Chapter 24
Liisa
Last night I cried so hard that my stomach muscles ached.
I haven’t cried this much since my dog, Onni, died last July.
But then Mother was there to comfort me.
She took a day off work for his funeral and that morning we picked tufts of blue vetch and ox-eye daisies to lay on his grave.
It was hot that day, the stems of the plants sticky in my hands.
Mother bought ice cream, and we had waffles for dinner with chocolate sauce.
She wasn’t a good cook, but she was always there when I needed her the most. I remember the warmth of her body that night, as she spooned me in my narrow single bed.
Her chin resting on my shoulder, she whispered that Onni was old, and we’d been lucky to have him for so long.
Dearest Onni. Now my heart hurts and my eyelids are swollen, but this time I’m on my own.
I close my eyes tightly, trying to imagine what she’d say.
The dripping hasn’t stopped. Drip . . . drip .
. . drip . . . It’s been going on all night as I try to plan my escape.
Mother would tell me to think bigger. Tyvest? puuhun noustaan: you climb a tree from the base; start from the roots.
My nights are dark and scary, but at least Johanna and Mikael leave me alone, giving me time to think.
Now where was I? My thoughts have wandered.
Oh yes, start at the base. I’ll begin with my room.
Is there anything here that can help me to escape?
Because I can’t do this on my own. I’m not strong, but I am fast. If only I had run that day. Stop it. Back to the base: my room.
I do this all the time: start thinking about getting away, but then I feel scared and it’s easier to imagine all the things I should have done.
I need my mother. I need her to take my hand and tell me what to do.
Start at the base, she says, once more. But there’s nothing in this room to help me.
Everything is nailed down or caged. The windows are shuttered, thick nails battered from every direction.
I imagine Johanna with her hammer, her strong arm lashing out at the wood.
It is splintered in places, but not going anywhere. Like me.
So what next? Drip . . . drip . . . drip.
The weather. I stare at the ceiling, each splatter of melting ice bringing hope.
The snow is thawing. Good things come slowly.
If the weather warms up, maybe I could survive outside.
But it’s January. I know how to forage, but there’s little at this time of year.
Unless I try to store away some food? Johanna—I think of the nails flattened into the wood.
She’d give me a beating, or worse. There’s a darkness about her that frightens me speechless.
As for Mikael, his face is a mask I can’t see through.
I hug myself and count my breaths to calm down.
In, out—no time for tears today. Morning will be here soon.
Mama will come. That’s all there is to it.
So I don’t need to start from the beginning and work my way out of here.
Still, my thoughts creep to the door. There’s a small chink of light underneath.
Johanna always leaves a light on in the hall at night.
There’s a bolt on the other side. Sometimes Mikael grunts when he has to pull it across, but Johanna slides it like a knife through butter.
There is always someone in the cabin. Johanna might go to the outhouse for wood when Mikael is hunting in the forest, but she’s never far away.
I jerk at the sounds of movement coming from the hall.
I must have fallen asleep. Johanna’s heavy footsteps make the floorboards creak in protest. I am grateful for the rickety cabin that warns me when she is near.
I sit back on my elbows, tiredness making my body heavy.
She slides the lock across, and I get ready to do as I’m told.
Johanna does not like to wait. She is not patient, like my grandmother.
Nor is she kind. My heart flip-flops, as it always does when my prison door is open.
The smell of meat cooking reaches my nostrils and my stomach growls loudly.
Johanna is smiling. Her face is expectant, like it’s her birthday and she’s waiting for me to give her a cake. It’s not her birthday, is it? I try to remember everything she’s said since I’ve come here.
“Good morning.” Her voice is strangely upbeat. “Get dressed. Today is the day.”
My mouth falls open as I try to understand.
Another smile. It unnerves me. I don’t trust it.
“Don’t you want to know why we brought you here?”