A Silver Willow by the Shore

by Kelli Stuart

  Annie blinks back tears. “You do?” she asks. Relief floods over her as weeks of trying to work up the courage to tell James this news unwinds.

  James smiles. “I really do.” He glances down at the table for a moment before speaking again. “My little sister was adopted,” he says.

  Annie raises her eyebrows. “Really?” she asks.

  “Yeah. I was ten when my parents brought her home. They had wanted another child after me and hadn’t been able to have one naturally, so they decided to adopt and....” he pauses, running his hand through his hair. He looks back at Annie, his eyes bright. “Annie, I will never forget the look on my mom’s face when she walked through the door with Lily. It was...I don’t know how to describe it. It was like the purest form of joy, you know? Like they had been waiting for this tiny person their whole lives, and there she was. We were all crazy about her. It was like we had been given the greatest, most undeserved gift.”

  He looks back at Annie who brushes away the tears before they have a chance to spill down her cheeks.

  “You’re doing something amazing, Annie,” he says. “You’re going to make someone’s dream come true.”

  Annie smiles. “Thank you,” she whispers.

  James smiles back, and he leans forward again so that his face is closer to her. “You’re welcome,” he says. “But you’re still going to have to make sure that your mother and crazy babushka are okay with my dad and I coming before we cross the threshold of your doorway, deal?”

  Annie laughs, wiping her eyes one more time. The bell rings and the two gather their things. Annie tucks her book under her arm and gives James a small wave. “Have a good afternoon,” she says. James makes a face.

  “I have Biology next,” he says. Annie wags her finger at him.

  “Pay attention,” she says. “No reading during class.”

  “Ugh, but it’s so boring,” James complains. He reaches over and grabs Annie’s backpack, pulling her to his side. Leaning down, he gives her a quick peck on the cheek. Annie’s whole body grows warm, and she leans into him.

  “See you later, Anastasia,” he says. With a subtle wink, he turns and runs up the stairs. Annie watches him go, and for the first time she starts to believe what people have been telling her.

  She finally believes that she might be brave.

  Nina

  Na zdorovya.

  To your health.

  Nina opens up her mother’s door quietly. She can hear Elizaveta in the bathroom humming loudly, the old Russian folk song quaking its way out of weathered vocal pipes. She smiles because she remembers her mother constantly singing when she was younger. She had a terrible voice, but she still insisted on singing loudly whenever she was in the bathroom, or cooking in the kitchen. She boldly belted out Soviet folk songs, and mercilessly hummed the national anthem. The most horrifying for Nina as a child had been the days following a trip to the opera when suddenly her mother believed herself to be in league with the famed Galina Vishnevskaya. She pranced through their small flat belting out the role of the soaring soprano while Nina huddled on the couch, hands pressed to her ears because it sounded like a cat being slaughtered. On occasion, the neighbor would come knocking on the door, a surly old man who always smelled of cheap wine and herring, and he would yell at her to quit her screeching, to which Elizaveta would respond by singing louder and longer.

  Now, Nina finds comfort in her mother’s shaky tune, oddly missing those moments from childhood. She reaches for the laundry basket, and as she leans down, her eye catches something in the open closet across the room. A small, metal box peeks out from behind the clothes hanging on the rack. Nina glances at the bathroom door, her mother’s tune blending in with the running sink water. She tiptoes to the closet.

  Pulling out the box, she gently lifts the lid and takes sight of the objects inside. The first thing she notices is a small pair of shoes that she recognizes from her childhood. Nina draws in a sharp breath at the sight of these precious objects from her youth. She runs her hand over the shoes remembering how upset she’d been when she’d gotten them dirty, certain that her mother would be forever disappointed in her.

  She glances nervously at the bathroom door and pulls out the shoes. Beneath them are several folded papers, along with her Komsomol pin, which lay on top of the red kerchief she used to tie around her neck before grade school. She sets these larger items aside, relishing for one more, quick second the feel of her youth beneath her fingertips.

