Held Read online

  I took his hand and held it to my cheek. It was a beautiful hand, and I kissed it. I had no idea why—it wasn’t something I’d planned. I was just happy to be feeling better, and I felt grateful—if not to him, then to the higher powers that had saved me. Or maybe I was just going mad with loneliness.

  He immediately pulled away. “Please remember that you’re here because of me,” he said.

  “Are you the leader?” I asked.

  “No, I’m not any kind of leader.”

  “But you decide things?”

  “Not this. This was completely out of bounds. Nothing like it will happen again. Do you think you can tell me what happened?”

  But for some reason, I didn’t want to tell him. I didn’t want to tell anyone.

  “It will help me figure out what’s wrong with you,” he said.

  “Ask your friend,” I said, turning my back to him.

  “That’s not possible.”

  “Didn’t he tell you?”

  “Not the details, no.”

  “What did he say?” I asked.

  “Only that he’d been here, and that he’d scared you a little.” I felt his anger returning.

  “I’m so glad I had that shower. I feel better now. Will you read to me again?”

  It was a childish request, but I didn’t care. He’d brought me to this; it was his fault I was sick and alone and helpless. When he’d read to me earlier, I’d been able to imagine that he wasn’t my captor at all. I wanted to feel that again, even if it was only an illusion.

  He began to read, and I fell asleep almost immediately.

  I don’t remember the next day clearly. I was in an odd state between sleep and wakefulness and I kept having hallucinatory nightmares. In one of them I became convinced that there were slimy, scaly creatures hiding in the warehouse. I crouched on the bed screaming, and my hostage-taker crouched next to me and tried to calm me down. I held on to his arm. “They’re in the room, they’re in the room,” I insisted. “I’ll make them go away,” he said. “I know a magic spell.”

  Later I didn’t know whether he had really crouched on my bed and talked to me, or whether that too had been part of the dream. It seemed unlikely that he’d say anything about a magic spell.

  During the day, he came and went, but at night he slept in the warehouse, in his sleeping bag. He was afraid to leave me alone for too long, in case I got worse. Maybe he also wanted to make sure the other man wouldn’t come again, even if he’d changed the lock.

  He made me potato soup, which I ate with salted crackers. I swallowed the pills and the pink medicine. Every few hours he handed me the thermometer.

  I liked the little stuffed monkey. He had brown fur, worried eyes, a happy, friendly smile, and long, spindly arms. I held him next to me, and even talked to him a little. “Poor you,” I told him. “You’re stuck here with me now. We’ll make the best of it.”

  My hostage-taker had also brought me a man’s watch, which I asked him to set near the bed. The watch anchored me, reminding me that in the outside world time was passing.

  CHAPTER 11

  On the fourth or fifth day I began to feel a little better. My appetite returned and I ate bowl after bowl of vegetable stew and rice. I was learning to read my hostage-taker’s body language and his movements, and I could tell as I ate that he was relieved. His face remained expressionless, but his eyes seemed full of hidden messages, and his body was as expressive as an actor’s, though I felt sure he wasn’t aware of it.

  The next evening he brought a stethoscope and asked if I would let him listen to my lungs. A surge of panic tore through me. There was something unspeakably creepy about that stethoscope, and all my distrust returned. He must be psychotic, I thought, imagining he’s a doctor.

  “How would you know how to use a stethoscope?” I asked. My stomach was doing somersaults and I knew I looked as frightened as I felt.

  He said, “It’s not complicated.”

  “I don’t know … It’s scary. I mean, if you’re a kidnapper and also … like a double personality.” It didn’t make sense, looking for reassurance from the person I needed to be reassured about, but there was no one else.

  He didn’t answer. He looked at me steadily, waiting for me to decide.

  “I don’t know what to think,” I cried out, tears coming to my eyes. “The only person I can ask is you, but how can I believe anything you say?”

  “Yes, it’s a hard situation for you.”

  “Why do you need to listen to my lungs?”

  “I’m worried because your fever is not going down. Maybe you’ve contracted pneumonia.”

  “How would you know if I had pneumonia?”

  “If you had fluid in your lungs I might hear a crackling sound. You could try to hear yourself, if you like. You know, it would help me very much if you told me what happened.”

  “Why don’t you ask your friend?” I said angrily.

  “I can’t explain that to you,” he replied.

  “I can’t believe you don’t know.”

  “I don’t know. That’s why I’m asking you. The pail was overturned, the floor was covered with water. That’s all I know. I can imagine some things, but I don’t know.”

  “I may have swallowed some dirty water,” I relented. I felt degraded, talking about what happened—as degraded as I’d felt when it happened.

  “From the floor?” he asked, his rage returning.

  “The floor? No, in the pail …”

  “He dunked you?”

  “Yes.”

  He folded his arms and his body was tense with disgust. But his voice was unaffected. He asked, “Anything else?”

  “No.”

