The Last Secret, page 32
My eyes are practically glued to the binoculars, watching Kay murmur something that must be disturbing, for Pat suddenly twists away from her. The two women glare at each other. Kay speaks to her and Pat stands there like a chastened schoolgirl. This is more like it. Then Kay hands Pat the document and turns, leaving the kitchen. Pat, clearly agitated, begins to obsessively line up the toaster with the bread box on the counter. She stops in mid-action, looking as if she’s just figured out the solution to a complex mathematical equation. Her head jerks up, swiveling toward the window and I duck behind the curtain. What’s she up to? Did Kay tell her that Taras has been here while she was away? She wouldn’t.
Cautiously, I sneak out from behind the curtain and again train the binoculars at Pat, who’s futzing about below counter level.
I move to the other window, where I have a clear view of her on her knees, going through the garbage bin that lives under the sink. My heart begins to thump dangerously in my chest. Is it possible she somehow saw me spit out the pills? What supremely rotten luck.
I throw down the binoculars and snatch up the French landscape. Tuna lowers his head and closes his eyes, as if he’s decided that whatever this is, it’s not worth him getting out of bed. I bump down the stairs with the canvas, my chest heaving. I’m not sure what I’m going to do, but it’s going to be big. Fire Pat big.
As I gallop down the wooden walkway toward the pond and waterfall, Pat bursts out of the house. “What are you doing?” she cries when she sees I’m carrying her bread and butter, the precious painting she thinks means thousands of dollars in her bank account. She has an object in her hand, something small and cylindrical, which she attempts to hide by wrapping her palm tightly around it. I quicken my pace until I’m standing on the rocks at the edge of the waterfall, dangling the canvas precariously close to the spray.
Pat shouts some indecipherable sentence at me over the sound of the water, and I turn, holding my painting over the pond. “Isn’t this a pretty picture?” I shout.
Pat angles close, holding up her hand to talk me down. “Don’t throw away your work!”
“Don’t throw away your paycheck, you mean! Do you think I’m stupid? I’ve noticed your new duds.”
She idles even closer, and I balance on the edge of the pond, trying to keep my eye on whatever she’s hiding in her hand.
“I promise things will change,” she says, modulating her voice to a more respectful tone. “I’ll change.”
“Too late!”
“You’re insane,” Pat screams. “You should be in an asylum!”
And there it is. Proof that she’s trying to commit me. We face each other across the pond. “That’s what you want, isn’t it? Send me to the crazy hospital.” I raise the painting above my head. The koi are darting around, deranged at the appearance of a shadow, fearing they’re about to become an eagle’s lunch. “Don’t come closer. I’ll send it to the bottom.” I’m truly enjoying the look on Pat’s face. Are those tears in her eyes? I’m appalled when one tracks down her cheek. What a performance.
“Please,” Pat entreats.
“I don’t trust you.” I glance past her toward the house. Surely Kay has heard us and will soon run out to save me from this monster. Hurry, Kay. “You drugged me with…with antipsychotics! Don’t think I didn’t know. Keeping me stupid so I won’t remember.”
Finally, I see Kay. She’s changed out of her wet bathing suit and stands on the porch, hesitant.
“Kay,” I scream, “Pat wants to commit me.”
She sprints toward us, shouting something I can’t hear over the sound of the waterfall.
I look smugly at Pat. Thankfully, Kay is here to protect me. But Pat isn’t looking at Kay. Her eyes are trained on me. “Settle down, Jeanie,” she says. “Settle down.”
“You’re fired,” I shout to her. Finally. Finally I’ve uttered the words I’ve waited too many years to say. “Pack your things and get out.”
Pat staggers forward, as if losing her bearings. She’s about to topple into the pond and ruin her fabulous new coat. I lower the painting to get a better view, when Pat charges past the waterfall and grabs me by the straps of my overalls, tossing the canvas clear, where it lands on top of a cedar hedge.