  She reaches in and pulls out the papers. The first is a drawing that she has never before seen. It’s a pencil sketch of a little girl lying on the couch, sound asleep, her hair matted to her forehead. Blankets are tangled around the little girl’s thin legs, and her hands rest peacefully on her stomach. The picture is faded in spots, yellowed on the corner, but the drawing is so well done, so lifelike, that Nina almost thinks she sees the girl’s chest rising and falling. Nina glances at the writing in the bottom corner of the page, and it takes her breath away completely.

  “Nina. February 2, 1968. My daughter.”

  This was a picture of her, drawn by her mother. Nina runs a shaking finger gently over the edges of the paper. She blinks several times before shifting her eyes back to the bottom of the box. She reaches down and pulls out a stack of papers, slowly and gingerly unfolding the top sheet.

  It’s a letter, the scrawled language faint on the page. Nina squints, holding the letter under the lamp to make out the faded words. She immediately recognizes her mother’s elegant handwriting, and she reads the words slowly.

  Dear Mama,

  Forgive me.

  Your daughter

  Nina folds the letter and lets it fall back into the box. She unfolds the second sheet of paper, and reads the same words. Over and over, she opens up letter after letter, each one asking for forgiveness. Sometimes the words are written shakily, as though the hand that looped them was unsteady. Others are written with darker, more sure handwriting, as though written in a fit of anger.

  Nina counts up the sheets of paper. Fifty-three letters, all reading the same thing, fall back into the box. A tear slips from her eye before she has the chance to cut it off, and it drips onto the stack, spreading out across the paper, blotting her mother’s hidden words. Who was this grandmother she had never known, and what happened between the two that caused her own mother such intense grief? Nina looks up at the bathroom door that separates her from the woman she has longed to know her entire life and a lump lodges tight in her throat.

  The water in the bathroom turns off, and Nina quickly replaces the items, hands quaking as she makes sure to put them in exactly as she took them out. She pushes the metal box back into the closet and flutters from the room, closing the door behind her just as the door to her mother’s bathroom opens. Nina leans her head against the door for a moment, waiting for her heart to slow down.

  “Mom?”

  Nina jumps and yelps, pushing away from her mother’s door and running into the kitchen. Annie looks at her with eyebrows raised.

  “Um...you okay?”

  “What?” Nina asks. She looks at Annie with an air of confusion. “Oh, sure. Yes. I’m okay. I’m fine. Sorry, I was just making sure your, uh, grandmother was doing okay in her room. I was trying to be quiet. You scared me.”

  “Okaaaay,” Annie says, her word drawn out. She looks skeptically at Nina.

  “What do you need, Annie?” Nina asks. She moves to the stove and grabs the teakettle, turning toward the sink to fill it with water.

  “Well, I...um...wanted to ask you a question,” Annie answers. Nina turns the water off and puts the kettle on the stovetop, turning the heat to high and watching as the burner lights to a bright orange.

  “Okay,” she says, her back to Annie as she fights to control her emotions.

  “Well, um, do you remember that day you came home and my friend James was here talking with me?”

  Nina narrows her eyes and turns around, crossing her arms over her chest.<
br />
  “I remember,” she says.

  “Okay, well James and I were talking at school today, and he and his dad don’t have any plans for Christmas. They kind of want to just...skip Christmas this year. So I was thinking that since we never do anything on Christmas, maybe we could have them here? For a late lunch?”

  Nina watches the way Annie twitches nervously as she speaks. “Uh-huh,” Nina says. “And this boy, his name is James?”

  Annie nods.

  “Why is it that he and his father do not celebrate Christmas? Are they American?”

  “Yes, they’re American, Mom,” Annie says, shaking her head. “It’s just...well, James’ mom and little sister were killed in a car accident last Christmas. It’s going to be a hard day for him and his dad, so I thought maybe we could help distract them.”

  “Oh, that is a terrible pity,” Nina says, shaking her head. She pinches the bridge of her nose and draws in a deep breath. “It’s very kind of you to think of them, Annie,” she says, “but are you sure you want to invite company to our home right now?” she asks. “It seems there is a lot going on these days.”

