Refuge of the Heart, page 7
Mitch smiled down at her. He gave her cheek a gentle graze of his hand. “Thank you for trusting me.”
Again she didn’t look up. But she drew a deep breath. Then nodded. “Good night, Mitch. And thank you.”
“Good night, Lena. You’re welcome.”
Leaving the house, he scanned the cars parked along the street. Six cars down, on the opposite side, a manned cruiser bore the mark of the city police department. He nodded, satisfied. Milliken was true to his word. It would be a loss when he retired. Maybe the kid attending Michigan could be talked into grad school. Better yet, med school. That would keep the old man on the payroll for some time to come. Mitchell smiled. He’d have to see about getting the kid’s address.
Chapter Six
Easing the Sunfire down Crystal Street the next afternoon, Lena steered through the snow-narrowed strip between parked cars. Later than usual, she settled for a spot several houses north of her driveway. That meant walking through accumulated snow, but she hoped the heater would dry their shoes by morning. “Anna, grab that little bag, please? I will get the others.”
Clutching her laptop bag and the small sacks of groceries, she stepped from the car. As she turned, Lena froze at the sight of the humming police car.
Her memory buzzed. Her heart accelerated. Hadn’t there been a police car this morning as well? Just a little farther down?
Heart racing, she dropped her eyes. She tried to appear nonchalant, as if every fiber of her being wasn’t pushing her to run and not look back. Hustling Anna along, she propelled the child into the house as quickly and unobtrusively as possible. Once inside, swift hands snapped door locks into place. Upstairs, she leaned against the solid door, eyes closed, struggling for calm, trying to block the deluge of memories.
“Lena? What’s wrong?” Anna’s plaintive tone jolted her back to the present.
She opened her eyes and glanced around. The apartment looked normal. Smelled normal. So. They hadn’t been in here. Yet. Sucking a deep breath, Lena straightened her back. “Nothing, dear.” She moved forward, forcing one foot after another. “I’m just out of breath from the snow and the stairs.”
“Do you feel all right?” A frown deepened Anna’s brow. Concern lifted her tone.
“Of course. Can you bring your bag here, please?” Lena asked, struggling to steady her voice. “I will put these away.” Her nod indicated the small sacks of food. “While you change your clothes. Then we will do homework together.”
“Are we having the chicken that Mr. Mitch left us?” The girl’s expression brightened. Her voice took on an eager note. Lena passed a hand of comfort over the head full of golden curls.
“Yes. But homework first.”
As Anna hurried off to change, Lena approached the front window. Standing to the side, she tipped the corner of a middle blind.
The police car was gone. Chest heaving, she breathed a sigh of relief. Perhaps it was her overactive imagination, conjuring up specters of the past. For long moments, seeing that patrol car parked so closely to her home, she was transported to her village outside Grozny, to the invasive tactics of the police and the Russian army. The late night raids, the phony arrests, people seized, only to be found in mass graves later. Or tossed along the roadside like last week’s garbage, beaten and tortured.
“Lena? What are you doing?”
“Checking the snow,” she lied smoothly. Forcing a smile, she nodded to their shoes just inside the door. “Place those near the heater, please. They will dry by morning.”
“Keisha Powers has new white boots. With fur inside. They come all the way up to here,” Anna indicated her mid-calf. “She can walk in the deepest snow.”
“She is fortunate, yes?”
“Very.” Round-eyed, Anna nodded agreement and set her writing tablet on the table. “I help her with letters and she shares cookies with me.”
“You aid one another.”
“Yes.”
“That is good. That is what friends do, little one. Now, you may start with the ‘ar’ family. Car, bar, far, and so on. I will be here if you need help.”
“I won’t.” Self-assured, the precious child picked up her pencil, head bent over her paper. Magdalena felt a surge of love so powerful, so strong, that she choked back tears. This girl, her little love, had come so close to not being born at all. And then, the struggle to keep her fed and quiet so as not to be discovered in the annex to the Godovska family basement had been grueling. Steeling her nerves, she regarded her sister with warmth before opening her laptop to a new geriatric study, re-evaluating things she’d learned a lifetime before.
