1
Trevor stood at the front door of the house. He closed his eyes and tried to do the breathing exercises Dr. Anand had recommended, but his heart raced and his palms sweat. His knees began to shake.
“Please don’t piss yourself,” Trevor whispered to himself. He opened his eyes and looked at the house itself. Several of the siding panels flapped in the wind. The maple–the one he’d seen as a sapling when he’d escaped–now loomed over the house. The real estate agent, given up on pleading with Trevor to see the house before he bought it, warned him it was in disrepair. Trevor breathed in, and then out, and he looked back at his car. He could just get in. He could go back to Joan. He could apologize and sell the house and try to make things right. But that wouldn’t work.
When his mother had left him the money, he knew that he should have given it all to Joan. He owed her thousands. He owed her his life. The times she’d picked him up beaten on the side of the road, blacked out, or from the drunk tank. The time and money she’d invested in him, and he’d done this. He’d made her dinner, and then he told her. She said nothing at first. Then, she picked up the plate and threw it at him. It caught him just underneath his right eye and blood splattered everywhere.
He cursed, grabbed a cloth and sat down at the kitchen table. Joan stared at him, her eyes wide. And then, without saying a word, she went into the bedroom and closed the door. Trevor heard her rustling about. She came out with a travel bag.
She stared at him for a while, biting her lip, anger and grief in her eyes. He looked at the ground, groping for words to explain to her why he’d bought the house. He thought about saying thank you for everything, but knew how vapid that would sound. She left, so he cleaned the dishes and his blood.
Purchasing the house had been a private obsession of his, one he’d shared only with Dr. Anand. He’d never told her about the events in the home, though she’d asked.
“I’ve bought the house,” he told her at the beginning of one of their sessions.
Dr. Anand, always stoic, put down her pencil and looked at him. “Go on,” she said.
And so he told her. About the newspaper clippings he’d found in his mother’s house. And the news articles he’d read from the time he spent there. About the man who would say, “Call me father,” and about how his arm ached every time he heard the word “father”. About his struggles in school and running away from home; about Children’s Aid Society visits and his mother’s decline. He shared how he’d woken up screaming, thinking he was still in the basement. And then about how he’d been contacting former owners of the home in an attempt to understand…but he decided to stop talking and not to reveal anything further. Dr. Anand sat, patient, her eyes never leaving Trevor. When he didn’t speak for some time, she leaned forward and put her hand on his shoulder.
“Understand what, Trevor?”
He shook his head, almost imperceptibly. He stood up.
“I… I think I need to go.”
She looked at her watch, and then up at him.
“If you think you need to, then go.”
He stood outside her office, trying to catch his breath. How could he explain to her about the interpreter?
###
Trevor walked into the house. He listened, hoping to hear something, anything, any sign that it was still downstairs. But there was only silence. Not even the creeks of floorboards or the hum of the furnace. Just silence.
“Okay,” he reassured himself,“okay.”
He walked down the hallway, looking in the rooms. He inspected each corner, each crack, consciously delaying the inevitable. He finally walked into the room he assumed had been the man’s. He’d never been in the room. It seemed small, as the entire house did. He’d read that the man had been found dead, his heart stopped.
He thought back to the time after he’d escaped. The interviews with police, then with Children’s Aid, more police, the press, all of them probing and asking questions. All he’d wanted was his mother, but he’d been denied the chance to see her. His mother, he found out later, had been vilified in the press as a cold, inept woman who clearly didn’t care about her child. After all, she’d been the one who’d left him in the car. After all, she’d been the one who’d gone in to buy them ice cream.
Years later, after the diagnosis but before she wilted away in the hospital, they often went on walks. He only brought up the man once.
“He said you didn’t love me,” Trevor told his mother.
She took his hand in hers and squeezed. “Did you believe him?”
“Never,” Trevor admitted.
“Well, then, we’ll leave it at that.”
They walked together a few more paces.
“What happened to you in there?” she asked. “Be honest with me. Please.”
