The Years That Followed

by Catherine Dunne

  He bows his head and waits for her to stop, as she knows she must. “These are also your husband’s children, and in the circumstances, he does not wish you to take them out of the country.”

  “The circumstances?” Calista’s mouth is dry. She sips at the glass of water in front of her. She knows that somehow Alexandros has beaten her, as she should have known he would.

  The policeman spreads his hands, a gesture of apology. “We understand there are some difficulties . . .” He shrugs. It is a movement eloquent of all that it symbolizes. The room is very quiet. Imogen has been standing at her side throughout, leaning into her mother, refusing the chair that was offered her earlier. Omiros is fretful, wriggling out of Calista’s arms and making his unsteady way around the room before coming back to her again, struggling onto her knee, and then beginning the whole process again moments later.

  She has to stop this. She cannot let it go on any longer. “What happens now?” Calista asks. She doesn’t even try to hide the defeat in her voice.

  “The children’s father is on his way. I understand that Mr. Demitriades is accompanied by his mother. They will make arrangements for the children until all of this can be settled.” Calista feels the terror that has begun to grow inside her. She grips Imogen’s hand tightly.

  “Where are they taking them?”

  “That’s not for me to say.” The policeman shakes his head at her. “You, however, are free to continue to Ireland, should you so wish. Your husband will not press charges.”

  Calista looks at him, unable to form the words. Leave? Without her children? She scoops Omiros up into her arms and places one hand on her daughter’s head. She struggles into standing, realizing all at once that her legs have no power.

  Finally, she says: “I am not going anywhere. My place is with my children.” She feels full of rage now, a rage she knows is impotent, but she will not please any of them by showing it. She straightens and looks him right in the eye.

  “As you wish.” The policeman stands, gathers up the tickets, and nods curtly in Calista’s direction. Then he stops, puts Calista’s passport on the desk in front of her, and leaves without another word.

  That’s it, then, his departing back says to her.

  You’re on your own now.

  * * *

  Calista sits there in that small office as her mind tries to grapple with what has just happened. She feeds the children rusks and pieces of fruit and insists that they drink water. She does all these things mechanically, locked into the tiny, repetitive tasks of automatic mothering. She doesn’t want to think about the enormity of the future.

  She is twenty-five years old, the mother of two small children, with little money and no escape. She isn’t stupid; she knows the power of her husband’s family on this island. She has engaged in a battle she could never win.

  Alexandros arrives within the hour, with Maroulla in tow. He is surrounded by an air of aggrieved innocence. His arrival is so swift that Calista is taken aback. How has he had the time to go collect his mother? And where was he when they telephoned him?

  Suddenly, Calista has the bitter taste of betrayal in her mouth. Who is it? Mirofora? Haridimos? Or has Maroulla been spying on her? Or—and here Calista feels shock ripple through her—­Alexandros must have had her followed.

  Now he enters the airport office, Maroulla at his heels. He looks at Calista, and even then she believes he doesn’t really see her. Omiros toddles across the room and hurls himself at his father’s legs, squeaking in delight. Imogen moves closer to her mother and slips one sticky hand into hers.

  “I hope you are satisfied,” Alexandros says. “I hope you know that you are responsible for breaking this family apart.”

  Calista tries to speak. Her words are faint, trembling, but she summons strength from somewhere. She turns to Maroulla. “Can you leave us, please, for a few moments? I should like to speak to my husband.”

  She has the benefit of surprise. Before Alexandros can stop her—and he tries—Maroulla leaves the room, closing the door behind her.

  “How dare you—” he begins.

  “Listen to me, Alexandros,” Calista says, urgency finally giving strength to her voice. “I needed time to think. You will not speak to me; you are angry with me all the time; we have stopped . . . loving each other properly.” She hesitates. She will not accuse him of anything else, otherwise she will lose her children. “I wanted you to know how serious this is. I needed you to listen to me.”

