I Don't Speak the Language

I Don’t Speak the Language

At the age of 18, my beautiful daughter became a homeless addict.

Not that it was unexpected. The years that had led to that were tumultuous, filled with disbelief, shock, denial and false hopes. These years were filled with consistently changing plans of “how to handle the situation”, celebrating some small victories, holding the line and letting things slide but mostly with the feeling that I was trying to stop a roller coaster train with my bare hands.

It was not totally unexpected but as someone said, “I knew it was going to happen, but did not know that it was so close”.

At first, she tried to keep in touch, then I received a message from an unknown number that her phone had been stolen, so she had no way of contacting me anymore.

The silence was killing me.

In daylight, I looked like someone who belonged to the normal world. Nothing in my appearance suggested that there was a huge deep hole inside me, the crater where the bomb exploded ruthlessly, crushing all hopes.

I continued my work at a preschool where I was teaching music. During the day I sang and danced, shook the egg shakers and played little African drums. The wheels of the bus were going round and round, monkeys were jumping on their beds, and jingle bells were jingling all the way. My smile was on.

But in the evening, I changed into a relentless detective. My cheerful smile gave way to a stern, busy expression; I spent hours in my car, moving through the city, scanning figures and faces of homeless people, hoping to see Nadia. I was endlessly circling around train stations, fast food and convenience stores, making sudden lane changes and illegal U-turns. I became a stalker.

Like a werewolf, I lived two different lives.

I had to learn things I never wanted to know. I started as someone who had to Google the word “meth” and turned into someone who could give a lecture about drugs to graduate students. This was forced learning, I felt like I had been pushed into this new stage of life; with no manual or the right to exit.

I was a fly trapped in a sticky liquid whose every movement made it drown deeper and deeper.

Crying alone in the car was another habit that I had developed. The car felt like an instant portal to a place where I was not watched or judged. I did not have to wear a happy mask, I could just sit there in silence and let the tears run down my face, I could moan when the pain was unbearable. And no one could hear me. I really needed this “driving alone” time, it was my therapy.

In every city, there are places which serve as meeting points for shady people. All respectable and law-abiding citizens try to avoid these places. They drive past them quickly, without stopping. I used to be one of those citizens too. But I had changed. These dark places attracted me like magnets. Instead of driving past them quickly, I deliberately pushed my brakes, going around slowly, sometimes turning around, hoping to get a better look.

Sometimes I thought I saw her. It gave me hope that she was alive.

In the same way my daughter was addicted to drugs, I was addicted to finding her and pulling her out of it. It became the purpose of my existence.

One cold winter evening, as I drove out of a Walmart plaza, I spotted a woman sitting on a bench in a dark corner behind the building. I had seen a few homeless people in this area before, so my eyes were instinctively drawn there.

The woman’s figure resembled my daughter’s. She was wearing an oversized winter jacket, the hood hanging low on her face. She appeared busy, looking for something in her backpack. There was no one else around.

I made a quick turn and drove up to the corner. The woman stopped searching through her bag and looked up at my car. I got out quickly and ran to the bench, jumping over the snow piles as I went. The woman sensed danger, hurriedly collecting her belongings and standing up, ready to leave.

Being sure it was my daughter, however, I called her by the name, speaking in Russian (the language that we spoke at home):

⁃ “Надя, Надя! Это мама. Подожди минутку! Как ты?”

⁃ “Nadia, Nadia! It’s mom. Please wait a minute! How are you?”

She turned around and looked straight at me. She was tall, somewhat hunched, and the bulky jacket hung loosely on her. The streetlight shone on her face. It was swollen; there was a big, black bruise under her left eye. My heart sank.

Again, I spoke softly:

⁃ “Надя, пожалуйста, постой. Что у тебя случилось? Куда ты идешь?”

⁃ “Nadia, please wait. What happened to you? Where are you going?”

She looked at me, slightly confused. Then she responded:

⁃ “What’s that? I don’t speak the language.”

Her voice was unfamiliar. I could see now that she was not my daughter and I had made a mistake. The relief I felt in that moment was so strong it also made me feel guilty.

The woman started to walk away. I took a few steps following her and said, this time in English:

⁃ “I am so sorry, you just look like my daughter. I must have scared you. I am sorry. Do you need anything?”

She stopped again and looked at me like I was crazy. She was visibly annoyed now.

⁃ “I am fine.”

She stressed each word, making it clear this weird conversation between us was over.

She hurried off, this time determined not to react. Her shoulders were bent, the large backpack towering over her.

I suddenly felt cold.

The wind was really strong, and it began to snow. Feeling shaken, I returned to my car. The driver’s door was still halfway open.

Getting back inside the vehicle, I sat there in the darkness for quite a long time before I could drive.