Over an hour later, she set the computer aside. Anna had finished her practice work, then set about playing with her little dolls. “No, no, Susie, you mustn’t play with matches,” scolded the child. “A time out for you.” So saying, the make-believe mother tucked the errant doll into a chair by the window. Then, picking up another baby, she crooned, “Would you like to see the snow? It is very pretty. The light makes it sparkle. And look, Becky. See the nice policeman? You can wave to him.” Holding the doll in front of the tipped-back blinds, Anna waved the doll’s tiny arm in salute.
“Get away from the window.”
Anna turned at the barked command, startled. “What?”
“Get back. Now!” Lena hissed the command. Once again she angled herself to the side of the glass, peeking through a narrow crack between blinds.
The police car was back. Engine running, lights on within the car, she made out the officer’s profile as he sat, writing something. Notes about her? Charting their habits? Incriminating evidence?
A chill overcame her, bone-marrow cold. With a firm hand she pulled Anna away from the window. “You mustn’t let him see you.”
“Who?” The child looked up at her, totally mystified.
“The policeman. He... They...” Mind boggled, she searched for the proper words and couldn’t find them. “They like their privacy.”
“But they’re our friends,” Anna protested. Her face twisted in a frown.
“Who told you that?”
“Mrs. Heller. She said the policemen are here to help us, to keep us safe. That we should trust them. Help them all we can by being good. Trying hard. And always tell them the truth about whatever they ask.”
Propaganda. Brain washing. The evil strength of the words pierced Magdalena’s consciousness. Hadn’t she gotten away from all that? Left it behind in her war-riddled homeland?
Trying to regain some semblance of normalcy, she walked to the kitchen on stiff legs. Anna trailed after her, confused. “Are they our friends, Lena? Should we trust them?”
Lena turned and looked at the girl who meant so much. The child who stood before her, a miniature of their mother. Just as sweet. Just as good. The child she’d protected from harm endless times. She could not lie to one so loved. “I do not know, Anna. I do not know.”
They ate chicken in uneasy quiet. Anna didn’t appear to enjoy the food like she had the night before, and Lena could barely swallow the few bites she took. The meat ground like sawdust in her mouth. Her eyes wandered to the window, wondering if the officer lurked there. Waiting. Watching.
She peeked out once more, later, after Anna had gone to bed.
The car was gone. That meant they were not keeping constant vigil, then. Still, they were there often enough.
Kneeling on the chill hardwood of the bedroom floor, she bowed her head. Help me, Father. Do not let them take me, make me leave Anna. I am all she has, Lord, as she is for me. Please keep us together. Show the police I have lived a good life in America. I have broken no law. I have no guilt here.
As she got ready for bed, old guilt pressed its advantage. What about before, Lena? Perhaps your police report pulled up something of interest in the computer. A crime in Chechnya, perhaps? A knife, sharp and gleaming...
No. She would not dwell on that horrible time. It was long ago. The war and all of its atrocities were behind her. A thing of the past.
But sleep was a long time coming that night.
Glancing at the clock the next morning, Lena saw it was nearly time to go. “You need your hat and gloves,” she reminded her younger sister.
Anna mulled her choices. Raspberry pink or snowy white? Deciding, she pulled on the white hat, then followed with the matching knitted mittens. “Everybody loves my mittens,” she exclaimed, grabbing her pink floral book bag.
Magdalena smiled. The knitted hat and mitten set was one thing she could give the girl to make her seem like the other children. A skein of yarn didn’t cost too much money. In clever hands a yarn ball became a sassy, tasseled hat and matching gloves. If only she could knit boots. She swallowed a sigh, and opened the lower door.
The cruiser sat directly in front of her house, at the base of the sidewalk. There was no missing the black and white car or its intent. The cruiser sat right there, a quiet menace, the engine idling, a uniformed patrolman within.
“Do not look, Anna. Keep your eyes down.”
