Detour

THIRTY-FIVE

Galina snuck her back into the house. Not without being detected. The Indian girl with long black hair came out of the bathroom and nearly bumped into them. Galina had an explanation.

She fainted, Galina told her in Spanish, she needed some air.

The girl nodded, seemingly disinterested.

Once Galina ushered Joanna back into the room, once she closed the door and sat down, she said, “It was stupid. You don’t know the jungle.” She took Joelle from her exhausted arms, changed and fed her. “You would’ve died out there.”

“I’m going to die anyway,” Joanna answered. It was the first time she’d uttered that thought out loud. It seemed to give it an awful legitimacy.

Galina shook her head. “You shouldn’t say that.”

“Why not? It’s true. They’ll kill me like they killed Maruja and Beatriz. You don’t want to talk about it. They killed them in here—in this room. I can show you their blood.”

“Her cold’s worse,” she said, referring to Joelle, continuing to avoid any mention of the two ghosts still hovering in the room.

“Yes, her cold’s worse. And her mother’s still chained to a wall. And we won’t talk about two murdered women.” Joanna’s own voice seemed alien to her now—flat, emotionless. It’s hope, she thought—she’d lost it out there in the jungle.

“I’m going to put her to sleep,” Galina said.

“Yes. Wonderful idea. While you’re at it, put me to sleep.”

Galina winced and rubbed her left arm.

Nurse. Kidnapper. Friend. Jailer.

“I don’t understand you,” Joanna said.

“What?”

“I don’t understand. You. Why you’re here. Why you’re with these people. Killers. Murderers. You were a mother.”

Galina had turned to leave, but now she stopped, looked back at her. It was that word, Joanna thought.

Mother.

“You never finished your story,” Joanna said. “Tell me. I need a good story tonight. I do. I need to understand why.”