  “I know,” Annie says softly. “But I’m sure. I think it could be good for them. And maybe for us, too.”

  The kettle begins to sing behind them, and Nina turns to remove it from the stovetop. “Well, then, okay,” Nina murmurs. “Let’s do it. Perhaps I will invite Viktor over as well.”

  Annie looks up at her in surprise. “Viktor?” she asks. She offers her mother a crooked smile. “So you are seeing Viktor?”

  “Oh, it’s nothing,” Nina says with a wave of her hand, but when she glances at Annie and sees the look of skepticism cross her face, she sighs.

  “Okay,” she says. “Maybe it’s not nothing. He is a very nice man—a good man. He has been my only friend these last months, too. And he wants to meet you formally. You’ve met him as Dr. Shevchenko, but he would like you to know him as Viktor.” Nina clears her throat. “Are you okay with that?”

  Annie thinks for a moment, her blue eyes searching her mother’s face. “Yeah,” she says finally. “I think I’m okay with that.” She glances at her grandmother’s door, then looks back at her mom with raised eyebrows. “Will she be okay with that?”

  Nina winces. “She will be more than okay. She’ll be thrilled, which is why I haven’t had the nerve to tell her about it.”

  Annie snorts. “You might want to say something before Christmas day then,” she says with a laugh. Nina tries to smile in return.

  “Yes,” she replies. “I suppose I will have to confess,” she says.

  The two stare at one another for a long moment before Nina clears her throat and speaks again. “Okay, then. We should plan a menu. We will need a turkey, right? And cranberries? Aren’t those things that Americans eat for holiday meals? It’s been a long time since I prepared one.”

  Nina thinks back to her first Christmas in the United States when Andrew took her home to Florida to meet his family. His mother had eyed her suspiciously throughout the meal, watching her every reaction as she tried the new and foreign foods. And his father had peppered her with questions about Moscow, most of them ridiculously misinformed.

  “So do people really fill their babies’ bottles with vodka in the Soviet Union?” he’d asked, at which Andrew laughed, and Nina rifled through her confusion and limited vocabulary to try to come up with a reasonable answer.

  “What about the mafia? Do they run the shots there? Wait...you’re not a spy, are you sweetheart?”

  He asked his questions and they all laughed, but a current of belief ran through each of his veiled jokes. They’d left that evening and had their first real argument when Nina demanded to know why Andrew didn’t defend her, and he blustered on about her needing to learn to take a joke.

  “Well,” Annie says, dragging Nina from the memory. “James says he’d love to try Russian food, and you haven’t made borsch in forever. Maybe you should make some for Christmas day. And we can have vereniki, and kutia, and black bread, and...do you think babushka would make her pampushki?”

  Nina softens. The sweet doughnuts were Annie’s favorite, and they had been the only thing that had ever joined her daughter and her mother together.

  “Well, if I can find all the ingredients I need in the next few days, then I don’t see why we can’t do that. It might be nice to sit down to a hot meal from home.” Annie nods.

  “I’ll only do this if you agree to one thing,” Nina says. Annie’s smile fades, and she crosses her arms.

  “Alright?” she says, her voice guarded.

  “I want you to help me in the kitchen,” Nina says raising her chin. Annie smiles.

  “Okay,” she says. “I think that’ll be fun.”

  “Good. Alright then. Let’s make a list.” Annie and Nina sit down at the table to plan, and as Nina pulls her chair up close to her daughter, she glances back at her mother’s door, and her stomach flips as she thinks of the woman behind the closed door whom she knows nothing about.

  The few days before Christmas pass in a whirl of activity as Nina and Annie frantically gather all the ingredients needed to pull together an authentic Russian meal. Nina keeps herself busy, refusing to stop long enough to let the lingering doubts and sadness that are always just below the surface wash over her. She hardly looks at her mother in the days leading up to their Christmas meal, and Elizaveta takes in the sight of her bustling daughter with sinking emotions. The tension leaves her exhausted.

  “Mama?”