That question. That one question Trevor had been asked over and over again. The one question he’d avoided. He never told his mother about the interpreter. He never told anyone about the interpreter. How could he? Who would ever believe him? He just shrugged.
“I realized how much I love you,” he said.
And they both had to be content with that answer.
###
Trevor left the room and walked toward the kitchen. He didn’t have any specific memories of the kitchen, but he knew that’s where he’d find the door to the basement. And then the challenge: could he go down into the basement? He hoped so. Otherwise, this entire venture would be pointless. As he entered the kitchen, he stared at the door, now sitting ajar, almost beckoning for him to go down.
The basement had been his cell for months. And it was also where he’d met the interpreter. A place where he’d had everything he’d ever needed. At least that’s what the man told him. And yet, despite this, he’d never felt more alone in that basement. Years later, in his more lucid moments after he’d left town, he’d call the owners of the home and pretend to be a journalist writing about what happened there. He’d probe, asking about any remnants of the past in the home. Only one woman owner ever alluded to these.
“Sometimes,” she’d say, “when I go into the basement to do laundry. I just feel as though… I just feel… well, I just feel as though something’s watching me.”
“Do you ever see anything?” Trevor asked.
“No…no…I just…feel…” She coughed into the phone. “Look, this is crazy. Who are you again?”
Trevor didn’t push any further. He thanked her for her time, hung up the phone, and pinched the bridge of his nose. He took deep breaths, and tried to get his heartbeat to slow down. He did the same thing now, standing in the kitchen, staring at the basement door. He tried to look between the door and the frame, but he saw only darkness. Nothing more. No sign of movement or any sound of life, whether real or imagined. He took a step toward the door. And another.
“Don’t piss yourself,” he muttered under his breath, and the voice that came wasn’t the voice of a man. Instead, he only heard himself as a child, maybe six, maybe seven, naive and innocent and reckless and obstinate. That was how one newspaper had described him.
2
The man dragged Trevor into the basement, and let go once they were down the stairs. Any illusions that this man would be kind or friendly had left him once he’d entered the man’s car.
The man, sweating, breathing heavily, smiled for the first time since offering the toy.
“Welcome home,” he said.
“I want to go home,” Trevor said.
“You are home,” the man replied.
“I WANT TO GO HOME!” Trevor screamed. He ran to the stairs but the man grabbed him. Trevor kicked and kicked but the man held on. Trevor kicked as hard as he could, but the man didn’t flinch.
Finally, exhausted, Trevor went limp. The man put him down. Trevor sat down, put his head in his hands, and began to cry. The man just stared at him, a sheen of sweat covering his face.
“There are toys down here, and I’ll bring down lots of good food,” the man said. He walked up the stairs and closed the door to the basement. Trevor, upon hearing the door close, urinated.
###
A week went by. Trevor didn’t eat much food. He just lay on his cot, crying. He began to feel weak.
The man started to get angry.
“Why don’t you eat?” he yelled.
Trevor looked at the man. He felt sick.
“Do you want me to stop bringing you down clean clothes? Is that it? Is that what you want? You want me to just let you stay in your wet, stinking clothes?”
“I want,” Trevor said,“to go home.”
The man curled his lip.
“You are home.”
Trevor sat up on his cot. “I want my mom.”
The man let out a curt cough, and Trevor realized this was his laugh. Without a word, the man ran up the stairs, and then returned a minute later. He held something in his hand. Trevor focused his eyes and saw a carrot. Then in the man’s other hand, he saw a peeler.
“Your arm,” the man said, lifting up the carrot, and then he started to peel it. “This isn’t an empty threat.” He peeled the carrot until the vegetable became almost transparent, when suddenly the man cursed. He held up his thumb, and showed a little flap of skin hanging from it.
“Ouch,” he said, “that really, really, really hurt.”
Trevor, scared, ate. At first he felt sick after he ate, and he threw up and had diarrhea. He often made it to the washroom, but when he didn’t, the man cleaned up the vomit or the shit. At first, Trevor thought the man would be angry, but he cleaned with indifference. Once Trevor could stomach the food, he regained some energy. He looked for ways to escape, but he found nothing.