  “And you do this by betraying me? By going behind my back, by stealing my children from me?” Alexandros’s voice is rising steadily. His face is tight with rage. But Calista is no longer frightened: there are other people around; he will not harm her here.

  Besides, the worst has already happened.

  “I was not betraying you,” Calista says. “I needed your attention. If I intended to run away with the children for good, why would I buy return tickets? I’d always intended to come back, Alexandros; but we need to fix this marriage.”

  “There is no marriage,” he says. His tone is curt. “I should have listened to my father. You will never be one of us. And if you think for one moment that you will ever take my children from me, then you do not know Alexandros Demitriades.” He turns and barks words at the door. He summons his mother, demands that she come back into the room and do her duty as a grandmother.

  “Go back,” he says to Calista. “Go back to where you came from. You do not belong here.”

  Maroulla comes in, and Alexandros hands Omiros straight into her arms. Then he walks towards Imogen, his arms outstretched. Instinctively, the little girl hides behind her mother, her hands clinging to Calista’s dress. Alexandros makes a grab for her, and Calista can’t bear it any longer.

  “Don’t! Please!” she cries. “Don’t take her from me!”

  But Alexandros is not listening. He pushes Calista away. “Go home,” he hisses. “You can never win.”

  He lifts his daughter easily into his arms and Imogen wails, her hands clutching at Calista. It is all too quick, and Alexandros is too strong and too sure. Before Calista has time to respond, they are gone, all of them, and the door to the office swings shut behind them. Calista falls to her knees and howls, paralyzed by defeat. The animal, wounded sound that seems to be coming from her fills the small, stifling room.

  When she comes to, what seems like hours later, the room is dim, and she is huddled with her back to the wall, a tear-soaked Monkey clutched to her chest.

  imogen

  Limassol, 1974

  * * *

  Imogen is silent all the way back to Aiya’s house. She is too scared to cry. Aiya Maroulla tries to hug her, but Imogen struggles free again and again until, finally, Papa shouts at her. She and Aiya and Omiros are in the back of the car. Papa is driving: angry-driving. Aiya tries to quieten him from time to time, saying things like, “Alexandros, the children . . .” or “Alexandros, slow down” or just “Please, Alexandros . . . ,” but Papa doesn’t listen. Instead, he shouts at her, too, and waves his hands around, even though he should always keep them on the steering wheel, just like Mummy says.

  Imogen wants Monkey. She cries for him. His furry absence has made her chest ache. She asks for Monkey over and over until Aiya whispers: “Monkey is with Mummy, Imogen. He’ll take care of her. Don’t cry.”

  And so, finally, Imogen quietens. Aiya is right: Monkey will take care of Mummy; Mummy will take care of Monkey.

  When they get home, Papa sends Imogen straight up to bed with Aiya. He carries Omiros up the stairs himself. As Aiya tucks her in, she whispers: “I’ll explain everything to you tomorrow, my sweet. Mummy and Papa have had a misunderstanding, that’s all. It will all be sorted out, you’ll see. You’re not to worry.”

  Imogen is not sure what a misunderstanding is. She knows the word “understand” because her English teacher uses it a lot.
Misunderstanding sounds like its opposite—and they learned all about English words and their opposites last week, things like loved and unloved; fortunate and unfortunate; happy and unhappy. Misunderstanding hadn’t been one of them, though. But even when the children say no to something, even while they’re telling Teacher they don’t understand, nobody ever gets upset, not even Teacher. Nobody ever cries. Not like Mummy cried tonight. There must have been a lot that she didn’t understand.

  “Everything will be fine,” Aiya is still whispering. “You and I will chat tomorrow. Keep your questions until then, and don’t make Papa cross when he comes in to say good night. Can you do that?”

  Imogen nods. Yes, she can do that. When Papa is angry, his face goes all black and his eyes are no longer kind. Imogen has already seen that tonight, and she doesn’t want to see it again. Not ever. She shivers.

  Aiya pulls the blanket more closely around her. “Are you cold? Do you want another blanket?”