  Christmas morning came and went with very little interaction between Nina and her mother. Nina pushes open Elizaveta’s door to find her sitting in her chair in the corner of the room. Her face is pinched, eyes weary. “Are you okay?”

  “Yes, fine,” Elizaveta replies. “Just tired.”

  “Of course,” Nina murmurs. She takes a step forward and clasps her hands in front of her. “Well,” she begins. “Annie and I are just about ready for our Christmas meal. We even made pampushki. I wish you could have helped us, though.” Nina clears her throat. She asked her mother to help them earlier, but Elizaveta had scoffed.

  “You do not need me cluttering up the room,” she’d said with a wave of her hand.

  Nina takes one more step forward. “Mama, I wanted to let you know that Dr. Shevchenko is coming for our Christmas lunch today. He and I have been talking to one another...quite frequently, actually. And we’ve seen each other for several dinners.”

  Elizaveta stares hard at her daughter, her eyes narrowed as though she is fighting to concentrate on her words.

  “I have...enjoyed my time with him,” Nina says, clumsily tripping over her words as her cheeks flush. She clears her throat nervously.

  Elizaveta nods her head once. “That is good,” she says. Her voice sounds fatigued. “I told you he is a good, strong man. You must not to let him go.”

  Nina bites her lip and shakes her head. She claps her hands lightly together. “So,” she says, ready to change the subject quickly. “Can I help you get dressed for our company?”

  “Oh, I’m not going to join you for lunch,” Elizaveta replies. She leans her head back and closes her eyes. “I am too tired.”

  “Oh, no, Mama!” Nina cries. “We want you there. Annie and I really do. We made all your favorite foods!”

  Elizaveta shakes her head, not opening her eyes. “I don’t want to, Ninochka,” she says. Her voice is stubborn, like a toddler’s, grumpy and gruff.

  Nina sighs. She opens her mouth to speak again. There are so many questions she longs to ask, but there’s never a right or easy way to ask them. Before she can speak, the doorbell rings, stealing the words from her lips.

  “Well, Mama,” she says quietly, “I hope you change your mind. It would be a shame not to have you with us.”

  Slowly, she pulls the door closed, taking a deep breath to clear her head before walking across the room and pulling open the front door. Her mouth spreads into a smile of relief when she sees Vikt
or.

  “Merry Christmas,” he says.

  Nina smiles at Viktor as he steps inside. He leans down and kisses her on the cheek, then holds out the vase of flowers.

  “You look lovely,” he whispers in her ear. Nina shivers.

  “You look very nice yourself,” she says, stepping back and taking in the sight of him. He is dressed in dark slacks, a crisp, blue shirt tucked neatly into his pants, revealing his strong shoulders and narrow waist. He follows Nina into the kitchen and nods as she holds up a glass of wine in his direction.

  “Red or white?” she asks.

  “Red, please,” he answers. “It smells amazing in here,” he says.

  Nina smiles. “Thank you. Annie and I have been working on this meal all day. I finally sent her upstairs to put her feet up for a bit before the company arrives.”

  Viktor sits down on one of the stools at the counter and smiles at Nina. “So it sounds like things are improving between the two of you,” he says.

  Nina nods. “It has been a good week,” she says.

  Nina glances at her mother’s door then turns back to Viktor. “Mama has been in a bit of a mood today. Things between her and Annie have only gotten worse. Mama has known about Annie’s...condition...for over a month, but they still haven’t spoken to one another about it. Mama wasn’t too happy about having people over, either. She says she’s not joining us for lunch.” Nina opens her mouth to continue, to tell Viktor about what she found in her mother’s closet, but finds she cannot formulate the discovery into words yet. She closes her mouth again and swallows hard.

  Viktor glances over at Elizaveta’s door. “Mind if I go talk to her?” he asks. Nina shrugs.

  “You can try,” she says. She walks him to the door and knocks softly.

  “Mama?” she calls. “Dr. Shevchenko, uh...Viktor is here.” Nina blushes again. “He’d like to come say hello. Is that okay?”

  It’s silent for a moment before the gruff reply floats through the door. “Khorosho. Fine.”