by Kelli Stuart
“Good luck,” Nina whispers as she pushes open the door. Viktor steps into the dim room and takes in the sight of Elizaveta sitting in her recliner. She looks frail, her lower half covered with a thick blanket. He walks to the bed and sits on the edge next to her chair.
“Hello Elizaveta Andreyevna,” he says. “How are you doing today?”
“Humph.” Elizaveta pulls her blanket up and nestles under it a little tighter. Viktor continues talking as if he hadn’t heard her.
“It smells amazing out there, don’t you think?” he asks. “It reminds me of my mother, of the way she could make our kitchen smell just like home through a few simple ingredients. I think my mother missed Russia most when she cooked borsch. There was something about the smell that made her long for the comfort of home.”
Elizaveta locks eyes with Viktor and nods. “Yes, your Mama was right to feel that way,” she replies. “The more the years go by, the more I long for home. I live here with the only family I have, but my heart longs for the family of my country. I am a torn woman. I miss the sounds and the smells and...” Her voice trails off as her eyes glaze over. Viktor waits for her to continue.
“Of course, everything is different now,” she finally says, breaking her trance and looking up at him. Her eyes are sad, dark and brooding and far away. “The home of my childhood was not the home of my adulthood. And my home now would not be the same either. Everything changes.” The tremor in her voice draws Viktor down, leaning in so he can better observe her eyes.
He reaches over and grabs Elizaveta’s hand. “I would sure like it if you could join us for lunch today, Elizaveta Andreyevna,” he says gently. “These familiar smells make me remember my Mama the way that you remember home. Maybe you and I could be a comfort to one another.”
Elizaveta looks up at him and sighs. She is still for a long moment before replying. “Okay,” she mumbles. “But only because you are handsome and you have nice eyes. Not because I want to.”
Viktor smiles. “I suppose that’s fair,” he says.
“Tell my daughter I need her help getting dressed,” Elizaveta demands. Viktor nods and pushes to a stand.
“Spasibo bolshoya,” he says with a slight bow.
“You’re welcome,” Elizaveta replies.
Viktor walks out of the room and sidles up to Nina, grabbing her around the waist and resting his chin on her shoulder as she stirs the borsch in the large, metal pot.
“So, did she bite your head off?” Nina asks. “Because she’s been barking at me for two days.”
“Actually,” Viktor replies, “she wants you to go help her get dressed so that she can join us for dinner.”
Nina spins around and gapes at Viktor, who grins valiantly. “You are a miracle worker,” she says. “But why does she need me to help her get dressed? She dresses herself every day.”
Viktor shrugs. “I don’t know, but her mood is tenuous,” he replies. “If I were you I would go quickly.”
Nina playfully smacks his arm, then walks around him to enter her mother’s room.
“You decided to join us?” she asks as Elizaveta walks unsteadily to her closet. Elizaveta turns and nods stiffly at her daughter.
“Yes, I am going to join you because I think that Russian man in there is very handsome, and I want to make sure you don’t ruin things with him.”
Nina purses her lips together. “Okay, then. Well, Viktor says you need my help dressing. Is this true?” Elizaveta shakes her head.
“No, I can dress myself,” she says. Nina shakes her head in confusion and turns to go.
“Ninochka?” Elizaveta asks. “I need to talk to you later about something...important.”
The way she speaks makes the hair on Nina’s arms stand up. She nods slowly. “Okay,” she answers. “Of course, Mama. We can talk tonight.”
Nina walks shakily out of the room and pulls the door closed behind her.
They all pull their chairs to the table and look at one another awkwardly. The round, wooden table is small for a group this large. Nina sits looking at each of them, a plastic smile pasted on her face, entirely unaccustomed to entertaining this many people.
“Well,” she says, her voice cutting through the awkward silence. “Thank you all for joining us today. It’s been a while since we had guests.” She pauses. “So, I guess all I can say now is Merry Christmas.”
Everyone smiles. Nina gestures toward the table full of food. “Please,” she says. “Eat. Pass me your bowls, and I will serve the borsch.”