Bored, Trevor took to the toys. He settled down often with an old plastic mat that had roads and two-dimensional drawings of hospitals, police stations, schools and houses.
Trevor would imagine cars driving down the road, and people walking up and down the road. Little, faceless people. They would wave at Trevor and he would wave back and he’d watch their awkward gait as they walked around his imaginary town, leading imaginary lives. Trevor came to relish the time he could spend with his town.
###
Eventually, the man came down and destroyed the mat.
He walked downstairs, saw Trevor by the mat, came over and picked it up. The man took scissors and started cutting.
“Wh… wh…” Trevor started. He could feel the heat in his chest. And then, out of nowhere, a voice said, “Be QUIET!”
Trevor blinked. It didn’t sound like the man. He went to speak again and the voice said, “Please, be quiet.”
Trevor said nothing. He waited until the man finished cutting the mat. The man, perhaps expecting Trevor to get upset, slowed near the end and looked at him. The man seemed paler, sweatier than before.
“I have… all these new things for you, and you play with this?”
Trevor went to speak, but suddenly the voice said, “It’s a rhetorical question. Don’t answer it. Instead, say ‘sorry,’ trust me.”
Trevor, confused, looked around.
“Say it!” the voice insisted.
“Sorry,” Trevor said, more to the voice than to the man.
The man looked at Trevor for a long while, then he threw the mat down and got on his knees.
“I really just wanted you to be happy here,” the man said.
“I want this to be your home.”
Trevor stared at the man’s bleary eyes.
“But… it isn’t,” Trevor said. “I miss… my mom.”
The man blinked a few times. And Trevor, thinking the man would retaliate, just stared for a while. Then he stood up and walked up the stairs.
“Well done,” the voice said.
Unlike before, Trevor could now place the voice. It came from behind him. He spun around, and there, standing in the basement, was a faceless, pudgy man, identical to the people Trevor had imagined on his mat.
“Who… who are you?” Trevor asked.
The faceless man walked up to Trevor. They were the same height.
“I’m… I’m your interpreter,” the man said. And he opened his arms. Trevor walked into them, and for the first time since he’d been taken, he felt safe.
###
Whenever the man came down, the interpreter appeared. Through the interpreter’s intervention, life got a little bit better for Trevor. The man didn’t shout as much, or threaten to peel Trevor’s arm as often. Through the interpreter’s counsel and suggestions, Trevor got more light in the basement, and a fan.
Then, to both the interpreter’s and Trevor’s surprise, the man came downstairs with sunglasses and a baseball hat for Trevor.
“Come on,” he said, “we’re going to be leaving now.”
“Ask him where you’re going,” the interpreter suggested, “but sound happy.”
“Where are we going?” Trevor asked.
“You’ve been down here too long,” the man said, “too long, and it’s a nice day. We’re going out.”
Trevor put on the hat and sunglasses and he and the interpreter followed the man upstairs. The man told Trevor to walk through a door that led back to the garage and the car. Trevor looked at the car, the same one he’d walked into the day he’d been taken.
“Get in,” the man said.
So Trevor did.
“I need you to slouch,” the man said, “at least for the next few minutes until we’re out of town. Then, after that, you can sit up and enjoy the view. If you try pulling any shit though, we’re back, and you can kiss sunshines and fresh air goodbye.”
“Do it,” the interpreter said. The interpreter walked into the car as well and sat beside Trevor. The car started, and Trevor reached out and held the interpreter’s hand.
“I think,” the interpreter said, “we may have an opportunity.” The interpreter seemed to look atthe handles. “But we’ll have to wait. Child locks.”
Trevor’s heart beat quicker. They drove for a bit, then the man said Trevor could sit up and so he did. He looked out the window and saw what looked like a never ending expanse of farm fields. Occasionally, a thicket of woods or some old barns or silos punctuated the land.
They drove for a long time, until the man slowed, and turned onto a dirt road winding through a thicket of trees. They drove on the road until they made it to a clearing within the thicket. The man stopped the car, turned around, and smiled.
“Time to get out,” he said.
