Girl at War(8)

Dr. Carson ran more tests. She and my parents conversed in broken languages, my mother translating for my father in semicoherent chunks. Rahela’s kidneys weren’t functioning properly, the ultrasound showed. It looked as if she might have only one, though the images were inconclusive even with the newer equipment.

“There are better machines for these tests, in other cities,” Dr. Carson said. “But for now we can try medication. To stabilize.” My mother barraged her with questions. The two switched completely to English, and my father and I stood back fidgeting. Dr. Carson disappeared into her kitchen, then returned with a stack of papers and a small glass bottle of red and blue capsules.

“Twice a day. We’ll be in touch.”

At border control my father cranked down the window and offered our passports to the approaching officer, whose eyes flitted between our faces and ID photos with increasing curiosity.

“Are you sure you want to go back over there?” He gestured with his head toward the border and spoke with something between condescension and genuine concern.

My father snatched at our papers and rolled the window up so fast I thought he might close the officer’s hand inside. He opened his mouth to say something through the glass, but seemed to think better of it and accelerated across the border into Croatia.

“What kind of question is that?” he asked after a while, his voice raw. “Of course we want to go back. Of course we’re going home.”

—

“You awake?” My father poked his head into the living room that night. “I have a story for you.” I sat up on the couch with my back against the armrest. My father was holding my favorite book, Tales from Long Ago. The fairy tales inside were very old and very famous, and the copy we had was so worn we’d had to tape the middle pages back in.

“Which one?”

“One day,” he read, “a young man stumbled into Stribor’s Forest. He didn’t know the forest was enchanted and that all kinds of magical creatures lived there. Some of the forest’s magic was good and some was evil, and the whole place would stay enchanted until the right person entered it to break the spell—someone who preferred his own life, even with its sorrows, over all the ease and happiness in the world.” My father snapped the book shut and I pretended to be patient, knowing he would continue, that he didn’t need the words in front of him.

“The young man was headed home to his mother after chopping wood when”—my father jumped up and feigned stumbling—“he crossed the threshold into Stribor’s kingdom. Inside, everything seemed to glow with little flecks of gold, as if it were coated in fireflies.”

I tried to think of a place in Zagreb where everything was clean and twinkling, but the city did not feel very magical of late.

“And the woman who appeared before him in the clearing was no exception. She was the most beautiful woman he had ever seen.”

“She wasn’t!” I said. “She was faking!”

“You’re right. The woman was really a snake in disguise. But the young man didn’t know it. He was willfully blinded by her beauty.”

“His mother knew, though.”

“When the young man brought her home, his mother saw right away that the woman had the forked tongue of a ssssssssserpent!” My father stuck out his tongue in a reptilian hiss. “The young man’s mother tried to warn him, but he ignored her. He was happy, he insisted. Soon, he and the serpent-woman were married.

“The new daughter-in-law treated the young man’s mother very badly. The mother was old, but the daughter-in-law made her work hard, cooking and cleaning and tending the garden. At night, the mother sat in her room and cried, wishing for a way out of her predicament—”

“And?” I interrupted here, my favorite part. “The fairies!”

“The fairies had heard the cry of one desperate for help. So, in the middle of the night, they flew up the mountainside to the village and into the house through the kitchen window.”

“What did they look like?”

“They were surrounded by a cloud of yellow light, and they each had two sets of paper-thin wings that fluttered so fast you could barely see them! Like a hummingbird’s.” I’d seen a hummingbird on TV once. He looked much too heavy to be hovering in midair like that.

“The fairies picked the old woman up by the sleeves of her nightgown and carried her out of the village, down the mountain, and through the tall white oaks, where Stribor, Lord of the Forest, was waiting for them. Now Stribor lived in a golden castle inside the hollow of the biggest, strongest oak tree—”

“How did he fit the castle in a tree?”

“Magic, Ana. When the fairies had delivered the mother to his tree, he stepped outside. ‘I AM STRIBOR, LORD OF THE FOREST! WHO GOES THERE?’?” my father bellowed in his best Stribor bass.

“?‘I am Brunhilda, and my son has married an evil serpent-woman!’?” he squeaked.

“Brunhilda?” I said. I laughed at the silly name, one my father changed in each retelling.

“?‘Ah, yes, Brunhilda, I know of your situation and I can help you. As you know, I am very mighty and have many powers.’?” My father stuck out his chest and put his hands on his hips. “?‘With my supermagical powers, I can return you to your youth. I’ll subtract fifty years from your age, so you’ll be young and beautiful again!’