Held by Edeet Ravel Page B

disconnected from reality.
    “Let’s focus on getting you through this,” he said.
    “I think music might help me sleep.”
    “I’ll try to come up with something. Is there anything in particular you’d like? I can’t remember what it said in the newspaper.”
    “The newspaper?”
    “Yes, there is much information about you in the media. We got lucky with you. Your story sells many copies.”
    “You’re just making that up,” I accused him.
    He went over to his briefcase, pulled out a newspaper, tore out a large photo, and held it up for me to see. It was the photo he’d taken of me, with the black cloth in the background. I looked sad and afraid.
    I reached out for it, but he wouldn’t let me have it—he didn’t want me to see the other side of the page.
    It was a little strange, being in the news, but I was glad I hadn’t been forgotten.
    “I need to write my mom another letter,” I insisted. I felt a wild desire to communicate with her.
    “I can read what it says here. She’s quoted.”
    I felt like screaming in frustration. Why hadn’t he volunteered that information? “Tell me, tell me,” I urged impatiently.
    He read: “‘I can’t talk about the case because it would interfere with the work of the police, but I feel confident that my daughter is safe and that no harm will come to her. She is a sweet, lovely person, and I can’t imagine anyone wanting to hurt her. If she sees this, I want her to know that everyone is thinking about her and everything is under control. I love you, sweetheart.’”
    “Read it again,” I said. It was deeply, wonderfully consoling, hearing those words. A connection to the outside world, a connection to my mom, reassurance that she hadn’t fallen apart. I couldn’t understand why he hadn’t told me about the message right away. Didn’t he know how desperately I needed to hear it?
    I made him read the quote a third time, so I could write down the exact words in my notebook, though I already knew them by heart. I was crying with relief and homesickness.
    “Why didn’t you let me know sooner?” I asked. I shut my eyes and drifted off into an uneasy sleep. In my dreams Mom stood waving to me behind a glass door, but when I touched the door it turned into a sheet of flames.



CHAPTER 12
    The next day my fever had shot up. “Maybe I need antibiotics,” I said.
    “I don’t think so. This seems to be viral. But a very stubborn virus.”
    “My stomach is better.”
    “Yes, but your fever isn’t subsiding. I think we should try sponging you down. If it’s all right with you.”
    He changed the sheets and I lay on the bed in my underwear, a bath towel draped over me. He ran a wet washcloth along my legs and arms and shoulders and face. It was such a relief to feel my body cooling down that I asked him to do it several times during the next few hours. By evening my fever was down to 99.
    “It seems to have worked,” he said. “I think you’re finally starting to recover.”
    “Thank you.”
    He didn’t answer. He didn’t like being thanked.
    Because I was feeling better, my mood improved. “What day is it?” I asked him as he set the table for the evening meal. I noticed that he was only setting for one.
    “The less you know, the better.”
    I’d never met anyone like him—it was strange, the way he hardly ever betrayed emotion when he spoke, the way he kept his face still and impassive. It was as if he was absent, almost. But his penetrating eyes, and what he actually said, the way he listened to me and seemed to understand me, those things showed that he was very far from absent.
    He sat beside me on the bed and took my wrist in order to check my pulse. He rested my arm on his knee and looked at his watch, counting the beats.
    When he was through, he didn’t let go right away. His gaze lingered on my arm, and it seemed to me that his eyes softened. Then he snatched his hand away and stood up abruptly, as if embarrassed.
    I was aware of a