I scream in outrage and flail at her, but Pat is bigger and stronger, and she kneels, turning me over her knee. With one quick motion, she yanks my overalls aside and jabs a needle into my back. Within seconds I stop struggling and my head droops. I fear I’m having a heart attack, it’s beating so hard against my ribs, yet I instantly know what’s happened.
She’s injected me with an ampule of chlorpromazine. From the medicine cabinet.
I struggle to remain conscious, to fight. Then Kay’s feet come into view. “Kay…” I gasp, straining my neck to look up. She also has something in her hand—a single sheet of paper. Is that the document I saw her discussing with Pat in the house? My vision is blurry; besides a legal seal on the top, I can’t make out what it might be.
She gazes down at me and takes the empty ampule from Pat’s hand. “We love you Jeanie, but you’re an ungrateful bitch.”
Horrified, I feel my body go limp and slither to the hard ground. Pat sits on her heels, trying to catch her breath, and Kay squats beside her, the mysterious document still in her hands. “Do you know how much time and effort we invested in you? How dare you turn against us—leaving Gladsheim to the Salt Spring Historical Society? After we made the ultimate sacrifice for you, after what we did to save your skin.” She cradles my head in her hands and waits until my eyes cease swimming so I can focus on her face.
“You’ll get such lovely drugs in Riverview, darling,” she says, as if from very far away. “Lucky you.”
42
SAVKA
Vancouver
december 11, 1972
taras didn’t speak when he drove Savka back to the apartment. As the sun disappeared behind a towering bank of dark cloud, her eyes filled with angry tears. Not one hour ago, during a harmless breakfast, one of the most damning of her secrets had come out. Zoya had learned she was the daughter of a Soviet rapist, and Taras now suspected her of being one of their spies. The wall of deception that Savka had built around her was crumbling, and she felt as though she were lying open and vulnerable beneath the thundering sky.
She glanced at her son. The excitement was gone from his eyes, but his single-minded focus scared her. “What are you thinking?”
“I’m sorry you were violated by the NKVD.” His eyes had not left the road. “But I’m leaving tomorrow for New York. To find Tato.”
Savka shook her head. “Tarasyku, can’t you see? The Soviets couldn’t get to Mykola Lebed, so they killed his right-hand man—your father. The nurses saw the assassin follow Marko down the back stairs. Your Tato left his car behind because he was taken somewhere else and killed.” She knew her words would do nothing to dissuade Taras from continuing this ridiculous investigation—there was something in his eyes she hadn’t seen since his return, a lost fragment of the determined, headstrong son she’d known long ago. The real Taras. Was it possible this search for his father had given him purpose? Or had the Fire Bride brought him back to life? Savka looked away and caught herself leaning forward to stare too long in the side passenger mirror, fearful that Belyakov and Ilyin might appear behind them in their black town car.
Her son’s mouth was now set in determination. “You’re expecting someone to follow us? Lieutenant Belyakov, who turned you in the Carpathians?”
For a split second, she thought of telling him everything, but her old secretive self kicked in again. Savka thought back to a recent phone conversation with Belyakov. “Your son knows someone is following him,” he’d shouted. “He took Ilyin on a joy ride across the city and turned down an alley to lose him.”
“Why do you continue to bother Taras?” she’d shouted back. “Leave him alone.”
But Belyakov was persistent. “Why is your son going to Salt Spring Island?”
“He’s fallen in love with a girl.”
“Mama,” Taras said, breaking into her thoughts. “The Soviet who visited you in the hospital—I know that he was Belyakov, the one who took me. And now he’s following me. If this Russian killed Tato and you’re still working for him, I…” He trailed off, unable to look at her.
“Where did you get such a ridiculous idea?” she said, her voice sharper than she intended.
At a stoplight, Taras turned his head to regard her. “Did Tato discover you were spying on him for the Soviets? Did you kill him yourself?”
