“That’s my bet,” I say as we climb the stairs.
When we reach the second floor, the lights are harsher, the smell of chemicals stronger. The floor beneath us is white-tiled and ancient, and our footsteps echo down the long, cold hall.
When Viktor reaches a pair of heavy doors, we pause. Thick, filthy windows show a blurry outline of life on the other side. Viktor looks through a slot beside the doors and says something in Russian. A few seconds later, they open with an ominous creak. I don’t jump until we’re on the other side and the doors slam shut.
I already know what life is like on this side.
Megan was right. This place was built like a fortress, but everywhere I look there are signs of decay. Floor tiles are missing and water stains cover the ceiling like a dingy patchwork quilt. There’s cardboard duct-taped over a part of one grimy window.
Somewhere, someone sings a song in Russian. It sounds sad and off-key. Water drips from a pipe, an ominous, rhythmic tick that feels almost like a bomb.
But the thing I notice most—the thing that makes me tremble—is the screaming.
“Gracie?” Alexei asks.
“I’m okay,” I tell him.
He turns, and I know he’s hearing what I’m hearing. I’m pretty sure he’s thinking what I’m thinking.
“I would not blame you if you left. I can ask your questions.”
“No,” I say, and walk on, following Viktor past an empty room. The door is open and the sheets are mussed. Restraints dangle empty from the headboard, waiting for someone to return.
“You are not okay,” Alexei says, taking my shoulders and turning me from the room.
“I am,” I say. “I will be.”
“You don’t have to be strong for me,” he says, and he’s sweet to think it. But he’s wrong. I have to be strong for me. It’s a lesson I learned three years ago. It’s a lesson that someday—just for an hour or two—I’d love to be able to forget.
He takes my hand. “I have you,” he says again.
I look up. Smile.
We have each other.
As we start down the hall again, I admit, “It wasn’t like this. I mean, it was. But nicer. Cleaner,” I say as, in the distance, someone screams.
“It wasn’t like this,” I say, and I know it’s not a lie.
There, I was the one who was screaming.
When we reach the end of the hall, Viktor pauses beside a door, takes a key from his pocket, and turns the lock. He gestures us inside.
There’s no bed in this room. No dresser. Just a table and a few chairs.
“You may wait here,” he says. “I’ll go see that she is escorted to this room.”
He closes the door behind him but doesn’t lock it.
I’m not sure how long we wait. There’s no clock in the room, and the sky is so gray there’s no use tracking the sun.
“Maybe she’s sleeping,” I say. “Or having therapy or something.”
“Do you honestly think this place offers therapy?” he asks.
I don’t, but still I shrug and say, “Well, maybe—”
Alexei gets up so quickly his metal chair crashes to the floor. “We should go.”
“We just got here,” I say.
“We’ve been here for more than an hour. Something isn’t right. We should leave. Now.”
In my mind I know he’s right, but in my heart I can’t bring myself to move.
“Something is wrong, Gracie. This feels wrong. My gut is telling me … Jamie says to trust your gut.”
Mentioning Jamie is a low blow, but it works. I’m turning toward the door when I hear …
“Hello, there.”
There’s a woman in the doorway. I know her from Megan’s photo, but I would never have recognized her as my mother’s old friend. She wears a dirty, threadbare robe over some kind of nightgown. On her feet are army boots. Her hair is dirty and pulled back in a pink plastic headband. But the most surreal thing is the expression on her face. She is smiling, bright and wild. She’s like a child on Christmas morning, getting her first look under the tree.
“They said that I had visitors.” She brings her hands together. “I love visitors!”
Her voice is high, with a singsong lilt. I doubt she’s had a visitor in years, but now isn’t the time to say so, because she’s rushing forward, exclaiming, “I never dreamed it would be you!”
I expect her to hurl herself across the room and into Alexei’s strong arms. I think she’s going to cry big fat tears of joy to finally be back with her only child. But Karina rushes right at me instead.
“I thought I’d never see you again. I …” She eases closer, looks at my face like I’m a painting in a gallery, as if every brushstroke matters. “It’s really you.”
I look at Alexei. Worry grows inside of me but turns to panic when his mother dips into a clumsy curtsy and says, “I am beyond honored, Your Highness.”
I know I’m not crazy. Not really. Dr. Rainier says that I was traumatized, confused. I was hurt in both body and soul by what happened three years ago. And I’ll be better someday. Maybe. I spent years not knowing what was real and what was imagined. Truth and fiction are a spectrum, you see. And I am slowly, surely, trying to crawl back to the other side.