by Jason Mott
* * *
“It will be all right,” Tatiana’s mother said. But she said it too often for the child to believe it.
It was 1994, and Tatiana was not allowed outside. Now and again she could hear gunshots ringing in the distance, the sound of large trucks moving back and forth, the sound of fighting. Many of the neighbors had already fled to family members in places more stable than this. But Tatiana’s mother refused to leave. She lived in front of the television now, searching for her husband.
At breakfast Tatiana’s mother flitted about the kitchen nervously, moving back and forth from the stove to the window, as if expecting something or someone. Tatiana sat at the kitchen table and swung her small legs back and forth and watched her mother. There were three places set, even though Tatiana’s father had not been seen for several days now.
“Did you finish your math problems last night?” her mother asked.
“Yes,” Tatiana replied.
“Good. Even if the school is closed, that is no excuse not to learn. Never forget that.”
The school had been closed for almost a week now as the country fell deeper into chaos. But Tatiana’s mother was resolved that her daughter should not suffer. These times would pass, she believed. And once they did, normalcy would return. It was the only way the world could be, wasn’t it?
Throughout breakfast the empty place where Tatiana’s father should have been was like a whirlpool, quietly consuming any semblance of solace or comfort from the house. Tatiana’s mother had bags under her eyes each morning, and she drifted through conversations as though her body were speaking all on its own. Most mornings, like this one, she hardly spoke at all.
The tension was making Tatiana’s head hurt. “When is Father coming home?” she asked.
“Soon,” her mother said without hesitation, as if she had long ago submitted to the inevitability of the question. “He is working extra hours, Tati. That’s all.”
Tatiana chewed her food slowly, debating how much she felt she could press the issue. Outside a truck passed by, bringing with it the acrid smell of burning diesel, an odor that lately seemed to penetrate every corner of Tatiana’s small village.
Neither of them spoke, and, long after the truck was gone, Tatiana could not help but linger in the silence it left behind, hoping it would be broken by the sound of her father’s key turning in the front door.
“When do you think he will be home?” Tatiana said finally—when the silence had not delivered her father. “I wanted to work on our story.”
“I could help you with it,” her mother replied.
“But it was one of Father’s stories,” Tatiana lamented. Her mother nodded but would not look her daughter in the eyes.
For all of Tatiana’s life, her parents had been creating stories with her. Fables and tales of adventure and magic. It began even before she was born, when her father would press his hand to his wife’s rounded belly and whisper. The stories always began the same: “Once...when the world was very young...” Tatiana’s mother would tease him, asking why he didn’t begin with “Once upon a time,” the way everyone else did. His reply was simply, “Because every fairy tale begins that way. I want her to remember me differently. I want our stories to be special.”
Tatiana and her parents took turns with the narrative, each one adding their own characters, their own twists, their own touches. Her mother’s stories were usually happy tales about princesses and love. And while the stories Tatiana created with her father often involved love, as well, they were different—the love always harder to keep.
Their latest tale was about a woman—raised by a family of sparrows—who fell in love with a man born in the boughs of an acacia tree. The two of them grew up together—the girl flitting from branch to branch, the boy giving chase. Sometimes she promised to fly away, taking flight and disappearing into the horizon. But then the boy would climb to the top of the acacia and sing, not unlike a sparrow, to bring her back to him.
Each night when Tatiana’s father tucked her into bed, they would add another scene, another detail. But now it had been four days since Tatiana and her father had worked on their story. It was his turn and, each night that he was not there, Tatiana feared the adventure would end.
Tatiana’s mother reached across the table and pinched her ear playfully. The child grinned, but still she hesitated. “I promise to tell the story as your father would,” she said. “How does it begin?”
Tatiana looked down at her breakfast plate in silence. After a moment, she said softly, “You would tell it well, but not the way he did.”
“No,” her mother replied. “I suppose I wouldn’t.” She then began a soft, slow weeping. “He will return to us,” Tatiana’s mother eventually said. “And when he does, I will never let him go. I promise you.”
* * *
They had managed to keep her secret for nearly a week. Heather was missing days from work, and Matt spent most of his workday scouring the internet for news of the Returned. All the while, the child slept nights on the couch in front of the television, wrapped in the Disney princesses sleeping bag Heather had picked up from the store. Heather had also bought several weeks’ worth of clothes, doing a surprisingly good job of guessing the child’s sizes. Seeing the mountain of shopping bags piled near the front door, Matt asked her how long Heather expected the child to be with them, but Heather only replied, “Until she’s gone.”
The internet was as inundated with speculation as it ever was, but no one was able to explain what the Returned were, where they were coming from or what should be done with them. But one thing was certain: people were confused and afraid. The churches were filled to capacity each Sunday. More people were taking confession. Charity donations and volunteering skyrocketed. People sought answers wherever they could.
