Page 35 of A Princess, Stolen
“Corruption is part of capitalism,” I repeated Dad’s view, which he had explained to me repeatedly. “It only exists because of general greed. Everyone has their price.”
Pan stared at me as if a mute goldfish had suddenly started talking. “He pay his price,” he stated ominously. “You hope decision turn out well for you.”
“Have you decided yet?”
“We?” Pan straightened up, spat on the floor, and glared at me through dark, narrowed eyes. “Nathan boss on cutter.”
I blinked nervously. “And?”
“Boss say we not killers.” For a moment, he sounded less hostile, but his gaze still lingered on me.
I automatically thought of thatBiller-Miller-The-Killer. “Not killers…” I repeated, relieved, though still dazed by my fear and the shock of what had happened. “Nathan said that. Good.”
“You may be really crazy,” Pan grumbled now almost sullenly.
Suddenly, for the first time, I felt a surge of anger in my stomach despite my complete exhaustion. “Anyone would go crazy in my place! You blindfolded me and tied me up. You threaten me. I’m scared! I’m alone and there are many of you.” The words came out more violently than intended. Pan swiftly bent down so low that the tip of his nose almost pressed against mine. He looked like a wolf with only the bars holding him back from his prey.
“You should be scared. We thirteen men and boss. You many enemies here, prinsessa. You saw us! That stupid! So stupid!” His breath hit my face and I turned my head away, but he reached through the iron bars and forced me to look at him. His eyes blazed like black flames. His grip hurt, but I was forced to see something flicker in Pan’s brown eyes. Something I thought I knew. It even seemed almost familiar to me. “You live like prinsessa. You know not misery. Hunger. Grief.” Unexpectedly, he released me and we stared at each other.
“Yes…I’m well aware of what grief is,” I replied tightly. “I lost my mom when I was a child. My dad had to choose between her and me. Neither of us could swim and he chose me. He saved me and she is…”She died for me and maybe I wasn’t worth it. Suddenly, tears welled up in my eyes. This entire situation was an emotional nightmare, a high-performance sport for the soul, almost unbearable. I shook my head unable to understand why I even told Pan. Maybe because something in his eyes reminded me of myself. Or maybe so he could see that despite my wealth, I was merely a human being with feelings.
For a few seconds, he stared at me, speechless. Finally, he pressed his lips together but then relaxed again. I didn’t know what was going on inside him, but he suddenly seemed defenseless. “She drown. Your mother. She die for you.”
I nodded even though I didn’t know if it was a question.
The expression on his face softened. “When mother die, it like amputation of soul,” he added. “World in pieces, no put back together.”
I swallowed because his words and their simple but profound truth struck me in the heart.
“My mother die when I little.”
“I’m sorry,” I said without taking my eyes off him. Suddenly, he no longer seemed like an emotionless berserker.
He reached for the leather cord that was around his neck and pulled a pendant out from under his sweater. It was a white cross. “She sick. My mother. Die when I sleep in her bed. They said she had to go. To magic land where no more pain. My brother and I want to go with her, but they say not possible if healthy…” He shook his head in confusion and let the pendant dangle again. “Why I tell you this, prinsessa?”
“Magic land,” I echoed and swallowed back my tears, which became bolder thanks to his words. “Sounds nice.”
“Why tell you?” He frowned. “You maybe not prinsessa, maybe witch. Maybe you did Nathan too, look at him with innocent face, say sad things. Pull feelings out of us.” He raised a threatening index finger, which was twice as wide as my thumb. “You be careful. I have more than two eyes on you! I watch so you no twist men, make soft like butter.” With that, he left as I watched him through the bars with mixed feelings.