  But Imogen isn’t that kind of cold—the kind a blanket will send away. Instead, she feels shivery and loose, as though someone has scooped out all of her insides and left her empty.

  “That’s enough, Mother. It’s time she went to sleep.” Papa is in the doorway. His face isn’t black anymore, but he still doesn’t look like Papa.

  Aiya gets up off the bed. She frowns, as if something is hurting her. Perhaps it is her knees. Aiya talks a lot about her knees. “Is Omiros asleep?” she asks.

  “Yes. No need to disturb him.”

  “I wasn’t intending to disturb him. I just want to look in on him.” Aiya’s voice is sharper now. Is she cross with Papa, too? Is everyone cross with everyone else?

  Papa doesn’t answer. Instead, he bends down and kisses Imogen on the forehead. But he doesn’t really look at her. Instead, he seems to be looking at the wall behind her head. “Sleep now, there’s a good girl.”

  Imogen is afraid to ask, but she thinks she and Omiros will not be going to see Abuela María-Luisa and Grandad Timothy after all. Mummy isn’t here anymore, and she has taken the surprise away with her.

  Imogen also wants to ask, but doesn’t dare, when Mummy will be coming back. She glances at the doorway where Aiya Maroulla is now standing, her finger to her lips, her dark eyes warning Imogen. It’s funny—although Aiya cannot hear what Imogen is thinking, Imogen knows Aiya is telling her not to ask Papa anything about Mummy. Maybe because that would make another misunderstanding, and Papa would get angry all over again.

  “Good night, Papa,” Imogen says instead.

  And Aiya Maroulla smiles at her.

  * * *

  It’s hard to sleep without Monkey. The bed feels hot, and then cold, and Imogen can’t find her usual comfortable spot. That’s because this isn’t her bed, and her own bed is the one she sleeps best in—Mummy always says that. Besides, there is a rumble of voices from downstairs, the kind of rumble that won’t go away. Imogen hears Papa, then Bapi Petros, then Aiya Maroulla. Sometimes they speak separately and the noise is quieter. But then they all talk together, and the noise rumbles louder and louder. She can’t make out any words, though, which is funny. Just noises banging into one another, as if they are trying to find their way around in the dark.

  After a while they become calmer. Imogen hopes the words have all found their way home.

  She sleeps.

  calista

  Limassol, 1974

  * * *

  Calista makes her unsteady way around the car park. The airport is suddenly unfamiliar, filled with shadows, strange noises, shapes that startle her with their gleaming suddenness.

  They are cars, Calista realizes. Just cars. She must find hers; she must try to remember where she’s parked it.

  And then she will go to Yiannis. He is her only hope.

  * * *

  Calista keeps her finger on the bell. He has to be home; please, please let Yiannis be home.

  Finally, she hears his voice across the intercom. “Yes?”

  “Yiannis, it’s Calista. Let me in. Please, I need your help.”

  The buzzer sounds instantly and Calista lets herself in, allowing the heavy metal door to swing shut behind her. She takes the lift to the third floor, where Yiannis is waiting in the hallway.

  “Come in,” he says. He closes the apartment door behind her.

  “Is there anyone here?” she demands, looking around her.

  “No,” Yiannis says. He looks perplexed. “I am alone. Calista, you look like death. What has happened?”

  “You don’t know?” she asks, angry at him as well. “Are you sure you don’t know, or are you just keeping it from me?”

  Yiannis shakes his head slowly. “I don’t know what you’re talking about. If I knew, I wouldn’t ask. Sit down. Let me get you a brandy.”

  Calista shivers.

  “What happened?” Yiannis asks her. He pours some brandy into a glass and hands it to her. “Wait, let me get you a blanket.”

  When he returns, he looks at Calista closely. “Something bad has happened. What is it?”

  Calista tells him.

  When she finishes, Yiannis says, his voice so quiet she can barely hear him: “Where are the children?”

  “Alexandros took them. Along with your mother.” And now Calista can’t help herself. “Why do you all protect him?” she cries. “He is a bully and a liar and a wife-beater. You knew that! You knew Alexandros beats me!” Calista tries to stand up, but she falls back onto the sofa again.

