The Boy in the Suitcase - Lene Kaaberbol [56]
“Goodbye then, Sigita, and good luck,” she said, holding out her hand.
It felt odd, being called by her first name by someone she didn’t know at all. Sigita nodded awkwardly, but returned the handshake. The woman handed Jolita a brown envelope.
“There is a small deduction for the extra days,” she said. “Normally, our girls leave us inside a day.”
Jolita nodded absently. She opened the brown envelope, peeked inside, then closed it again.
“I’ll need your signature here.”
Jolita took the pen.
“Shouldn’t I be the one to sign it?” asked Sigita.
Jolita hesitated. “If you wish,” she said. “But I can do it too.”
Sigita looked at the paper. It wasn’t an adoption form. It was a receipt. For payment received on delivery of “Ass. herbs for the production of natural remedies.” The amount signed for was 14.426 litai.
This is no adoption, thought Sigita suddenly, with glacial clarity. This is a purchase. Strangers have bought my child and paid for it, and this is my share of the loot.
“Can’t I at least see it?” she asked. “And meet the people who are taking it?” Her breasts were swollen and throbbed painfully. Julija had provided her with a tight elastic bandage that she was to keep wrapped around her torso for at least a week, she had been told, to stop the milk from coming.
The woman in the white coat shook her head. “They left the clinic yesterday. But in our experience, that’s best for both parties anyway.”
The Blackness stirred inside her, carving new passages in her body, flowing into her veins. She could feel the chill beneath her skin. It was already done, she thought. Now all that was left was the money. She held out a hand toward Jolita.
“Give it to me.”
“Little darling… .” Jolita looked at her in confusion. “You make it sound as if I was about to steal it!”
Sigita merely waited. In the end, Jolita passed her the envelope. It was thick and heavy with the notes inside it. Sigita clutched it in one hand and waddled for the exit. The stitches stung with every stride.
“Sigita, wait,” said Jolita. “The receipt!”
“You sign it,” she said, over her shoulder. “It was all your idea anyway.”
Jolita scribbled a hasty signature and said goodbye to the woman. Sigita just walked on. Into the corridor, through the waiting room, and out the door.
Jolita caught up with her on the rain-drenched pavement.
“Let’s get a taxi,” she said. “Let me take you home.”
Sigita stopped. She turned and looked at Jolita with all the new coldness she now possessed. “You go home,” she said. “I’m going to a hotel. I don’t want to see you again. Ever.”
THERE WERE FOUR Baronienės in the Vilnius phone book. Sigita called them all, asking for Julija. No result. Then she tried Baronas, in case the telephone was registered to the husband only. Eight of those. Two didn’t answer, one had an answering machine that made no mention of any Julija, two said they didn’t know anyone of that name. The sixth call was answered by a woman’s voice with a cautious “Yes?”
Sigita listened intently, but she wasn’t sure whether she recognized the voice.
“Is this Julija?” she asked.
“Yes. To whom am I speaking?”
“Sigita Ramoškienė. I would just like to—”
She got no further. The connection was severed with an abrupt click.
JUČAS DROVE THE car all the way down onto the beach.
It was dark now, and there were no people. Behind him, the thicket of pines formed a black wall. He took off all his clothes except his underpants. The sand was still warm beneath the soles of his feet, and the water tepid and so shallow that he had to wade several hundred feet before it became deep enough for him to swim.
There was no significant surf, no suction. Just this flat, lukewarm water that could not give him the stinging shock he craved. It had to there, he thought, further out—the cold, the undertow, the powers. He considered quite soberly the possiblity of simply continuing until he met something stronger than he was.
Barbara was waiting at the hotel. He hadn’t told her much, just that he