So he lost his mom too. That was what I had seen flickering in him earlier. A special grief that you perhaps only felt when you had lost your mother as a child. Had he really just come to question me about Nathan’s behavior? With a strange emptinessinside me, I pondered his words.Hampton, corrupt scumbag. Had my dad initiated some political decision that had harmed them? It almost sounded like that. I had seen it once in a report calledThe Power of America’s Billionaires. Once, the state of Massachusetts had built an interstate to urbanize a rural area because a gigantic chemical factory was to be built there. The factory meant prosperity and jobs. At that time, the real estate companies of rich men had bought dozens of landowners’ properties at ridiculous prices but kept the construction of the interstate a secret from them. Afterward, these properties were sold to other companies at horrendous prices, to amusement park operators and casino and nightclub owners. The original owners had rightly felt cheated. And such things happened every day. Certainly also in my dad’s circle even though he never took part in such machinations. These men here, however, could not have known that nor would they believe me. Perhaps they had suffered and now wanted to claim the money they had lost. Unfortunately, from the wrong man.
I closed my eyes, wanting to lie down and sleep without having to fear for my life. My legs were so heavy. My body hung limply in the restraints so that the cable ties now cut into my skin, which had been burning for days. The temperature had dropped and I shivered from the cold, my teeth chattering. As a child, I would have said it was a spooky night. Ghosts. I thought of Mom. Here, I repeatedly thought about Mom, and even when I was thinking about something else, she was bobbing just below my thoughts. It had to be the sea. It felt like its massive weight was trying to crack the locked memories inside me like an oyster. Dr. Moore had said it was better not to tamper with those three banished days and I had always agreed. Strangely, I wasn’t so certain now. My brief conversation with Pan had brought my mom out of the ocean’s darkness again, her presence now drifting through this boat. Almost like a ghost.
Sometimes, I wondered what she had felt during her last minutes and seconds. Had she breathed in the Atlantic water or had her throat closed up? Had she felt herself going under, sinking and sinking, deeper and deeper, her hair like seaweed, like Penelope’s, or had she suffocated just below the surface of the water? Had she seen lightning? How much did she suffer? Dad never talked about it, on Dr. Moore’s advice.
Had I watched her death throes as a child and just couldn’t bear it? Had Dad kept his distance from me? He had said, only once, that if he had been too close to her, she would have taken us both down with her. Experts confirmed that. They said he reacted appropriately. Dad always reacted appropriately, unlike me.
My condition after Mom’s death had frightened Dad. Sometimes, when the temperature dropped sharply, whether in summer or winter, I had seen Mom sitting by my bed. At first, I didn’t tell anyone, thinking it was a wonderful dream. The next few times, she rose and walked through our Victorian mansion in Boston in her white Fendi dress, a bright apparition enveloped in the lights of the luxury district that fell through the full-length windows. With childlike joy, I ran after her, believing she had come back and wanted to show me something. Once, I ended up in the middle of the street in Back Bay; I, the ghostly child in the white frilly nightgown, had caught the eye of a bus driver near the Charles River, who took me to the nearest police station. When Dad picked me up, he was deeply upset and pressed me tightly to his chest as if some unknown force could snatch me away from him. The nanny who was supposed to be watching me was summarily fired as was the security guard at the time who had been unable to resist her charms that night. I think both even received a prison sentence, but I don’t exactly remember. After that incident, Dad sought out the best therapists in the world for me including Dr. Moore; but it’s hardto drive away ghosts if you don’t fear them. Seeing Mom like that was a way to be close to her. Dr. Moore said I couldn’t let go of her. He also said changes in temperature from warm to cold would encourage the phenomenon. It had something to do with the brain and hormones. It would worsen when stressed and it mainly affected people with a fantastic imagination and a high level of empathy.
Dad tolerated it for a long time. However, when I kept falling asleep during my private lessons during the day because I was waiting at night for Mom to show up, he admonished me.
“This has to stop, Willa Rae. It’s not good for you. You hardly sleep anymore.”
“But I’m waiting for Mom.”
Dad looked miserable. “You’re waiting for Mom? Honey, you know she drowned. She’s not coming back.”
Wide-eyed, I nodded. “But I can still see her!” I was seven, almost eight, then.
