Notes from My Captivity(16)

My father couldn’t be nowhere. He had to be somewhere. He had to be. Maybe he was in the wilderness, living wild; in a cloud, weightless and transparent; or hovering nearby, moving closer when I spoke to him.

One day I had a brainstorm.

Once, while exploring our attic, I came upon a treasure trove of old board games that had apparently belonged to one of my parents as a kid: Operation, Mouse Trap, Battleship, Domino Rally . . . and a Ouija board.

I made a secret pact with Red-Haired Girl that during the break in the next grief support meeting, where normally we attacked the jelly donuts, we’d sneak away and try to contact my father and (I added this incentive) her beloved grandmother.

That day, I brought in the Ouija board in a colorful red Macy’s Christmas bag I found in my mother’s closet. During the first half of the session, a shy boy with dark, expressive eyebrows finally spoke up about his baby brother, who had come into the world stillborn, and Red-Haired Girl interrupted him with a tale of the cat finding her grandmother’s wig on a counter and dragging it into the garden. By break time I was annoyed with her even more than I usually was, but I needed her, although I made a mental note to replace her with Shy Boy if the attempt to contact the Great Beyond was unsuccessful.

We found an empty room with a conference table and plastic chairs, cracked out the board and a candle I had thoughtfully included, and got straight to work.

“I’ll light the candle,” said pushy, grandma-dominant Red-Haired Girl, and I indulged her, handing her the strike-anywhere matches and enduring a quick though terribly dull tale about how the girl always lit her own birthday candles, as though that was something very special.

After the flame got going, we set up the game and turned off the lights, and positioned our fingers lightly on the planchette. Red-Haired Girl’s face was cloaked in shadow, only the tip of her upturned nose in light. Our knuckles glowed a faint orange.

“Speakkkkkk to meeee, Grammyyyyyyyy,” she said, bullying right in with her spooky voice before I could say anything.

“Speak to me, Daddy,” I shot back.

“No,” she said, looking at me with irritation. “You have to say it in a special voice, like Speakkkkk to me, Daddyyyyyyy.”

I’d had just about enough of Red-Haired Girl. “Listen,” I snapped, “I think I know how to talk to my own —”

Just then the planchette started moving.

“Oh my God,” Red-Haired Girl breathed. “There it goes!”

The planchette moved right over to “Good Bye.”

I glared at her. “Look what you did. You annoyed everyone into going away.”

“I did not! They left because you weren’t following the rules!”

“Just shut up and let’s try again. We’re running out of time.” I really felt like punching Red-Haired Girl. I was beginning to suspect her grandmother threw herself down the stairs to get away from her.

We moved the planchette back to the center.

“Grammmmmmyyy—” she began.

“Shut up.”

The planchette began to move.

E—M—I . . .

“It’s spelling out my name!” Red-Haired Girl insisted.

“No it isn’t. You’re moving it yourself.”

“Am not!”

Forcibly, I pulled it back the other way as it headed to the L. She clamped down with her fingertips and pulled back.

“Stop it!” she shrieked.

“You stop it!”

“Grammy! She’s being unfair!”

Just then the door flew open, spilling light, and our group leader stood in the doorway.

“What are you two doing in here?” she demanded.

“Nothing,” we said, the Ouija board right there in front of us, cold and shocked into ghostlessness by the sudden light.

After that I gave up believing my father could be found again. At least Dan can imagine his family is still in this world.

We stop for the night to camp on the gray gravel banks of the river. There’s a great flurry of activity as we unload our supplies and pitch the tents. Overall, it’s been a pretty easy day: calm water and manageable rapids. Sergei says it will get progressively more dangerous as we go farther up the river.

“How did this family possibly make it out there?” I ask. “I mean, if even guides don’t want to go that far?”

“Maybe they didn’t make it,” Sergei says. “Maybe their boat overturned and they drowned in the river. There are hunters, drillers, guides, fishermen that never come back, every year. Sometimes their bodies are found. Sometimes, not.”

“Circle of life, I guess.” My voice quavers a little as I look out in the dark.

“You look scared,” he teases. “Are you sure you want to sleep alone in your tent?”

“Yes. Right after I leave a trail of marshmallows leading up to your tent, just to be neighborly.”

I decide it’s time to figure out whether Viktor and Lyubov believe in the Osinovs or if they’re just here for the money or the adventure. He’s busy cleaning his camera equipment when I mosey up to him with my Dictaphone.

“Can I interview you, Viktor?” I ask.

He looks up at me and smiles. “You want to talk to me? I think you only like Sergei.” I’m not sure if he’s flirting with me or not. It’s hard to tell with Viktor.