Matt came home from work one evening to find Heather and Tatiana sitting in the living room, entranced by the television. Tatiana was seated on the floor between Heather’s legs as Heather combed the child’s hair, never taking her attention away from the TV screen. There was a report on the news about a facility being built in a small town in North Carolina called Arcadia. These facilities were cropping up around the country, serving as regional points of processing for the Returned. It was still unclear exactly what was happening inside the facilities—what the government was doing with the Returned, how long they were holding them, what the conditions were like—but it gave people comfort knowing that at least something was being done, however false that comfort was.
When the news report was over, Matt took Heather into the bedroom and sat with her on the bed.
“I’ve got an idea,” he said, his voice in a whisper. “What’s say we start a blog about all of this? I was poking around the internet today, and there are people telling stories about their encounters with the Returned. But it’s all just stories of sightings and what not. There’s nothing about anyone actually living with one, actually having one in their house like we do.”
Heather could see the eagerness and excitement in Matt’s eyes, but she also saw something else, something she did not like. “But we’re not going to keep her here, Matt. And we’re damned sure not going to blog about it. We’re going to help her find her family. How could you even think of anything else?”
“Her parents are dead for all we know,” Matt responded. He stood and scratched his head. “And that’s not really someone’s child in there,” he said. “Children don’t come back from the dead—at least, not any children I’ve ever heard of. These things aren’t people. They’re something else. And if there’s a way for us to capitalize on this, then I’m all for that.”
“No,” Heather said. She took a deep breath, straightened her back and looked up at her husband. “She’s a child, Matt. And somewhere in this world she’s got parents or, at the very least, she’s got a family. And if it were my child, if i
t were my daughter, I’d want her home. I’d want her back.”
“Well I wouldn’t,” Matt replied. He pointed to the living room. “I wouldn’t want that thing in there pretending to be my daughter, dredging up all the pain and heartache. I don’t know what these things are, but they’re not people, Heather. And you can’t really believe they are, can you?”
“I can believe it,” Heather said. “And I hope to God that it’s true. I hope to God that all of this is real, even if it only lasts for a little while.” Her words began to stick in her throat. “If I could see my mother again, I wouldn’t care if it was really her or not. I wouldn’t ask those kinds of questions—and I feel sorry for anyone that would. If my mother somehow shows up in all of this, if I get a call that she’s suddenly been found in some far-off part of the world, I’d pray to God that the person who finds her would take care of her, that they would get her back to me, that they would have the decency to let me decide whether or not she was real, whether or not I could love her again.” She stood then and, with an air of resolution, started out of the room. “We’ve had her too long as it is,” she said. “It’s time to get her back to her family.”
* * *
Tatiana would see her father only one more time. It was very late, and she was awakened by the familiar, low thrumming of his voice. “Tati? Tati?” he whispered.
She awoke, wiping her eyes and smiling blindly. He showed up as little more than a shadow in the darkness before her, but the silhouette of him was enough. She reached for him and was met by the warmth of his arms wrapping around her. He smelled of diesel fumes and clay and grass—the proper way a father should smell, she felt.
“Father!” she called.
He shushed her gently. “Not so loud, Tati. We must be quiet. We do not want to wake your mother.”
“Father, I was worried about you,” she replied. She just could make out his bushy eyebrows and the glimmer of his teeth in the darkness, but her eyes were beginning to adjust. With every second he was materializing before her.
“I know,” he said. “I did not mean to frighten you.” He put his hands on the sides of her face and smiled. “I’ve been a very, very bad father. I should stand with my nose in the corner and my eyes crossed like this.” He squinted up his face and crossed his eyes. Tatiana giggled.
“You’re silly,” she said.
“Yes,” he replied. “But I am very sorry for not being here. I hope that you weren’t too worried about me.”
“Mother says you were working to make extra money.”
“Ah,” he said. He gently patted her head. “Your mother is a smart woman.”
Outside, the moon was full and fat, and Tatiana noticed that the window was open and the small stack of books she kept near it had been disturbed.
“Father?” she said. “Did you come in through the window?”
He looked at the books and grinned. “You have a very sharp eye, Tati.”
“Why?”
Her father thought for a moment. “Because I needed to see you, and I did not want to be seen. Are you old enough to understand that?”
“Are you in danger?” she asked. “I hear the shooting sometimes—in the distance. Mother says that it will stay away, that it won’t come here. Is that the truth?”
He sighed. “The truth,” he said, “is that I do not know. I am not sure that anyone knows. If I have anything to say about it, then it will always stay away from you and your mother.”
Tatiana paused. “Why did she tell me a lie?”
He shook his head. “Your mother did not lie,” he said. “She told you what she hopes to be the truth. People do that sometimes when...well, when the world is complex and the truth is not certain. People create the truth, and they hope that they can create the world of that truth. Does that make sense?”
“It’s like our stories?”