They pass their bowls to Nina, and she stands, walking into the kitchen. Viktor turns to James and his dad.
“So, Don and James, have either of you had a traditional borsch before?”
Don clears his throat and nods. “Actually, I have,” he says. “My wife and I took a cruise once, and there was a kitchen of international cuisine. The borsch was my wife’s favorite meal in that restaurant. Do you remember when she tried to make it at home?” he turns to ask James. The two lock eyes and fall into an uncomfortable silence.
“Anyway,” Don says, shifting nervously in his seat, “I’ve had it before. James hasn’t had a real borsch, though.”
James shakes his head. “Nope,” he says. “I’m looking forward to it.”
Nina smiles and puts a steaming bowl down in front of him. “Well, I’m glad,” she says with a warm smile. She places a bowl in front of Don, as well. “I hope it is comforting for both of you.”
James looks down at the shallow bowl and takes in a deep breath. The bright red broth gives off an aroma that makes his stomach rumble, though the visual is more than he had expected.
“It’s...colorful,” he whispers to Annie out of the corner of his mouth. She smiles.
“Yep,” she says. “And it’s delicious. Here,” she reaches across him, her hand brushing his as she grabs a bowl of sour cream. Taking a heaping spoonful, she drops a dollop of the sour cream in his bowl. Immediately, it begins to spread out, tiny little pieces of white breaking off like icebergs in an ocean of red and turning the broth a vibrant pink.
“That’s the Russian way to eat borsch,” she says. She puts sour cream in her own bowl and stirs it around slowly, the meat and cabbage bumping against her spoon. Drawing a large spoonful up to her mouth, she blows on it gently then takes a bite. She closes her eyes, the hint of a smile whispering across her face. “It’s so good,” she says.
James takes a deep breath, unsure about this new experience. He stirs in the sour cream, then lifts the spoon to his mouth and sips the liquid off the end. His eyes widen in surprise.
“Oh! It’s good!” he cries. He takes another bite and closes his eyes as he swallows. “It’s really, really good!” He looks around the table. “Like this is so good I want to rub it all over my face!”
Annie and Viktor laugh while Nina blinks in confusion.
“I...I don’t understand,” she stammers. “You will rub it on your face?” Annie laughs harder. James’ dad shakes his head in disbelief.
“You would think I had never taken him out in public before,” Don says to the group.
James takes another bite. “I’m sorry,” he says, his cheeks flushed. “I get excited about food. This stuff is really awesome. What’s it made of?”
“Thank you, James,” Nina says, nodding at the boy who had once made her so suspicious. “The main ingredient is beet. That is how you get the beautiful red color and the rich taste. It can be prepared different ways, but we like it with the meat, potatoes, fresh cabbage, carrots, tomato sauce, and a little onion. That’s how my mama made it.” Nina offers Elizaveta a small smile. Elizaveta blinks back at her daughter. She sits quiet in her chair, her borsch untouched.
Nina clears her throat in the uncomfortable silence and grabs her wine glass. “To new beginnings and new friends,” she says, raising her glass high. “And Na zdorovya,” she says, gesturing toward the food.
“What is Na zdorovya?” James whispers after they’ve all taken a sip of their drink
s and put their glasses back on the table.
“It means ‘to your health’,” Annie translates. “It’s the server’s way of telling you to enjoy your food.”
For several minutes, they’re all silent, sipping the hot broth off of their spoons and relishing the bold mix of flavors.
“This is excellent, Nina,” Don says, and Viktor nods beside him.
“Truly, it is,” Viktor says. “It reminds me of my mother’s borsch, and she was generally known to be the best cook on the planet.”
Nina blushes. She looks at her mother who has finally taken a bite and laid her spoon back down next to her bowl.
“Mama?” she asks. “What do you think?”
Elizaveta looks over at Nina, blinking her eyes slowly. “It needs a little more salt,” she answers. Nina’s face drops, but she quickly brushes past the comment.
