Say the Word(39)

Petite, with glossy brown hair and delicate features, Vera couldn’t be more than fourteen or fifteen, yet she spent every weekend sitting behind her table at the flea market, selling stunning handcrafted jewelry and colorful scarves from dawn until dusk. Rain or shine, she was always there — usually alone, sometimes in the company of her little sister, Roza — and she bore her responsibilities with a shy smile. I had no idea where her parents were, and no way to even communicate my concerns that she should be out laughing or playing with kids her own age, rather than working.

Truth be told, I’m not sure why I was so invested in her, specifically — there were many similar young girls who spent their weekends helping their families sell wares here. Perhaps it was that she was alone, and far too young to be supporting herself and her sister. Perhaps it was the warmth in her brown eyes when she’d given me a turquoise bracelet on the Fourth of July last year as a gift, and gently refused to accept any money for it. Perhaps it was because she reminded me of myself at that age — carrying the weight of the world on her shoulders, and doing it with the maturity and grace of someone with twice her years.

I didn’t know. But I made it a point to stop by her table and purchase jewelry whenever I came to the flea market. Sometimes, I brought along sweets for the two girls to enjoy, understanding even without the benefit of words that they didn’t have the easiest of childhoods and likely didn’t receive much in the way of surprises.

So today when I came upon the spot where Vera’s table had been stationed every weekend for the last year and a half, only to find it empty, I drew to an abrupt halt. My first thought was sadness that I wouldn’t see her or Roza, as it had been a few weeks since our last visit and I’d been looking forward to a reunion. My second feeling was worry that something had happened to one of them that kept Vera from setting up her stand. But finally, as I stood examining the unoccupied strip of pavement before me, I felt happiness — maybe they’d finally taken a day off, and were out enjoying themselves like young girls ought to.

I smiled as I turned to go.

“Lux?” The small, uncertain voice cut through the din of the crowd and clutched around my heart like a fist. I knew that voice.

“Roza?” I called, my eyes sweeping the scene as I looked for her amidst the crowd. Finally, I spotted her crouched in the shadows behind one of the adjacent tents. Huddled close to a rack of puffy down jackets and outerwear, her tiny form was barely discernible. She was small for her age — seven or eight at the most — but she spoke more English than her older sister. Not a lot, but enough that we could get by. Whether she’d picked it up from other kids or from television, I wasn’t sure. I didn’t even know if she attended school.

“Come here, sweetie,” I said, approaching her cautiously. I crouched down a few feet away and extended one hand toward her. “Where’s Vera?”

At my words, Roza shook her head back and forth, not meeting my eyes. Her body trembled slightly. She was scared, I realized. I felt my heartbeat pick up speed in my chest.

“Roza, what’s the matter? What’s wrong?”

Her gaze darted up to meet mine, then quickly skittered away to focus on her threadbare sandals. Though our eyes met only briefly, it was enough time for me to see that hers were full of unshed tears.

“You can tell me, sweetheart,” I murmured. “I’ll help you, I promise.”

“Vera,” she whispered. Finally, she glanced up at me, and the look in her eyes nearly stopped my heart. Naked fear was etched into her features.

“What about Vera?” I whispered back, hearing a tremor in my own words.

“Gone,” Roza said quietly, taking a step forward into my space. A tear leaked from the corner of her left eye. “She’s gone.”

I stretched out my hand once more and this time she took it, her small, unwashed fingers and quick-bitten nail beds a stark contrast to the bright poppy color coating my own manicured fingernails.

“Where did she go, sweetie?” I asked.

She shook her head again, and her grip tightened on mine.

“It’s okay, Roza.” I assured her with a comforting smile, though I was anything but calm beneath the surface. My mind reeled with worries. “You can tell me. You won’t get in trouble.”

Roza stared at me for a long moment, weighing my words with a solemnity I wouldn’t have thought a seven-year-old capable of. Finally, she opened her small pink lips and whispered the words that brought my world to a screeching halt.

“He took her.”





***


Roza sat on a stack of milk crates, her thin legs kicking at the air as she licked an ice cream cone. Fae had found us a few minutes ago, and I’d immediately handed over my mint chocolate chip to Roza before filling my best friend in on what the girl had told me.

“What does she mean, ‘he took her’? Who took her?” Fae asked, her own untended ice cream cone melting down her hand.

“I don’t know,” I said. “But she’s pretty shaken up. Do we call someone?”

“Who? The police?” Fae lifted one eyebrow doubtfully.

“Well, we have to do something.” I looked over at Roza. “She was waiting for me, you know. She waited all last weekend, too. She knew I’d come eventually. That’s what she told me, right before you got here.” I couldn’t help but think about the three weeks that had passed since my last visit. If I’d come sooner, if I hadn’t been so caught up in my own life…