  “Well, do I get to listen to your lungs?”

  “All right.”

  He sat behind me and I felt the cold stethoscope on my back. “What if you’re some sort of schizophrenic pretending to be a doctor?” I asked. “Isn’t there a movie like that?”

  “There are probably many movies like that.”

  “Horror movies,” I said. “What do you hear?”

  “I can’t hear anything if you talk. If you just inhale deeply, that will help me.”

  I breathed for him, and he listened to different parts of my back for a long time. He seemed to know what he was doing after all, and I began to relax. I couldn’t be so unintuitive that I wouldn’t know an ordinary person from a psychopath.

  “Your lungs sound okay,” he said. “Have you any pain anywhere?”

  “No.”

  “Can I just check a few things?”

  “Yes,” I said. It felt strange, letting him examine me—it was as if we were in a play or some kind of bizarre reality show. But I didn’t have any choice. I wanted to get better.

  He touched the glands along my throat and pounded my lower back to check my kidneys; then I lay down and he lightly pressed parts of my stomach. He had unusual hands, an unusual touch. Gentle, alive, communicative. Like his eyes, his fingers compensated for his expressionless face and unemotional voice.

  Or maybe it only seemed that way because I was so isolated, and being touched made me feel less alone. It was confusing, seeing this side of him, and my confusion tired me out.

  “I don’t usually get sick,” I told him.

  “Did the man come near you?” he asked, moving away and also looking away.

  I knew what he meant and I said quickly, “Oh God, no. No.”

  I shuddered. Bad as it was, it could have been worse. Well, everything can be worse, I thought. So what?

  “You’re angry at him?” I asked because I needed to hear him say it again.

  “Yes, of course. More than angry.”

  “Because he almost killed me? Because he did it behind your back? If it was behind your back,” I added, more to myself than to him.

  “I’ll make you tea,” he said. He rose from the bed and placed the kettle on the hot plate.

  I had an irrational sense of being abandoned and, trying to draw h
im back in, I continued desperately, “That’s what happens when you become a criminal.” I began to shiver with cold. I sat up and draped the army blanket over my shoulders. “You end up hanging out with people like that. What if he kills you? And then I won’t have you to protect me.”

  “That’s something you don’t have to worry about.”

  He handed me a mug of tea and I held it against my chest. “Why am I shivering?” I asked.

  “Your body is seeking to balance out its temperature.”

  “Who are you?” I asked, pleading with him for an answer, though I knew he couldn’t provide one.

  I began to feel sick again. “I don’t feel well,” I said, throwing off the blanket. “Now I’m hot. Could you open the door again, please?”

  He undid the combination lock and opened the door. Sweet-smelling air filled the warehouse and made me sleepy. I wanted to shut my eyes, but though my nightmares had subsided, I was still haunted by the image of the tunnel whenever I shut my eyes. “Will you read to me?” I whispered. I didn’t know if he could hear me; I could barely hear myself.

  “If you like.”

  “Why are you kind to me?”

  “The goal is for my friend to be released, not to make you suffer.”

  “What if they make one of those police drawings of you?”

  “No one will suspect me.”

  “Such a nice smell coming from outside. Can I step out, just for a few minutes?”

  “When you’re better,” he said.

  “Really?”

  “Yes.”

  I didn’t believe him. I lay down and he resumed reading from where we’d left off. David Copperfield had been sent to school by his evil stepfather and Steerforth had taken his money. At first you’re sure Steerforth is tricking David, but he uses the money to buy food for everyone so David will be popular with the other boys. Steerforth benefits from the party, but so does David.

  I could tell my hostage-taker was enjoying the story as well. It was pleasant listening to him; he had a nice reading voice. I realized that I’d stopped noticing his foreign accent. I interrupted him to ask, “Do you know the story?”

  “I never read it until now.”

  I felt a sudden rush of affection for him. “You’re cute,” I said. I wasn’t usually spontaneous like that, just blurting out a passing thought without considering whether I really meant it or how it might sound.

  But it was as if nothing mattered anymore. I could say anything, do anything, because none of this was real. It was something else altogether. Not a game or a movie but something disconnected from reality.

  “Let’s focus on getting you through this,” he said.

  “I think music might help me sleep.”

  “I’ll try to come up with something. Is there anything in particular you’d like? I can’t remember what it said in the newspaper.”

  “The newspaper?”

  “Yes, there is much information about you in the media. We got lucky with you. Your story sells many copies.”

  “You’re just making that up,” I accused him.

  He went over to his briefcase, pulled out a newspaper, tore out a large photo, and held it up for me to see. It was the photo he’d taken of me, with the black cloth in the background. I looked sad and afraid.

  I reached out for it, but he wouldn’t let me have it—he didn’t want me to see the other side of the page.

  It was a little strange, being in the news, but I was glad I hadn’t been forgotten.

  “I need to write my mom another letter,” I insisted. I felt a wild desire to communicate with her.