Anna turned to her, amazed. “But, Lena...”
“You must do as I say.” Her sharp tone left no room for argument. Reluctant, the child obeyed.
But Magdalena couldn’t quite pass the cruiser without darting a glance up. Her eyes met those of the officer within. Steady eyes. Knowing eyes. The fear in her chest tightened like a vise around her heart. He nodded slightly, as one would to a neighbor. Lifting his hand, he tipped the edge of his cap before he dropped his eyes back to the work before him.
What had she done? Dear Lord, what had she done?
She’d looked at him, made eye contact. That was the first rule always. Keep your eyes down, face averted. Don’t see anyone, recognize anyone, identify anyone. Know nothing, do nothing.
Magdalena envisioned those eyes all day. As she listened to the professor drone about the lack of balance of physiological systems within the aging body, she pictured his gaze. Deep. Piercing. As she made her way to the Webster Center, the memory haunted her. When an old man turned to her, wanting a confessor for his misdeeds, she saw the eyes of the young officer instead.
Her heart alternately raced and paused. She steeled herself, expecting that at any moment the outer door would swing wide and a group of uniformed men would storm into the assisted living center. They would haul her away, yanking her from her studies, her work.
From Anna.
“Lena, can you see to Mrs. Green?” A long, slow wail from the far end of the hall said the elderly woman was having a rough day. “She asked for you this morning and cried when I said you hadn’t arrived yet.”
“Of course.” Pushing dark thoughts aside, she strode down the hall, pretending a calmness she didn’t feel. When she got to the old woman’s door, she knocked softly and opened it slightly. “Francine? It is Magdalena. May I come in?”
The wailing quieted. Silence reigned for nearly a minute, but Lena knew the drill. Mrs. Green would stop, think, and then either accept the visitor or reject them, and often the rejection came in the form of a shoe thrown at the door. Luckily Mrs. Green’s high heels had been moved into storage months before.
“Yes.” The soft tone of voice offered more compliance than the single word. Lena pushed the door open, scouted the area for loose shoes, just in case, and stepped into the room.
“Sorry about the mess,” Francine told her from the plush chair tucked between the bed and the window. She waved a hand that said good help was hard to find these days. “I was planning on cleaning today but couldn’t find the vacuum and the washing machine broke down. It’s always something, isn’t it?”
“It truly is.” Lena took a seat alongside the old woman and reached for her hand. She wasn’t about to explain that Francine’s room was spotless and there was no need for laundry. An aging brain often took its own trips down obscure timelines. “Maria said you asked for me this morning.”
“Did I?” Confusion deepened the lines in Francine’s face. “I can’t imagine why.”
“Nor I.” Lena gave her hand a tender squeeze. “Perhaps you just wanted to talk to a friend?”
“Maybe so. Are we friends?”
“I’d like to be.” Lena gazed into the faded gray eyes of the elderly woman, her once-thick hair thinned by time and health issues. Some days she remembered Lena, others tunneled her back decades in time. “Are you comfortable?”
“Very.” Francine’s quick scan of the room said why wouldn’t she be? She looked at Lena, surprised, then nodded. “Oh. You mean because of before.”
Lena played along, unsure what she meant. “Yes.”
Francine covered Lena’s hand with hers. “I was little.”
“Ah.” Lena’s tone offered commiseration.
“And it was dark, Lena. So very dark. I remember thinking I didn’t know if I would ever live in the light again and because I was small, like,” she placed her hand palm-side down, indicating a young child, maybe Anna’s size. “This big, it seemed like forever to be stashed away. But thank God I was obedient, eh?” Her eyes brightened. She dipped her chin and her face said obedience was key.
“An obedient child is a good thing,” Lena agreed.
“It’s life and death,” the old woman muttered. “Why would God ever let something like a child’s life be based on how quiet they can be? I’ve asked him that. He hasn’t bothered with an answer, of course he might have answered and I forgot,” she went on as if talking with God was an everyday thing. “My memory’s not what it once was.”
“It comes and goes.”
