Time stretched. She had no sense of how long he kept talking. She felt herself sinking down, down, down to a warm place. Her eyelids fluttered.
“Okay, now, tell me what happened the last time you went back in memory, Angie.”
She moistened her lips. “I . . . was lying on a bed. In a dark room. There was someone with me in the darkness, holding my hand. A female. Her skin was cool. Soft. She was singing sweetly, gently, like a lullaby . . . those words about two little kittens. In Polish. Then she suddenly stopped singing. Someone had come in. I was scared. The room went blacker.” Tension curled around her throat as an image slammed back into her brain. “There . . . there was a man in the room on top of her. Big, big man.”
“On top of who, Angie?”
“I . . . don’t know. The lady singing. He was grunting like a dog on her, and she was crying softly. Very scared. Wasn’t nice. Horrible.”
“Okay, okay, but then I gave you a magic key to get out of the room, remember?”
She noticed the key suddenly in her palm. A big brass one she’d seen in a fairy-tale book. She nodded. “Yes. I remember.”
“You unlocked the door to the room, and you went outside.”
She nodded.
“Let’s go back there, to that door. I will repeat what we did last time, and remember, when I count backward from four, you will start returning to my living room again. You will have your key at all times. It’s a magic key, Angie. You will always be safe. If at any time you feel stuck, just say the word ‘home,’ understand? Or use that key.”
“Yes.”
“All right, your breathing is becoming even slower, more and more relaxed. Breathe in and then out. Slower and slower. Deeper. Air is sinking low into your lungs, deeper. You’re going down, down toward a comfortable place. Back to that door. Now open the door again with your magic key.”
Angie was there, in the dark room. Fear started to claw at her. It smelled hot. Her breathing quickened.
“No. Slow. Relax. Look at the key in your hand.”
She did.
“Use it.”
She stuck it in the big lock that appeared in the door in front of her, and she stepped out into bright white light, just like last time.
“Go through the door, Angie. Go outside.”
She blinked into the blinding brightness. And once again, instead of stepping out, she turned to look back into the darkness of the room, and she held out her hand. “Come um,” she whispered. “Come playum, dum grove.”
“What are you saying, Angie?”
“She must come and play. She must come with me to the berry bushes in the grove and to see fish place. Bring basket.” Suddenly there was a woven basket in her hand. “Jeste?my jagódki, czarne jagódki,” she sang.
“What does that mean, Angie?”
She began to sing the words in English now. “We are small berries, little black berries. We are small berries, black berries.”
“Who are you singing to? Who are the berries?”
“She must come, to play. We go to dum grove, down indum. Trees. Bring baskets. Berries. Go see fish pens. Not allowed.” All around her, huge drooping conifers loomed way up high into the sky. So high. Like skyscrapers. Green moss and orange and yellow lichens grew on rocks. And bright-yellow dandelions were scattered everywhere on lush emerald grass that grew long and tickled her bare shins. She bent down to pick some of the smiling yellow flowers, and the smell was heather and honey. She put them in her basket. A child’s laughter sounded behind her, and she whirled around, feeling the warm air on her thighs as the hem of her dress lifted like a spinning tent. Through the bushes and trees she could see docks out on the water. Several docks. A little house on one. Like she’d seen outside Anders’s lab building. Boats. Her heart began to race. “Not allowed to go to the big house with the green roof. Or go fish pens. Red man is there.”
“Red man?”
She shook her head wildly. “No, no, no . . . Must come play . . .”
“Who must come play, Angie? The lady who was singing?”
Angie’s chest tightened. Her head felt as though it was going to implode. Pressure on the inside of her skull. Noise in her ears. “She . . . she’s there,” Angie whispered hoarsely. “I can see her.” She began to shake.
“Who?”
“Me. It’s me.”
“Your sister maybe, who looks like you?”
Angie’s eyes burned. Fear was suddenly a noose. The little girl with long red hair and a pink frilled dress held out her hand. “Come um dum dem grove,” she said. Their language. Their own special language. And this time Angie could see the child’s face. Her gray eyes were her own eyes, and they pleaded. “Come playum . . . help . . . help me . . . help . . .” The girl began to fall backward. Her berry basket dropped. Dead dandelions all about her feet. Angie shot her hand out to catch the girl. But the girl started to fade, shattering like glass into the air. Angie screamed, spun around, then ran. And the skyscraper trees whirled like a roundabout above her head, a blur of yellow and green and black all beginning to lean inward, blocking out the blue sky, making it all black.
Uciekaj, uciekaj! . . . Wskakuj do srodka, szybko! . . . Run, run! Get inside!
Angie shook her head wildly from side to side. Cold now. Very cold. “I . . . I’ve got to go after her! She fell down. In the snow. Need to save her! The man is taking her! ” Suddenly Angie was racing through the forest after . . . after . . . she couldn’t see. Wind tore at her hair. Terror boiled in her veins. Her legs were pumping, grasses and brambles scraping her skin open. Her feet were cold as ice. She thrashed through berry bushes, going deep into the forest which became gray buildings and she was on a cold street with snow, and there were Christmas lights . . . and she could see the girl’s shoes . . . little purple high-tops . . . running and slipping in the snow . . . and the sound of Ave Mari-aaaa . . . bells . . .
“Her shoes,” she whispered, voice hoarse. “They’re her shoes.” She shook her head from side to side, mouth open, panting. She looked down at her own feet in the snow. Same shoes. Matching shoes. A face flared into her mind, sharply and in focus. A man’s face. Big face.
“I . . . I see someone—a man. Big man. He’s holding a box out to me. He’s smiling. He’s happy.”
“The red man?”
“Other man.”
“Take the box, Angie.”
She shook her head. “Roksana.”
“Angie?”
“No, Roksana.”
“Who’s Roksana?”
Tears spilled into her eyes. She shook her head wildly. Inside her skull everything hurt. Blood coming out of her mouth and ears and eyes.
“Do you want to come home, Angie?”
“Roksana,” she said again. “Want box.”
“Are you Roksana, Angie?”
She nodded, crying.
“Take the box from the man, Roksana. Open it.”