  “I can read what it says here. She’s quoted.”

  I felt like screaming in frustration. Why hadn’t he volunteered that information? “Tell me, tell me,” I urged impatiently.

  He read: “‘I can’t talk about the case because it would interfere with the work of the police, but I feel confident that my daughter is safe and that no harm will come to her. She is a sweet, lovely person, and I can’t imagine anyone wanting to hurt her. If she sees this, I want her to know that everyone is thinking about her and everything is under control. I love you, sweetheart.’”

  “Read it again,” I said. It was deeply, wonderfully consoling, hearing those words. A connection to the outside world, a connection to my mom, reassurance that she hadn’t fallen apart. I couldn’t understand why he hadn’t told me about the message right away. Didn’t he know how desperately I needed to hear it?

  I made him read the quote a third time, so I could write down the exact words in my notebook, though I already knew them by heart. I was crying with relief and homesickness.

  “Why didn’t you let me know sooner?” I asked. I shut my eyes and drifted off into an uneasy sleep. In my dreams Mom stood waving to me behind a glass door, but when I touched the door it turned into a sheet of flames.

  CHAPTER 12

  The next day my fever had shot up. “Maybe I need antibiotics,” I said.

  “I don’t think so. This seems to be viral. But a very stubborn virus.”

  “My stomach is better.”

  “Yes, but your fever isn’t subsiding. I think we should try sponging you down. If it’s all right with you.”

  He changed the sheets and I lay on the bed in my underwear, a bath towel draped over me. He ran a wet washcloth along my legs and arms and shoulders and face. It was such a relief to feel my body cooling down that I asked him to do it several times during the next few hours. By evening my fever was down to 99.

  “It seems to have worked,” he said. “I think you’re finally starting to recover.”

  “Thank you.”

  He didn’t answer. He didn’t like being thanked.

  Because I was feeling better, my mood improved. “What day is it?” I asked him as he set the table for the evening meal. I noticed that he was only setting for one.

  “The less you know, the better.”

  I’d never met anyone like him—it was strange, the way he hardly ever betrayed emotion when he spoke, the way he kept his face still and impassive. It was as if he was absent, almost. But his penetrating eyes, and what he actually said, the way he listened to me and seemed to understand me, those things showed that he was very far from absent.

  He sat beside me on the bed and took my wrist in order to check my pulse. He rested my arm on his knee and looked at his watch, counting the beats.

  When he was through, he didn’t let go right away. His gaze lingered on my arm, and it seemed to me that his eyes softened. Then he snatched his hand away and stood up abruptly, as if embarrassed.

  I was aware of a tingling sensation creeping through me, starting at the spot on my wrist where his two fingers had rested and spreading to the rest of my body. What was that all about?

  He said, “I think since you’re feeling much better, I’ll leave you now. I’m sorry not to stay to eat with you. I have much to do that has fallen behind.”

  I saw that he really was looking tired. Well, I wasn’t going to feel sorry for him! It served him right.

  “Imagine if people who know you knew what you were doing after hours. I’ll bet they’d be surprised.”

  “I’ll try to come the day after tomorrow. If your fever goes up again, go back to taking the pills, two every four hours. I’m leaving the bottle here on the table.”

  “Whatever.”

  “You’ve been very great,” he told me.

  I felt beyond annoyed when he said that. Complimenting me for being cooperative seemed somewhat ironic, under the circumstances. What else could I have done, other than try to appease him? He was keeping me alive.

  I replied bitterly, “How—by lying here in bed?”

  He pretended not to notice my anger. “You can write another letter to your mother while I’m gone,” he said. “Please keep it to half a page.”

  “How is she?”

  “She’s strong like you.”

  “You have a lot of nerve,” I said. “Making our lives hell,
then congratulating us on not falling apart.”

  His response was a silent gaze. I looked into his intelligent eyes, eyes that seemed to say so much more than he was willing to tell me, and my anger evaporated. My emotions kept changing, and it confused me. I wasn’t used to not knowing how I felt. Angie was the emotional one; she was the one who leaped from one mood to another in a matter of seconds. The smallest things upset her—a rude cashier or a broken zipper—but even smaller things cheered her up: a bowl of grapes, a cloud in the shape of a shoe.

  “How’s Angie?” I asked.

  “I can see she’s very devoted to you. You’re lucky to have such a good friend.”

  “If I ever see her again …” I said, pouting, though I was no longer worried about being killed. I’d pushed that thought away, and it stayed away.

  “I’ll try to bring more of the things you asked for,” he said.

  “Especially music.”

  He looked at me, and his eyes were full of complicated messages, but I couldn’t untangle them.

  He packed his things and undid the combination lock. Without warning, I began to sob. My sobs took me by surprise. I wasn’t crying, my nose wasn’t running, but I couldn’t stop sobbing. He stepped outside and locked the door behind him. I continued sobbing for a long time.

  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.