“I love this room.”
Lena didn’t mention that five minutes before she thought the room in need of cleaning. “Me, too. I like that you can see the evergreen border and that you overlook the garden. When it’s in blossom.”
“My mama loved flowers. My aunt told me that,” Francine confessed. “I tried to pretend I could remember, but she hugged me and said it was all right not to remember, that my mama would understand. And she helped me plant fresh gardens every year, so I would never forget what my mother did for me.”
“She must have been wonderful.” Lena made the observation quietly, wondering about the connection. Francine’s mind generally wandered into being a new mother, or a coquettish young woman. This trip into childhood was something different.
“Well.” Francine made a face. “I’m alive. But I don’t much like dark rooms, let me tell you that! Is it lunch time?”
Lena held up the wide-faced watch she wore on her left arm. “Just had lunch. Ham and scalloped potato casserole is what I saw on your tray. And it looked like you enjoyed it.”
“I think I would have known if I’d eaten, dear.” Francine’s expression said Lena wasn’t getting it. “I’d like fish today, as long as it’s fresh. I can’t abide old fish.”
Lena could either go along with the request or explain it away, but Francine had already put in a rough morning. Why make it worse? “I’ll speak to the cook.”
“Good!” Francine straightened in her chair, then stopped abruptly, her face tense. “Footsteps. Coming this way.” She breathed the words in a strangled whisper, her face tight, eyes narrowed in fright. “Don’t say a word. And the lights, quick!” She tugged Lena’s arm to pull her out of the chair. “Outen the lights. Raus mit euch!”
Lena crossed the room, hit the switch and waited. Francine stared at the door, then her, then the door again.
A quick gust of wind set the metal wind chime dancing beyond the window. The quick-stepped notes broke Francine’s sharp gaze. She looked around, confused, then sighed. “Lena, be a dear and turn on the lights. I appreciate frugality as much as the next one, but for what I’m paying each month, I think a little light is to be expected, don’t you, dear?”
“Absolutely.” Lena turned the lights back on, crossed the room and squatted to the elderly woman’s level. “Can I get you anything, Francine? Books? Magazines? Cards? I can play cards with you if you’d like.”
“You are so good, Magdalena, and when you talk, your accent—” She raised her narrow shoulders and smiled, happy. “You remind me of myself in some ways. Of who I was. And what I could have been. And yet you are so strong, so righteous Magdalena, and I am a coward in God’s eyes. Still, he forgives.” She pointed to a wall hanging of the fifty-sixth Psalm. “He loves, he understands, he forgives.”
“You are a strong, wonderful, God-fearing daughter, mother, woman and friend.” Lena said. “Those are wondrous accomplishments.”
“Not brave. Not strong.” Francine confessed, her fingers nipping the satin-bound edge of the white cotton blanket over her lap. “I wanted nothing more than to find a well-off man to care for me and live under his protection. And that’s what I did, Lena.”
“Loving someone isn’t bad. Love is of God, Francine.”
“But you see, I didn’t want to be more, ever. I wanted exactly what I had, a place to hide.” Francine’s voice deepened with worry as she found herself lacking. “I spent my life imagining that what was had never been. And I just went on, pretending. I would cower and read the psalms for comfort, because I couldn’t hide from God, but you.” She looked hard at Lena and the intensity of her gaze said she saw more than most. “You will not let the past stop you, Lena. You are braver than I. Perhaps that’s why I call for you when the shadows grow deep, because I want to think I can be brave like you.”
Her words made Lena pause.
How did this elderly patient, in the midst of a cognizance-altering, mind-draining disease, assess her with such accuracy? Was it chance?
Or of God?
And why did an elderly German woman see herself in a Chechen refugee?
Francine’s eyes drifted shut. Her breathing evened out. Lena drew the thin blanket up, over her lap. “Rest well, Francine. God be with you.” She whispered the words close to the old woman’s cheek. There were no visitors for Francine, not ever. While most of the patients had occasional visitors at least, none came to see Francine Green.