“Make sure you save room, everyone,” she says. “I’ve also got vinegret, chicken, a chocolate torte, and pamposhki, which Annie helped me make today.”
Annie smiles at her mom.
“What’s vinegret?” James asks.
“It’s a Slavic salad,” Viktor answers. “It’s made of beets, cabbage, peas, pickles, carrots, potatoes, and onions, and dressed with a little sunflower oil, and salt and pepper.”
James swallows hard and tries to keep his face neutral. “Sounds great,” he lies.
Viktor smiles and pats him on the back. “It’s better than it sounds,” he says.
James nods. “And pamposhki?” he asks.
“Oh, you will love it,” Annie replies. “It’s kind of like a donut, but it can be filled with potatoes or cheese. We filled ours with cheese. That’s the way Babushka always made them.” She offers her grandmother a shy glance. Elizaveta stares back, her eyes glassy. James watches the exchange between the two and clears his throat.
“Well, I cannot wait to keep eating,” he says with a smile.
The meal passes slowly, with everyone relaxing and falling into natural conversation. Nina, Viktor, and Don all discuss matters surrounding healthcare, each of them playing a small part in that world.
Annie and James talk quietly among themselves about their latest book in English Lit.
“I love The Crucible,” James tells her. “It’s so fascinating because it’s based on actual history. Like, that kind of stuff happened. Doesn’t that sort of blow your mind?” Annie smiles and shakes her head.
“Of course you love it,” she answers. “Is there a book you’ve read that you didn’t like?”
James thinks for a moment. “Pride and Prejudice,” he replies.
Annie laughs.
“I couldn’t get into it,” he continues. “I think, maybe, I have just a little too much testosterone to enjoy Jane Austen.”
“Well, I guess I don’t think that’s a bad thing,” she says with a snicker.
James grins, thoroughly enjoying Annie’s relaxed smile and unguarded conversation.
An hour later, they all stand from the table and stretch.
“I’m stuffed,” Don says. Nina chuckles.
“What are you laughing at?” he asks.
“When I first came to the US,” she replies, “my husband would always say that after we ate. He would stand up, stretch, and say ‘I’m stuffed’, and I could never figure out what he meant. I spent the first year of our marriage trying to figure out what it was to be ‘stuffed’. I kept imagining teddy bears with their stuffing, and it was such a funny picture for me that I would laugh every time he said it. The sentence still makes me smile.”
Annie watches her mother closely as she tells her story. This was the first time she’d ever heard her mother talk freely about her first husband. It was different to see her speak so loosely.
“Well, James and I should head home,” Don says. “There are big football games to watch today, right, son?”
“Oh,” James replies, “right. The football games. Can’t miss those.” James turns to Annie and rolls his eyes. She giggles.
“Would you like us to help clean up before we go?” Don asks.
“Oh, no. But thank you,” Nina replies. “This has been a lovely afternoon. I’m glad that you came to celebrate with us.”
Don clears his throat. “Thank you for having us,” he replies. “Today is a hard day. It was nice to take our minds off of things for a little while.”
“You’re welcome to stay longer if you’d like,” Nina offers. Don shakes his head.
“No, thank you,” he replies. He glances at James and gestures toward the door.
“See you later,” James whispers. “Think of me as I suffer through the rest of this day.”
Annie smiles and walks them to the door, waving goodbye as they duck into their car.
She turns and heads back to the kitchen, grabbing several of the plates off the table. A small pain in her abdomen causes her to gasp and fold over, dropping one of the bowls.
“Annie?”
Nina and Viktor rush over to her. Viktor takes her hand and helps her straighten back up.
“I’m fine,” Annie says. “Really.”
She blushes as the three adults all stare at her. Viktor walks her to the couch and has her sit down.
“Where does it hurt?” he asks, squatting down in front of her.
“Nowhere right now,” she replies softly. She can feel her grandmother staring at her and she turns, locking eyes with the woman who makes her feel so alienated. But she doesn’t find judgment in her eyes. Instead, she sees understanding. It’s as though she sees her own reflection inside her babushka’s concerned gaze.
