The Language of Sisters

by Cathy Lamb

  * * *

  “Are you going to invite me to your sister’s wedding, Toni?”

  “No.”

  Nick was not pleased. I couldn’t blame him. I blamed myself. We were naked, in his bed. I had brought dinner. Pasta with chicken and parmesan. Hot bread. Beer. We ate dinner on his deck, we talked about our days, Nick kept kissing me, I kept laughing, and we ended up in his bath, then his bed, by nine.

  “Why?”

  “Because. My family is loud and noisy and nosy and I can’t bring you yet.”

  “We can sleep together but I can’t meet your family?”

  “Right.” I am a cold piranha-like human. “I’m sorry.”

  “So am I, Toni. We need to talk about this.”

  “There’s nothing to say. I’m not ready to introduce you to my family.”

  “You’re not ready for anything.”

  I got up to go, anger flashing right through me, along with guilt and a dose of deep sadness. I did not need this. I didn’t need the stress or the pressure.

  He caught my wrist. “Why don’t you quit running and talk to me?”

  “Because we don’t need to talk about anything, and why did you have to spoil a fun night?”

  “I didn’t want to spoil it, and yes, we do have to talk.”

  “Why? Things are fine. We like to sleep together now and then.”

  “Now and then, Toni?” I didn’t miss the incredulous tone. “Most nights. We also like talking, being outside on the deck, and reading together in bed, to name a few things.”

  “That’s enough.”

  “It’s not enough for me, babe.”

  “It’s all I can give.”

  The silence was a zinging, tight cord between us. Yank, yank, yank.

  “I know what you’re doing, Nick.”

  “What am I doing?”

  “You’re trying to figure out how best to handle me, and I don’t appreciate it. You’re trying to figure out how to get what you want, how to make me change my mind, how to make me see things your way in our relationship.”

  “You’re a brilliant woman, and that’s one of the things I like best about you, but you’re also making me sound manipulative.”

  “Aren’t you being manipulative?”

  “No, I’m not. I’m trying to change where we are in this relationship. I like you, Toni. You are the most remarkable woman I have ever met, and I know you’ve been through a hard time.”

  I felt the tears. The tears always seemed to start in my heart. “Everyone’s been through a hard time.”

  He nodded. “Yes. But you have been through a particularly hard time.”

  “You’re making my brain tired. I don’t like it.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I mean, Nick, that I can’t take the tired. I can’t take more stress. I don’t want either in my life. I want a relationship that’s only for us. I want you to be an island. That sounds stupid, but I want you to be the place I can go to where everything is smooth. Peaceful. I don’t want to tell you all my problems. I don’t want to delve deep into your life, because I can’t handle the job that you do and the threat to your life and how you sometimes get in fights and get cuts and bruises, and I don’t want to have to worry about you, and care, and be at home wondering if some drug addict has attacked you. It’s too much. And I don’t want anything serious, because I would feel overwhelmed.”

  “I don’t want to make you feel overwhelmed. I don’t want to make you tired. I don’t want to cause you stress. I don’t want you to worry about me when I’m at work. That’s not my intention at all.”

  “But I do worry about you already, and I’m ticked off about that.” Super-ticked off. How dare he make me worry?

  “I’m sorry, Toni.”

  “You should be, Nick.” I knew my tone was angry. I knew it sounded silly to get angry at Nick because his job made me worry. “I told you from the start what I wanted, and you agreed to it.”

  “I have agreed to it. And now I need to change this. What about what I want? Is that not relevant to you at all?”

  “I want you to be happy, Nick. If you’re not happy with me, then we’ll quit seeing each other.”

  “That easy for you, is it?”

  Oh, that triggered him right on up the temper ladder. “It’s not easy for me to say that we’ll quit seeing each other, but I’m also not going to get in a deeper relationship than what I want, what I can do.”

  “Shit,” he muttered. “You really know how to make me feel like I am nothing in your life.”

  “I don’t mean to—”

  “Yes, you do. You’re clear on that. You could walk away from us, from this, easily.” He stood up and yanked on his boxers. “You just said so. You said we could quit seeing each other, as if it wouldn’t matter to you at all. As if I don’t matter to you at all.”