Savka jolted in her seat at this reckless accusation from her son. Part of her wanted to rail against the insult, but he’d suffered enough. “Look at you, here with me—you survived. You’ve become a fine man—a hero—despite all the Soviets did to burn you in hell.”
“I told Jeanie I’m not a hero for surviving the Gulag. I tell you that, too.” There was a note of exasperation in his voice, but she also caught the reluctant smile that crept around the edges of his mouth.
“You’re not getting involved with this girl,” Savka said, still trying to protect him from hurt. “You hardly know her.”
“I know her better than anyone in this life.”
Savka turned her face to the windshield, wounded to her core. Better than your own mother, who sacrificed everything to protect you?
After he parked, she bolted from the car and started up the stairs to their apartment, feeling Taras’s formidable silence behind her like an impending storm.
When he caught up with her on the stairs, he insisted his father was still alive. “Why can’t you see that?” he said, trying to make her look at him.
Savka’s hand shot out to the railing, fearing she might stumble and miss a step. What if he was right and Marko had been in New York all this time? As she climbed the stairs to the third floor, her heart ached, that persistent pain in her chest. She crossed the landing and headed down the hall toward their apartment, glancing up only when she heard someone say, “Try again.” Her heart froze at the sight of two police officers, one about to knock at her door, the other frowning down at a notebook in his hands. Her first thought: Belyakov has been arrested. And brought me down with him. Now they would arrest her, send her to prison.
She shrank back, but they’d already seen her and Taras, who’d reached the landing behind her. “Mrs. Savka Kovacs?” one of the officers said. There was nothing for it but to accept that this was the end. She walked toward them as if to the gallows, then glanced over her shoulder at Taras. He’d stopped dead, his body a study in confusion and uncertainty. He had been back for only nine months, and now she would be the one dragged away to prison. This is what you deserve.
“Can we come in?’ The officers were polite, but weren’t they all when approaching a potential suspect? She’d seen enough detective shows on television to know.
She nodded and unlocked the door, opening it wide to let them pass, her stomach churning with anxiety. Taras followed, his face pale and bloodless, flinching at their every move, as if he expected violence. When the officers stood in the living room, Savka bent her head, waiting for the charges to be read, the handcuffs to come out. How might she defend herself? Tell them that Belyakov had forced her to spy on her husband? That he’d held her son captive to make her do things she never wanted to? “I had no choice…” she began.
The taller officer frowned. “It’s about Marko Kovacs.”
Taras’s face was suddenly alive with hope. “You have found my father, in New York?”
The shorter officer cleared his throat. “He was discovered on a site near Maple Ridge, that was being bulldozed for a housing development.”
Her son took a step back, his eyes wide and mouth working. “I don’t understand…”
“Construction workers found his…remains…in October,” the officer continued. “Forensics identified him by his dental records.”
Savka lowered herself to the sofa, head in hand, vaguely aware of a strangled sound coming from Taras, a sound that made her feel strangely empty and alone. In her ears was the low insect buzz of shock and she only half listened as the officer asked them to come to the station in the morning, where a detective would provide more information. The door had hardly closed behind the police when Taras stumbled toward the kitchen. In a moment, she heard him dialing the phone. He’s calling Zoya, she thought. I will have my children with me to face this horrible news.
A crash, as Taras slammed down the receiver. He came back into the living room, hands in tight fists at his side, his expression unreadable. “Pat and Kay aren’t answering the phone,” he said. “I must speak to Jeanie.”
Savka felt an unnatural swell of rage and paused to let her breathing calm. “Your father’s remains have just been dug up by a bulldozer and the first person you wish to speak with is the Fire Bride? You must honor him by coming with Zoya and me to see the detective tomorrow morning.” Taras had become very still, so still it scared her. “Don’t you want to find out what happened to him?” she cried.
Taras glowered at his wristwatch. “The last ferry has gone. I will catch the early one tomorrow.” He went to his bedroom and closed the door. The apartment was silent as a grave and her blood chilled. What was he doing in there? Either grieving his father’s death or obsessing over the Fire Bride, and the information locked in her memories of the night Marko disappeared.