The man opened the door and Trevor got out. He stretched, then took off his hat and let the sun pour over his face. He walked a bit, then turned and waited for the interpreter to catch up.
“Just don’t go into the woods,” the man said. He set up a lawn chair by the car, then unloaded a cooler and opened up a can of soda. “Walk around and get some fresh air.”
Trevor and the interpreter explored for a bit, then walked around the perimeter of the clearing a few times. Eventually, they made their way to the middle and sat. The interpreter said nothing. Trevor watched ants climb into a hill.
Finally, the interpreter spoke.
“I think he’s asleep.”
Trevor looked at the interpreter, then at the man.
“Yeah, I’m almost certain he’s asleep,” the interpreter said. Trevor got up and walked toward the man. Trevor heard the deep, rhythmic breathing of sleep. Trevor walked around the perimeter a little bit more, and then looked back. The man hadn’t moved.
The interpreter stood beside him.
“Please,” the interpreter said, “I think this is your only chance.”
Trevor closed his eyes. His heart thundered. Sweat stung his eyes. His head felt dizzy, flooded with the hope of seeing his mother. And then the fear. The fear of being caught. He held his breath and closed his eyes and wanted to take a step. He tried to move his foot. Desperately. But he couldn’t.
He tried again.
And again.
But he froze.
“I can’t,” he whispered, to both himself and the interpreter.
The interpreter put his hand on his shoulder.
“Yes, you can.”
And with that, Trevor ran. He ran harder and faster than he ever thought he could possibly run. Sticks and rocks cut his legs and his feet rolled and he hurt but he ran. He thought about his mom and his family and his friends from school and the words the interpreter had said. And though he didn’t know where he ran, he knew that this was right.
Until the man, barely panting, grabbed Trevor’s arms and picked him up.
“Time to go,” the man said.
###
The car ride home was silent. The interpreter had apologized as the man dragged Trevor back to the car, but once inside, no one spoke. Trevor slouched, more terrified of the man than he’d ever been. When they pulled into the garage, the man turned.
“Out. Now. Not. A. Sound.”
Trevor did as he was told. The interpreter followed him, and they went down to the basement.
The man stared at Trevor for a long time. Then he turned and went up the stairs.“Trevor,” the interpreter said, “Trevor I’m… I’m….”
The man’s heavy footsteps interrupted the interpreter. He came down with the peeler.
“Arm. Now.”
Trevor stared in horror.
“No… no….”
The man moved. Suddenly, Trevor’s arm was in his hand, and the man maneuvered the peeler just so. As it cut into Trevor’s arm, Trevor screamed.
“Trevor!” the interpreter cried, but he said nothing after.
“That’s the light treatment,” the man said, pulling the peeler back. Trevor looked at the flap of skin on his arm. Blood seeped from the cut. The man ran back upstairs, then returned with a first aid kit. He cleaned the wound, then put a bandage on it. Trevor and the interpreter just stared.
“Why are you shaking?” the man asked. “It’s hardly a cut. Hardly a wound.” The man put his finger under Trevor’s chin. He smiled at Trevor. “Now we’re even, see. You ran away. Where did you get such a silly idea like that, huh?”
Trevor said nothing. The man finished up, then left for the stairs.
“No more outings, then. Too bad.”
When the door to the basement closed, Trevor collapsed and sobbed. Suddenly, he felt the interpreter rub his back.
“Trevor, I’m, I’m so sorry,” the interpreter said.
Trevor looked up, rubbing his eyes and gasping for breath.
“I just… I just want… to go home….”
The interpreter stopped rubbing his back.
“Is that… what you really want?”
Trevor nodded his head.
“Really?”
Trevor nodded his head emphatically.
“I won’t be able to go with you. I will miss you terribly Trevor.”
Trevor paused.
“My… my mom….”
The interpreter nodded its head.
“I see… I see… well, then, no sense crying right now. You’re tired. Go to sleep.”
Trevor suddenly felt tired. More tired than he had in a long time. The interpreter took his hand, and led him to the cot.
“Sleep, Trevor, sleep for a long, long time.”
