, a tear rolling down one cheek. She swiped it away.

  “Why?” Lillian asked.

  Maybe she’d have some compassion as a doctor. “I need to pay for an operation for my babushka’s cataracts. She can’t see. I’m worried she’ll fall and—”

  Lillian was already shaking her head. “Don’t be ridiculous. That’s too expensive.”

  “There is a doctor in Moldova who will do both eyes for a thousand dollars.”

  “He’ll botch it at that price.” She rolled her eyes and sighed as if the conversation was making her weary. “You have to think of yourself, Hannah. Relatives will take and take and take.”

  Hannah stared at her in disbelief. How could she be so selfish?

  “I need some money for myself too,” Hannah said. “I need to buy clothing and—”

  “Clothing? You and I both know that you are lucky to be here. If Sergey hadn’t saved you, you might be in the streets right now.”

  “Are you saying I’d be a prostitute?” Hannah’s face flushed with anger, thinking back to the conversation between Lillian and Rena. “I would never do that. I’d rather starve.”

  Lillian tossed her hair back. “Never say never. You’d do what you had to do to survive.” She spoke like she had some knowledge of this world herself.

  Hannah swallowed down her fear and thought of how Lillian had said that Sergey had saved her, not that they had saved her. She thought about how he’d greeted her at the airport and given her that open smile you’d only give to someone you knew.

  Lillian continued up the stairs. Hannah had to ask her one last question. “Please, just tell me one thing—do you know where my uncle Vladi is?”

  Lillian looked down over her shoulder, gripping the shiny oak banister near the top of the stairs. “Your uncle Vladi? Why would I know that?”

  She actually seemed to be telling the truth, but clearly they had some connection to her. “You said Sergey saved me. Did he ask Volva to get me specifically?”

  “Come on, girl.” Lillian rolled her eyes again. “Why would he want you?”

  Hannah tried to replay their conversation earlier in her head. Had she misunderstood?

  “Mommy!” Maggie was screaming in the kitchen.

  Hannah looked back. Elmo was saying something in Russian on the television in the living room. Michael was sitting quietly on the sofa. She stepped into the hall. Smoke was drifting out of the kitchen.

  “Mommy!” Her screech was louder the second time. It was a panicked sound. Hannah sprinted down the hall, thinking, Please let her be okay!

  Red flames were billowing up around a cloth in the pan, reaching up to the ceiling fan, licking the white paint, turning it brown.

  What is a cloth doing there? Maggie was too close. She was waving her hands in front of the fire, screaming. The oil popped in the pan.

  “Ow!” Maggie yelled.

  Hannah grabbed Maggie by the waist and tugged her back. Lillian flew into the kitchen and threw her arms around Maggie. Lillian was screaming at Hannah, “Put it out!”

  An image of her mother’s charred remains came into her head from the nightmare she’d had every night since she died, and she hesitated. Her mother’s body had been so badly burned in the terrorist bombing, Hannah hadn’t been allowed to identify her. She’d never seen her, but her mind had imagined it instead, which was pe
rhaps worse.

  “What are you doing?” Lillian screamed.

  Hannah jumped forward and turned off the stove. The fire was still shooting up to the ceiling. She had to put something on the flames. Her mother’s voice came into her head: Never add water to oil. On the counter, she spotted the big tub of flour she’d used earlier to bread the chicken. She picked it up and flung the flour onto the fire.

  It worked. It was out. Just like that.

  But the kitchen was filled with smoke and Maggie was crying. “The chicken was burning and I tried to move the pan,” she sobbed, “but the cloth caught fire.”

  Hannah worried the flames would jump back up again, that they were stopped only momentarily under the flour. She threw the metal lid on top, grabbed another towel to protect her hands, and holding on to the handle, ran it outside and placed it on the concrete steps.

  She ran back inside and propped open the door to let out the smoke. Maggie was sobbing, standing by her mother at the kitchen table. Lillian was stroking her hair, repeating, “Shh, zaitchik, shh.”

  “Is she okay?” Hannah asked, stepping toward them, filled with terror. Please don’t let her be burned.

  “No, she’s not okay,” Lillian snapped.

  “Did you get burned, Maggie?” Hannah asked.

  Maggie nodded. “My hand.”

  “The oil sprayed her,” Lillian said. “Get the ointment.”

  Hannah reached above the refrigerator and pulled out a white first aid kit, where she found some ointment for burns, which she gave to Lillian, who put it on Maggie.

  “It still hurts,” Maggie cried.

  Hannah felt terrible. She should have been watching the chicken, not asking Lillian about the money. “I’m sorry. It’s my fault.” Quickly, she grabbed a potato and cut it in half.

  “Of course it’s your fault. You’re the most incompetent person I’ve ever met,” Lillian said, pulling Maggie in tighter to her chest. “Believe me, you will pay for the damage.”