He smiled widely, and his eyes lit up. “Yes, it is just like our stories.” He tapped her foot playfully. “Speaking of which, shall we continue with our tale of the sparrow girl?”
“Yes,” she said, nodding emphatically. She sat with her back against the headboard and kicked off the covers. “Mother offered to help me, but I told her no.”
“Why did you do that?” her father asked.
“Because it would have changed how the story went,” she said quietly and earnestly. “Also, I know she likes being surprised by our stories.”
He laughed quietly. “She likes the worlds we create?”
“Yes!”
“Then you and I will create such a world for her!” He opened his arms as he spoke, as if encompassing the entirety of his daughter’s imagination. She climbed across the bed and into his lap and he closed his strong arms around her, and, for a little while, she believed that things were the way they used to be and that she would always be safe as long as she had her father.
Tatiana’s father held her for several seconds, saying nothing.
“Tati,” he said finally. “When it is over, I will leave again, okay?”
“Why?” Tatiana asked.
“Because there are things happening here, in our country, that cannot be ignored. Terrible things. People are dying, and I must do my part to stop it. For you and for your mother.”
“Mother says she will not let you leave again,” Tatiana said. She wanted to scream, to call out for her mother. She wanted to wrap her arms around this man and never let him go.
But she did not call out. Instead, she and her father spent the rest of that night weaving their magical tale. It was the last they would ever share.
* * *
The day after Heather called the authorities, a small man in a gray suit showed up at her front door with a briefcase and a look of practiced calmness. “Heather Ryan?”
“Yes,” she replied.
“My name is James Duncan. I’m from the Bureau of the Returned. I’m here about the girl.”
What followed was a simple interview held at the kitchen table. Heather and Matt recounted how they had come upon the child; the man from the bureau asked Tatiana about her parents. He videotaped their discussion and took extensive notes. It all seemed rather anticlimactic, Heather thought.
“So what happens next?” she asked.
“It depends,” Mr. Duncan replied.
“Depends on what?” Matt asked.
“We are beginning to build facilities for people like her,” Mr. Duncan continued. “A place where the Returned can be sorted through a bit more efficiently.” He jotted something in a notebook. “If you would like, I can have the girl sent to one of these facilities.”
“A facility?” Heather said. She let the word hang in the air. She remembered the news report about the new facility being built in Arcadia. She wondered what the town was like, what kind of people lived there and, more importantly, how they felt about having so many Returned so close to their homes and their families. Her mind imagined the facility as a building of white rooms, smelling of antiseptic and big government—little more than a prison camp.
Heather looked at Tatiana. “I don’t like the sound of that,” she said.
“It’s nothing to be uneasy about,” the man from the bureau said. “I promise you. There are beds, plenty of food, anything she would need.”
“That sounds good,” Matt said. “I’m not sure I like having it in the house.”
“Her,” Heather corrected. “She has a name.”
Mr. Duncan made more notes and, for the most part, kept his attention on Tatiana. While he did not want to make her nervous, part of his job was to watch the Returned for reactions, recognition, anything that might be important.
But all he saw was a young girl caught between a bickering couple. “Maybe it would be for the best,” he said, “if we sent her to one of the facilities.” He rifled through
his briefcase and pulled out a piece of paper—a long, complicated form that he placed on the table and began filling out. Heather was lost in her thoughts, imagining Tatiana alone, lost in a mass of people behind the fences of a barren, cold encampment. The word facilities would not let her find comfort.
“Can I stay with you, Heather?” the girl asked suddenly.
Matt gently shook his head, his eyes pleading with his wife, making one final, silent case against keeping the girl. Tatiana had become an increasingly greater point of friction between the two of them in the past few weeks. In the beginning, Matt had seen the promise of fame and fortune. But when the girl could offer no answers about the Returned, the lottery ticket he first imagined began to fade—along with his patience.
Heather was certain that Matt’s problem with Tatiana stemmed from the fact that he had never lost anyone. Both of his parents were still alive. His brothers and sisters, even his grandparents, were all still alive. He had never known the loneliness of waking in the middle of the night from a dream of spending time with a mother who had been dead for nearly a decade. A feeling Heather knew all too well. For Heather, if Tatiana was really who she claimed to be—if she really was alive—it meant that her mother could somehow be alive, as well. Alive and searching for her.
How could she ever send Tatiana away?
“No,” Heather said finally. “We won’t send her to any facility. She’ll stay with us, and we’ll find her parents.”
The man from the bureau nodded and put away his paperwork. Matt exhaled through his nose with a loud, frustrated huff, and Tatiana raced across the room and threw her arms around Heather’s waist. “Thank you,” she cried. “Thank you so much.”
“We’ll get you home,” Heather said and hugged the child.
Later that evening, after the man from the bureau was gone and after Matt had stormed out of the house, as Heather was putting Tatiana to bed, the girl took Heather’s hand and asked if Heather would tell her a story.
