This child, who’d been brought home with them only weeks before, was not Sally.
HOLLY TRIED TO straighten up. She pushed the white boots out of the way. They were splattered with blood from the roast, and there was a slick puddle of blood near the front door. She reached overhead, using the doorknob of the coat closet to pull herself up until she was standing. There was a shooting pain in her back, but Holly felt sure the pain would go away after a while. There could be nothing wrong with her spine, after all, if she was standing. She inhaled, gazing at her daughter’s back:
All that dark, shining hair.
EVENTUALLY, HOLLY HAD forgotten the coldness she’d felt that day when the child, who had not been called Tatiana—and who, then, surely had been called Sally—did not answer to her name.
No! Why would she? She answered to Tatiana now! How quickly a name, replaced by another, would be forgotten. No matter how long they’d called her Sally, now she knew herself to be Tatiana.
Forget Sally, Holly had thought, and she had gone so far as to name one of the hens Sally. It had seemed so innocuous, even charming. It was the name they might have given their daughter, but they hadn’t. Now Holly gave it to her hen, and it secretly pleased her to hear that name on her daughter’s lips. (“Sally laid an egg under the bushes!”) Holly had never told Tatiana that Sally had once been her own name. Why would she?
She had never been Sally.
Holly shook her head, trying to shake that thought out of her mind:
Yes, she had looked like a different child, perhaps, when they went back.
Longer. Thinner, but larger. Older than they’d expected her to look, having grown and changed more over the course of those months than they’d known was possible. But there were familiar features! The eyes were smaller, yes, and the hair was longer, but they were essentially the same features. It was natural, surely, to come upon a child you hadn’t seen for many weeks and to find her changed. To see her almost as an older sister to the child you’d left behind. Children changed so quickly, and in ways you could not anticipate. That Baby Tatty had changed so much, that she answered to no name that Eric or Holly or the nurses called her, that her hair—
Well, Tatiana hadn’t been the only child with that kind of hair in the orphanage! It was surprising how luxurious a small child’s hair could be! Behind that forbidden door, Holly had seen a girl with nearly such shining black hair. That girl, who seemed little more than an infant (although it was impossible to tell, as she was so malnourished), was sitting bare-bottomed, strapped to a plastic bedpan. Her face was pale and smooth as stone, and she stared up at Holly, and then—horribly!—she seemed to recognize Holly. That little girl had smiled at Holly with such a beatific expression it was as if she were trying to distract this onlooker from the horror of her situation—her broken and imperfectly healed limbs, her crooked spine.
Yes, Holly remembered now! That had not been their first visit when Holly had snuck into that room. It had been their second, when they’d come back for their baby!
And it had not been the boy with the hydrocephalic head that had sent her hurrying out of the room! It had been the smile of that familiar little girl with her enormous dark eyes, to whom something horrible had happened:
She’d been beaten. Or dropped. She would never walk. She was completely broken.
And Holly had hurried from the room, closed the door, heard the words of Annette Sanders in her ear so close and clear it was as if the therapist were standing beside her, and she had done it:
She had forgotten.
NOW HOLLY WATCHED as Tatiana pulled a present out from under the tree and seemed to read the tag on it. She said, quietly, to her daughter’s beautiful back, “Sally?”
Tatiana didn’t turn around, but she said, sounding disappointed, “I’m not Sally. You know that, Mommy.”
Holly said nothing for a long time, letting the pain in her back turn into a numbness, until she finally managed to take a breath deep enough to speak, and then she asked her daughter’s back, “Then where is Sally, honey? Where is Sally?”
Tatiana shrugged. But it wasn’t the coquettish shrug from earlier in the day. It wasn’t the shrug of teenage apathy, ennui. It was a shrug of sadness, of utter despair.
“Oh, Tatty,” Holly said. “Was it Sally who tried to call, honey? Does Sally know my phone number?”
Tatiana shook her head. Maybe, now, she was laughing a little, or trying not to cry. Holly couldn’t tell, seeing only her daughter’s back. Tatiana said, “Sally doesn’t need a phone number. The phone is connected to everything now, Mom. You know that.” She reached up and waved a hand through the air, and then she turned around.
Now Tatiana was exactly the black silhouette Holly had expected earlier. She looked like a flat cardboard cutout against the window, the blizzard shivering its brilliant static all around her. All of Tatiana’s edges were sharp, but the rest of her was gone, and she said, again, more insistently, “You know that, Mom. Where are the wires, otherwise? It’s all open now. It’s everything.”
Tatiana was right, wasn’t she? Holly nodded. She did know, didn’t she? Had she always known?
Still, she needed to know more:
“Where is Sally, then?” she asked.
“Oh, honey,” Tatiana answered, sounding ancient, far away. “You left your little Sally in Russia, didn’t you?”
Holly nodded again. Again, she’d known that. She’d always known that. No snap of a rubber band could have forced that from her mind, although she’d managed to keep that door locked for a very long time.
“Remember Sally? Behind that door? But I looked enough like Sally, didn’t I? You brought me home instead.”
Holly bent over then, holding her own face in her hands, and then she sank to her knees despite the pain that forked lightning up her spine. She was still denying it, that pain, wasn’t she? She said into her hands, not yet crying, “Just tell me then, Tatiana. Just tell me. What happened to Sally?”
“Oh, Mama. What difference does that make? You were gone a long, long time. So much can happen. It was a very bad place. They broke that other baby. They dropped that baby, or they did something else, something terrible, to that baby. She would never be okay. So they put her away. You weren’t supposed to go in there, remember? They gave you this baby instead, and you love her, don’t you? They gave you Sally’s sister, just a little older. You never knew the difference, did you? You loved me, didn’t you?”
“Oh, yes. Oh, God yes, sweetheart. I’m so sorry for Sally, that they broke her, that she’s still there. But we have you now! We love you. We don’t know that other girl. You’re our baby. We don’t need any other baby. But Tatiana, why didn’t they let us see you, the first time, at Christmastime? Why didn’t they tell us that Sally had a sister?”
Tatiana sighed, sounding sad, weary, as if she were being asked to explain something for the hundredth time, or something so obvious it did not require explanation:
“Because Sally’s sister was sick, Mom. Sally’s sister had blue lips and blue skin and blue eyelids. Sally and Tatiana’s mother died when we were babies. They told you that, even if you wouldn’t listen. Sally was fine, until they hurt her, but they knew that the other sister was going to die, like their mother. And no one wants to take home a baby who will die, Mommy. Do they? They knew nobody wanted to bring me home to such a happy place just to die.
“But then they broke the other baby! They broke Sally! And you wanted that baby! I looked like her because she was my sister. And they knew you would be home a long time before you would believe that anything was wrong. You would pretend you didn’t see it as long as you could. They rouged my cheeks, remember?”