  “I don’t want to walk away from us, Nick. I thought you and I had an understanding. I thought you wanted what I want.”

  “What I want is a committed relationship with you. I have always wanted that. I was clear about it. I thought, I hoped, we could move in that direction.”

  “I told you from the start we couldn’t. I was up-front and honest. Now you want to change my mind.”

  “Can’t I?” His eyes were soft, and sad, but still truly pissed.

  “You can’t.” But he could. And I couldn’t let that happen. “I’m not ready and you have a bad job that I am not going to deal with.”

  “I have a job that I love, Toni. It’s what I’ve always wanted to do. I believe in what I do. We take down drug dealers, we break up drug rings. It’s relentless, but I know what I’m doing is right.”

  “It’s not right for me.”

  “I would never ask you to quit your job, Toni. Even when you were working crime and justice and you were in dangerous places sometimes, I never said quit.”

  “If you had, I would have been even madder than I am now.” I threw a pillow across the room.

  “Feel better?”

  “ No. ”

  I threw another pillow.

  “Feel better now?”

  “No.” I threw one more, then laughed, couldn’t help it.

  I saw a smile tip a corner of his mouth.

  “Nick, I know you love your job, but I don’t want to be so wrapped up in you that I have to”—I stroked my throat, suddenly tight, as if despair was shutting it down—“have to lose ...”

  “You’re not going to lose me. I’m careful.” He stared out his window at the river, then turned back to me, his shoulders not as straight as they had been before. “Okay, Toni. Here’s where I am. I want to be with you, but I need more between us. You don’t. You know where I am, and when you’re ready, I’m here, if you want to change things. I’m not going to wait forever, but I will wait now.”

  Why do I cry so easily? I put my arms over my head. I wanted to hide. Nick wrapped his arms around me, and I cried on that chest of his. “I am so screwed up.”

  “You aren’t screwed up, babe.”

  “I’m sorry I threw your pillows. That wasn’t nice.”

  “It’s okay. Don’t cry. Come here. No, don’t pull away, come here, baby. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to upset you... . I bought chocolates for you. Want a chocolate?”

  I did.

  Nick deserves more than me, more than this.

  * * *

  I loved Marty’s parents, they loved me.

  It was ridiculous. Everything was butterflies and rainbows and puppies that didn’t slobber.

  I didn’t know a thing about planning a wedding, but it didn’t matter. My mother and Marty’s mother, Raina, sat down with me one day, after they had had lunch to discuss “our children’s wedding.”

  They asked me ten questions about what I wanted. Flowers, colors, bridesmaids, invitation design, etc. My head spun. But, first question they asked—when did I want the wedding?

  I told them to ask Marty. They said they had. Marty wanted to get married as
soon as possible, preferably “next weekend.” The mothers were in a mighty stew about that one. They “could not possibly” get it together that quickly. They both wagged their fingers at me, as only Russian mothers can do. “No. That is no. Tsk!”

  “The wedding must be perfect,” my mother said. “For our children.”

  Raina nodded. “It is a gift, from us to you, our son and daughter. We will plan this for you, okay?” She cupped my face, kissed my cheeks and said, “You are now my daughter, Antonia. I love you.” And then she peered down at my stomach, her face hopeful. “Is there a baby in there yet? I want to be a grandmother.”

  My mother sat up straight. Yes to being a grandmother! “You do it, Toni. You do a quickie. We want the baby.”

  The reception would be at the restaurant, that was a given.

  I hear nightmares about mothers-in-law. My mother-in-law was, is, beautiful, as is Marty’s father, who is so like him.

  Marty and I let the mothers do their thing. They were delighted to do it. The fathers got together to “help” and ended up in our garage, my father’s man cave, where they watched football. They also “helped” by going golfing together.

  Both Marty and I were working long hours and the mothers had the wedding in hand, so we decided to spend more time in bed together. It was more relaxing and exciting.