43
JEANIE
Salt Spring Island
december 11, 1972
my head feels like a balloon filled with helium. I open my eyes to find myself slumped forward, my cheek against the kitchen table. When I try to raise my hand, it feels like it weighs a hundred pounds. Out of the corner of my eye, I see Pat, clearly agitated, as she races around the kitchen, digging out the fondue pot and fuel.
With a great deal of effort, I unfold myself to sit upright in the chair and take desperate stock of my situation: Every light in the house is on despite the fact the wall clock says it’s not quite noon. My old nurses carried me in here only an hour ago.
Kay’s words echo back at me, the last I heard before losing consciousness: You’re an ungrateful bitch. How dare you turn against us—leaving Gladsheim to the Salt Spring Historical Society?
Then it hits me: This ungrateful bitch is being shipped off to an insane asylum.
Kay’s voice floats across the room. “Sleeping Beauty’s awake.” I turn my head, eyes swimming, to find her standing near the back door. She’s wearing my Cowichan sweater and nursing a cup of coffee, a cigarette between two fingers; she clamps her lips over it and sucks in a lungful of smoke before she manages to breathe again.
“You can’t…smoke in the house,” I remind her; the smell of smoke, and what it represents, makes me nauseous. But she no longer cares.
I frantically glance around the room and notice that, while I’ve been out, Pat and Kay have merrily decorated for Christmas. A poinsettia graces the center of the table, and I’m astonished at the sight of Aunt Suze’s old, green construction paper chain draped across the kitchen doorway. The wall clock ticks loudly in my ear as I look down at the table, set with three plates, cutlery, napkins, and sharply pointed fondue forks. Are they hosting a celebratory, send-off meal? Pat and Kay exchange a look that’s familiar and colluding. I crane my neck to get a better look at Kay. “You told me you hate Pat…”
“Pat and I will always be the very best of friends,” she says, exhaling smoke like a dragon.
“What have you done?”
Pat whips around to stare at me, a block of cheese in her hand. “Sacrificed our lives to protect you, that’s what.” There’s some kind of blockage in her nostrils—perhaps she caught a cold in Vancouver—for each breath comes as noisily as the last.
“Protect me?”
It’s then that I notice Tuna, lying very still in his dog bed near the table. To my eyes, he’s not breathing. “Tuna!” I cry. “You finally killed him.” I’m starting to hyperventilate when Tuna opens one eye. To my profound relief, a whimper escapes him. Even he’s afraid of these women. In the presence of evil just go back to sleep, Tuna. It’s safer. But I can never go back to sleep, even if I want to. I think of the remains of the rabbit out on the headland—a few fluttering bits of fur left behind by a predatory eagle—on the day I met Taras. I should have climbed into his car this morning, when he asked me to escape with him.
Kay is staring at me impassively, some secreted emotion—guilt perhaps?—lurking at the corners of her mouth. “Pat and I have suffered to keep your secret. One day you’ll thank us.” She raises her eyes to Pat. “Did you have to give her an entire ampule?”
“Yes,” Pat huffs, dragging the block of cheese over a grater.
“You lied to me,” I cry, my voice a croak. Tuna climbs out of his bed to sit at my side, looking up with a concerned expression on his sweet face, only closing his eyes with relief when I scratch behind his ears.
Kay crosses to the fridge and takes out a bottle of wine. “Pat’s right,” she says, pouring herself a glass. “You have no idea what we’ve sacrificed for you.”
Two against one. Desperately, I claw my way up through the blackness of Kay’s deception. I blink and flex my fingers. Could I snatch up a fondue fork and stab Kay? Not before Pat dragged me off her. “Why did you drug me?” I ask. “Afraid that I’ll leap at your throats?” In the impending silence, I realize they’re terrified of what I represent. If I ever see Taras again, I’ll trust his instincts. He was oh so right. “Or are you afraid I’ll remember what really happened that night.”