“It was just one quick, sharp pain,” she says, then she winces again.
“Can I put my hands on your stomach?” Viktor asks. Annie nods, blushing yet again. She wonders if she will ever get past the shame of this.
Viktor presses gently around the sides of her stomach. Another sharp pain jabs at her side and she winces again. Viktor smiles.
“It’s okay,” he says. “The baby is just kicking you, and he’s got quite a kick.”
“He?” Annie asks, her voice higher pitched.
“Or she,” Viktor says. “Here, put your hand right here.”
Annie puts her hand on her side and feels the thump against her ribs again. “I’ve felt some movement the last couple of weeks,” she admits, avoiding eye contact with her mom. “But nothing like this.” The baby kicks again, a sharp jab that takes her breath away. “That feels weird,” she whispers.
Viktor nods. “I imagine it would,” he says. “The baby has probably moved into a position that makes the kicks more noticeable.” He looks over at Nina who stands beside the couch, her hand clutching at her heart.
“You should feel this,” he says.
Annie finally looks up at her mom and nods slowly.
Nina takes a hesitant step forward and sits on the couch next to Annie. She places her hand on Annie’s side, and a smile breaks wide her face as she feels the little kick again.
“That hurts!” Annie says. Nina smiles.
“It looks like this little one is a fan of borsch,” she says.
“Annie, why don’t you go upstairs and rest,” Viktor says. “I’ll help your mom clean up.”
Annie looks at both of them. “Are you sure?” she asks.
Nina nods. “Yes, dorogaya,” she murmurs. “Go ahead.”
Annie stands up and smooths out her shirt, pulling it out away from her stomach self-consciously, still trying to conceal the ever widening bump that is growing more noticeable by the day. “Thank you,” she says gratefully to Viktor. He nods in return.
Annie walks by her grandmother, who stands rooted in place next to the table. She watches her granddaughter walk to the stairs, and a piece of her heart trails behind the girl with whom she cannot really communicate. She wants to tell her everything. It’s time. She needs them to know. The memories are pressing down with such force that she feels herself growing heavy. The weight of her silence is too much, and she needs t
o release the tension that’s mounting inside.
She turns to Nina and opens her mouth to speak, but the words won’t come out. She feels leaden, like she’s being pressed down from all sides. She wants to reach out to them, but her arms fail to work. Only a passing moan crosses her lips as she sinks.
She doesn’t hear Nina cry out, and by the time Viktor Shevchenko catches her, she can no longer even hold open her eyes.
Elizaveta
A silver willow by the shore
trails to the bright September waters.
My shadow, raised from the past,
Glides silently toward me.
Anna Akhmatova
Sinking. That’s the only way to describe what’s happening. The water has enveloped me, and no matter how hard I kick, I can’t break through the surface—I can’t even find it. And just when I feel my lungs beginning to burn with the desperate need to breathe, I burst through the other side of the memory. I blink as I lay panting on the shoreline of the past. Pushing myself to a sitting position, I feel my hair matted to my head. When I brush it back, I catch sight of my arm and hold it out in front of me. It’s smooth and tan, not yet weathered by age or spotted by the sun.
I squint, the light reflecting off the pond and nearly blinding me. I’m not really here; I know I can’t be. But it feels real, and so for a moment, I relax. The breeze is blowing, carrying with it a scent so familiar that I feel the ache in my heart widening and tearing at my insides. It smells of fresh dill and cucumber. With that scent comes the sound of my mama’s voice humming softly in the distance.
I turn my head and take in the sight of the house. It is small and wooden, the roof heavily slanted over rickety walls that don’t look sturdy enough to withstand even the whisper of a breeze. I know this place. It’s inside me, the memory of it. But right now it looks different. It’s brighter than I remember and more welcoming. This was the house we stumbled into after a long walk. I remember the walk, but I don’t remember why we were taking it.
I sit on the bank of the small pond for a long time trying to make sense of how I got here. I know this isn’t where I belong. I know that this is a life I left, but for how long was I gone? I can’t recall.