  I decided to keep my last name. I know Marty would have liked it if I changed it, but I couldn’t. Maybe it was because of what the Kozlovskys went through in Moscow. Maybe it was my independent streak. But I was a Kozlovsky forever, and so in love I could hardly think.

  As for my bridal shower, fiery fight on who got to do that, but JJ ended up doing it because she got all bossy and promised cool hair products from her salon. Bachelorette party, another fiery fight on who got to do that, but Zoya and Tati did it because they promised everyone a packet of stripper panties. A bridal brunch, fiery fight again, my aunt Polina won because she put her foot down and threatened to “let my temper run around and about like Russian Mafia!”

  The rehearsal dinner, for eighty, as no one could be left out, Marty’s parents hosted at their home.

  Then the-day-after-the-wedding brunch. Another fiery fight. Anya and Aunt Holly took charge. Forcefully.

  Miraculously, at the end of planning the wedding, the mothers were best friends, as were the fathers. You want fairy tale. Marty and I had a freaking fairy tale.

  We loved the bridal shower, the bachelor and bachelorette parties, the bridal brunch, the rehearsal dinner, and the day-after brunch. The wedding was spectacular because all of our family and friends were there. Two hundred people, about half of Russian descent.

  It was too perfect.

  Perhaps that was the problem.

  It was too sparkly and shiny and bright to be true, so it was taken away.

  15

  “I’m worried about Dmitry,” Valerie said.

  “Me too,” Ellie said.

  “What? What wrong my Dmitry?” my mother asked, dropping her fork, her voice low. We were at my parents’ house for Sunday dinner. Valerie’s family begged out as Ailani was writing an essay on how to become a homicide detective, and Gino was going to his niece’s birthday party.

  Gino was not pleased that Ellie wasn’t with him at the niece’s birthday party, which made Ellie put a bag to her face when she told us. “I can’t stand his family,” she said.

  “What is this? Why the worry?” my father asked, his head swiveling back and forth, daughter to daughter. “What is happening with my son now?”

  “His sadness is back,” I said.

  “My Dmitry.” My mother’s lips trembled.

  “No,” my father said, his shoulders hunching. “No. Not again.”

  “When is he coming home?” Valerie asked.

  “Soon, he said.” I poured a glass of wine for my mother, who was now saying the Our Father and crossing herself.

  “How soon?” Ellie asked.

  “For the wedding.” There was still no set date for Ellie’s wedding. I poured a glass of wine for my father.

  “Please, God,” my father said, tilting his head up. “Bring my son back home to me.”

  “All this ...” My mother threw her hands in the air. “Always walking, searching. Wandering, he calls it, on that bloggy that he writes.” She put a hand to her lips as the tears spilled.

  “But no wandering to Russia,” Valerie said. She looked exhausted.

  “Russia!” my father spat out. “Was Soviet Union. Dangerous government. Dangerous men. He does not need to go to Russia. Not safe.”

  “When he comes home, he wants answers, Papa.” I leaned forward. “The truth.”

  “The truth?” My father suddenly stood up and slammed his fists on the table. We all jumped. “I tell this family the truth many times. Many times! The truth is Dmitry is my son, your mother’s son. He is your brother.” He stabbed a finger at us. “That is truth! He comes to us a little boy, a gift from God, and we raise him as a Kozlovsky. But still. Not enough, never enough!

  “You want more truth? The truth is we hardly, by an inch, not even two inch, made it out of the Soviet Union alive. I barely lived in that prison. Your uncle Leonid, gone. My father, gone.” He didn’t bother to wipe his tears. “Curse that man who tormented my father. He has been in hell, all these years, where he belongs. Your mother, so ill when I return. Our names on The List. Do you not remember, you girls, do you not remember? Antonia? Valeria? Elvira?”

  We all nodded.

  “So there. The truth is we take Dmitry with us when we leave. Yes. It was like that. We hide. We leave it behind. All behind!” My father slammed his fists on the table again.

  He gets angry when Dmitry is unhappy. It makes him unhappy, so it brings on anger. “Dmitry should leave it behind. Be happy. Grateful that no men come in the middle of the night, drag us off, beat us, starve us ... but no, he not. He walk around this earth. He should come home, marry nice Russian girl. Have the babies.”