And then, as Trevor’s eyes felt tired, he saw the interpreter move for the stairs.
###
“Wake up Trevor,” the interpreter said.
Trevor awoke. He felt groggy, and his arm ached.
“Come with me,” the interpreter said.
The interpreter led Trevor by the hand up the stairs. Trevor felt afraid, but the interpreter’s hand felt warm.
They walked up the stairs, but before Trevor walked into the kitchen, he stopped.
“What about the man,” Trevor said.
The interpreter turned and stared. Trevor felt a chill throughout his entire body. The interpreter pulled Trevor’s hand and followed through the dark hallways until they reached the front door.
The door stood open.
“Run,” the interpreter said, “someplace else. Tell them your name, and tell them everything that happened. But never tell them about me.”
“Wh—”
“Things are going to be very difficult Trevor. Very difficult. Just run.”
And so Trevor did.
3
Trevor walked down the stairs of the house into the basement. He held his breath and closed his eyes as he descended the stairs. He held the railing until he extended his foot and felt nothing. He knew he’d hit the bottom. He’d never forget this staircase. But still, he extended his foot, just to be safe.
And then he opened his eyes.
He’d never been brought back to the basement as a child. He’d only seen pictures. He identified everything down there. He looked at the pictures for a long time, looking to see if he could find the interpreter, but he couldn’t.
Then, when he’d been taken from his mother again, this time by officials who claimed she was inept, he forgot about the interpreter entirely.
When he’d been reunited with his mother, neither wanted to talk about the past.
But when Trevor opened eyes now, he didn’t receive a rush of emotion like fear or grief or anger, but instead, he felt disappointment. This basement, the one he’d dreamed about, the one that haunted him, the one he’d sacrificed his relationship with Joan for, seemed so foreign. Nothing of the past remained. Owners after he’d left had renovated the basement. Where there had been cement flooring now lay carpet. The cinder block walls were now covered in wood paneling. The stench of lysol and bleach replaced the musty smell he’d expected.
He took a few steps forward, then stopped.
From around the side where the furnace stood came the interpreter. It had grown. It now stood at Trevor’s height. Its proportions were all roughly Trevor’s. Its hair had grown longer, like Trevor’s, but it still had no face. Trevor’s heart raced. He began to breathe heavily and he thought he would faint. He took two steps back and sat on the bottom stair.
He stared at the interpreter as it stared at him. Trevor looked for any major changes. Any indication of what happened during his last night. The interpreter just stared at Trevor for a while, then took a step forward.
“I need your help,” Trevor whispered.
The interpreter stopped walking.
“I… I really need… I really need… help….” Trevor whispered again.
The interpreter said nothing. Trevor put out his hands, pleading, and the interpreter continued to walk toward him. When it stood in front of Trevor, it reached out with both hands—hands that had shriveled and turned grey—and pulled Trevor off the stair. And, just as they had during their first encounter, they hugged.
And in that hug, a mutual exchange of information occurred. Trevor displayed to the interpreter his life and the pain he’d experienced since he’d escaped this home. The hatred and loathing he’d carried within himself. The nights he’d ended up in jail, the people he’d betrayed and hurt intentionally, his mother’s death, and the way he’d ruined his relationship with Joan. The infidelities and the debt and the fights and the times he’d woken up unsure of where he was.
The interpreter said nothing. The only thing the interpreter could do was show Trevor what happened on the last night.
Through Trevor’s eyes he saw the interpreter going into the man’s room. As the man lay on his bed snoring, the interpreter took his hand, and shoved it into the man’s chest. Trevor could feel, through the interpreter, the man bucking and kicking, but the interpreter held his hand down until the man’s efforts became weaker and weaker. Then, when the body remained motionless, only then did the interpreter take his hand from the man’s chest. The interpreter stared at the contorted face, frozen in panic and agony.
Trevor began to sob. He cried into the interpreter with both relief and hatred. Relief of the past truth and hatred of the silent present. The interpreter said nothing. It couldn’t say anything. It didn’t know what to say to Trevor.