  Yiannis puts one hand on her forearm, restraining her. His fingers are warm and firm, even through the fabric of the blanket.

  “I understood that Alexandros had struck you once,” Yiannis says quietly. “I did not realize it was habitual. Forgive me.” He stops, and Calista knows what he is going to say next. “If you remember, you did not wish him to know that I had discovered this . . . side to him. I kept silent for your sake.”

  Tears well and fall, and Calista lets them. She doesn’t even attempt to brush them away. “What am I going to do? I can’t bear it. How can I bear it?”

  Yiannis drags one hand through his hair. He looks years older. “I will try to find out what is happening,” he says. “But there is nothing more we can do tonight, and you are exhausted. Come, there is a room where you can sleep. We’ll speak again in the morning.”

  * * *

  When Calista wakes just before seven, it takes her a moment to realize where she is, a moment before the full horror of the night before floods her. She cries out.

  Yiannis knocks on the door at once. “Calista? Are you awake? Don’t worry—you are safe.”

  Frantic, Calista pulls on her clothes and stumbles out of the bedroom to where Yiannis is waiting. Her whole body feels bruised and battered; even her scalp feels tender, although this time Alexandros has not laid a finger on her.

  Yiannis’s face is white, strained. The remains of breakfast are on the table; a diary is open beside the telephone. Calista wonders briefly if he has been to bed. He pushes his glasses up, and they rest there at the top of his forehead. His eyes look tired, circled by dull, dry flesh.

  “What?” she says. “What is it? Tell me, what have you found out?”

  “Sit, please.” He pours coffee. Calista cannot bear the waiting, and she knows by Yiannis’s face that he has something to tell her. Something that is not good.

  “I called my father at five thirty,” he says. “He has a private line, a separate number that only he and I have access to. I use it in emergencies. We spoke for a long time.”

  “And?”

  “He is unhappy—both he and my mother are very unhappy. Alexandros has told them that you are having an affair, that you have been unfaithful to him for some time. They say he has evidence to prove it.”

  Calista looks at him. It takes her several seconds to find her voice. “What?”

 
Yiannis looks at her, his gaze level. He places both hands on the table in front of him, his fingers interlocked. “Is it true?”

  “No!” Calista shouts. “Jesus Christ, no! How could you even think that of me?” She stands up from the table, knocking over her chair as she does so. It clatters backwards onto the tiled floor. She feels as though anger has split her in two; she is beside herself. “I have never been unfaithful to Alexandros! I have never broken my vows! I’ve been a good wife, a good mother. I have even put up with his beatings. Do your parents know their son beats his wife?”

  Yiannis sighs and looks downwards.

  Slowly, Calista understands. “God Almighty,” she says, taking a step back from him. “What sort of people are you? Is it OK for Alexandros to beat me if he thinks I’ve been unfaithful? Is that what you and your parents believe?”

  Yiannis looks at her. His expression is guarded. “It is not a question of what I believe. My parents are concerned for my brother’s honor and his reputation.”

  Calista almost laughs. “His honor and his reputation? What kind of honor might that be, I wonder—a man who uses his fists on his wife? And what about me? Do I count for nothing?” She stops and looks again at Yiannis. “I thought you were different. Tell me the truth. Do you believe me? Do you believe I have been a faithful wife to your brother, a good mother to his children?” She slams both fists on the table, hurting them with the force of her anguish. “You know I have!”

  Yiannis stands up. He looks helpless. “This is difficult for my family, Calista—”

  She shakes her head at him. “No,” she says. “No, it is not difficult. It is very simple. It is the difference between truth and lies.” She grabs her handbag and pushes her way past Yiannis. “I am going. I was a fool to expect any help here.” She turns back to look at him. “You’re all the same. You all protect each other. The foreigner must always be the liar, the enemy. You have no honor, any of you.” Calista makes her way towards the door.