  We were silent. My father did this now and then, a proclamation. He would stand at the table, or hit it with both hands. Then he would settle down.

  He settled back down, sighed. “Never enough for my boy.”

  “He says it’s hard to move forward in your own life when you don’t know who you are and where you came from,” Ellie said.

  “He says he knows you two have kept something from his past from him,” Valerie said. “Have you? What do you know?”

  “Ack,” my father said, rolling his head in his hands.

  “Tsk, tsk,” my mother said. “We keep the past in Moscow, where it belongs, but how we make Dmitry happy, Alexei?”

  My father’s eyes widened. “I have answer!”

  “What Alexei?” my mother said, touching his arm. “What the answer?”

  “We plant a vegetable garden together.” He grinned. He knew the answer!

  A vegetable garden? Ellie, Valerie, and I exchanged a glance.

  “Yes. Vegetable garden,” my father said. “Then maybe he stop walking. Stop trying to find something, someone, who not there, who he will not find again. Stay home. Grow carrots. Radish. Tomatoes. He tell me in high school, he remember a vegetable garden. He say it to me many times, but he no like potatoes or beets. So no potatoes and beets. We buy land, and he work the land and we use vegetables in restaurant. What you think, Svetlana?”

  “Yes! You are smart, Alexei,” my mother gushed. “You think of everything.” She tapped her head with her finger. “Right there.”

  My father smiled, proud. Proud his wife was proud of him.

  My mother stood up, leaned over, and kissed him on the lips. He hugged her, kissed her back. She wrapped her arms around his neck.

  “I’m trying to eat,” Valerie said. “That’s enough.”

  They laughed together. My mother kissed him again. “You solve this problem, Alexei. Now you call our son, say come home, no?”

  “Yes, I do it once again. Tomorrow. I had enough of this,” my father said. �
�Now is time I tell him. Dmitry come home. Gets a wife and the babies. And a garden. No beets. No potatoes.”

  He kissed her cheek. She smiled at him with such seduction, I rolled my eyes.

  “I’m but an innocent child,” I said. “I should not have to see this.”

  My father lifted my mother onto his lap. She giggled. Yes, it was a giggle.

  “Mama!” Ellie said. “Papa!”

  “Stop,” Valerie drawled. “I’m still drinking wine.”

  My mother shrugged.

  “Your mother is very tired,” my father told us.

  Mama didn’t look tired. In fact, she giggled again.

  My sisters and I made our excuses, got up to leave. Our parents gave each of us a hug, kissed both of our cheeks, and as soon as we were a millimeter out the door, it slammed shut.

  “Sheesh,” Valerie said, moving her heel away quick as could be so as not to get it smashed.

  * * *

  “Who was the architect who built your home?”

  “The architect? Jer Engleton. I slept with him.”

  Now that was an interesting factoid. My pen paused above my yellow writing pad. “You did?”

  “Yes.”

  The woman I was interviewing for an article for Homes and Gardens of Oregon, Liza Pennington, was massively hung over. It was eleven o’clock in the morning. Her blouse was open one too many buttons, and her mascara was smeared. She didn’t know, wouldn’t have cared. She was too thin. Her cleaning lady had just left. I had the impression that the cleaning lady had hauled Liza out of bed.

  We were at her dining room table staring out at the panoramic view of Portland from her 4,500-square-foot home in the hills. Liza and her husband, Eddy, a technology CEO, lived in a steel, glass, and wood wonder. Jer Engleton was a talented architect. “My husband doesn’t know it.”

  “Ah.” As a reporter, I hear a lot. It never ceases to amaze me how people open up to me. Anything they say can and will be held against them, so to speak, and I’ve had some doozer quotes in the past. But this was an article about Liza’s home, not her hangover or the affair, so I wouldn’t be using it.

  “I couldn’t resist Jer.”

  “Why not?” That was me being voyeuristic. Shame on me.

  “Jer is attractive enough, but basically it was his butt.”