Page 72 of Clever Little Thing

I turn to my daughter, but I speak to the spirit inside her. “Stella loved you,” I say. “For Stella’s sake, you need to speak to me directly and tell me what’s wrong so I can help you rest. This is Stella’s body, and you need to give it back to her.”

Stella nods. “Oh yes.” My skin crawls. Is that an agreement or the other kind of “oh yes,” which is a refusal to communicate?

I keep trying. “You must speak up. I should have asked you before if you were OK, I should have kept asking you. Well, now I am. I am listening, and I am not going to stop asking until you answer me. I already know something is wrong. I know you’re angry. I know something happened. I know you hate someone.”

“I talk, I make you angry.” Her accent is strong now. Blanka lived in England for years, but she still had a strong accent. I know now that’s because she barely spoke to anyone except Irina.

“I won’t be angry, I promise,” I tell her. “Whatever happened. Iwant to help you so that you can rest. I can’t help you until you tell me what you want. We found the diary. I think you wanted us to read it.Yes atum yem ayd mardun.”

“Pete.” Stella says the word with utter disgust, a contrast to Blanka’s normal singsong utterance. And suddenly I know that I am talking directly to Blanka. The last vestige of Stella melts away, and Blanka is here with me. It is an unearthly, vertiginous feeling, talking to this creature. A glimpse of another realm.

My legs are weak, and my knees knock. But then I feel a surge of energy. I’ve been right all along. This is not Stella. Finally, I’ve got the spirit to talk to me. I’ve made this creature of the deep rise to the surface. And we are doing something we never did when Blanka was alive: having a proper, honest conversation.

“That day you went to pick up the cheque,” I say through chattering teeth. “What happened?”

Stella considers. “He say nice things at first. He say I look pretty today.” She is silent, staring over my shoulder, into the past.

“Stella’s dad,” I say, to be clear, though I feel sick. “Pete? That is who we’re talking about.”

“Father of Stella. He has brown drink in glass.”

“Whiskey.” He sometimes has one when he really needs to unwind. “Then what?”

“I am mysterious, he says. He wants to get to know me. I do not know what to say. Then he comes close. He kisses me.” She closes her eyes, remembering. The expression on Stella’s face is one I’d never seen before—an adult expression, that of a grown woman remembering her first kiss. It was a little sour, that kiss, I can see, but sweet too. Unexpected.

Stella continues: “I try his whiskey. Then he puts his tongue in my mouth.” She makes a face, as if she is sucking saliva into her mouth to wash away the taste. “Then he grabs me, squeezes.” There is anguish on her face as she wrings the air, the most emotion I’ve ever seen Blanka show. “I do not like. I want to go home.”

“Did you say that aloud?” I ask.

Stella is silent, and I am afraid that Blanka didn’t protest. This is a woman who couldn’t ask for a glass of water. I am not sure if she had the power to ask someone not to assault her, especially not her employer. And in her mind, not speaking might have seemed the safest course of action. Maybe she was just allowing the inevitable, the cormorant surrendering to the hawk.

“Then what?” I say, though I know.

Stella speaks in a rush. “Stella’s daddy does not listen, forces me to floor, brings up my skirt, opens my knees. All the time, talking, how pretty I am. He pushes inside me and it hurts….” She covers her eyes.

My heart hurts as I imagine her lying there, limp, unresisting. But inside, maybe she was somewhere else. Inside, the whole time it was happening, maybe she was busy being her hero, Doctor Who, fighting monsters throughout space and time.

“I’m so sorry,” I say. “I’m so, so sorry. It wasn’t your fault.” If only Blanka had told me this when it happened, but of course she feared I wouldn’t believe her, thought I might blame her perhaps. She was probably right. I would never have believed this of Pete back then. Tears run down my face. I weep for Blanka, for Stella, and for Irina, who has to listen to her daughter’s story.

Now I understand why Stella—or, rather, Blanka—takes hermeals to her room and won’t sit at the same table with him. I understand why when he picks her up for a hug, she turns to dead weight, and when he holds her after the bath, she slithers away. I know why she closes her bedroom and bathroom door against him. He thought it was because she’s growing up, but in fact, he makes her skin crawl.

I feel a sort of pride in Blanka, despite my grief and horror. She’s mastered her revulsion so she can return and get revenge.

“Does he touch Stella?” Irina asks sharply. I start. I haven’t thought of that. The Pete I love has stepped aside, replaced by a second man, a serial cheater. Then a third, worse Pete appeared, the man who assaulted Blanka. Is there an even more terrible man behind him, a man who assaulted his child? That time Pete dangled Stella over the bath and she screamed so hard— Was that weird? But no, that was just Pete thinking you could overcome Stella’s issues by using force, and before me, Stella is shaking her head firmly. “No. Not Stella.”

I know Pete hasn’t touched Stella, because Stella wouldn’t shut up. She would tell me if Pete ever laid a finger on her. You couldn’t silence Stella, back when she was still herself, and Pete knows that. He likes to play with chaos, not unleash it.

Irina addresses Blanka. “What do you want? What shall we do for you, my darling? What do you need so you can be free?”

Stella’s face hardens. “Make him leave.”

“Oh, don’t worry about that. He is leaving,” I say. “Or I am. We’re not living together anymore.”

Her voice is harsh. “Not enough. Get Stella away from him.”

“You mean stop him from seeing her?”

“He can never see her again,” she says, and it makes sense. Pete took Stella away from her, and now she is taking Stella away from him.

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