Penka had a box of different teas and I selected peppermint, hoping it would help settle my stomach. We brought our cups to the small kitchen table and sat, smiling awkwardly at each other.
“Znaesh li? Do you know?” I began struggling to find the right words. With the help of hand gestures where I lacked vocabulary, I managed to ask if she knew about Katya’s egg donation.
“Da,” Penka said, pointing to her stomach. “Donatsia.”
“Za men,” I said, and held my belly with both hands to indicate I was pregnant.
She stared at me. Her eyes were red and watery, the circles under them as dark as bruises.
“Bebe?” Penka finally asked.
“Da, bebe,” I said, and looked down at my hands still resting on my belly. “Katya bebe.”
Penka just sat there staring at me. The rat-a-tat of jackhammers came in from the construction site across the street. The shouts of the crew, the growl of heavy equipment. Had I made a mistake telling her?
“Bebe,” I said again, and motioned toward her. “Baba. Grandmother.”
A tear rolled down her cheek, leaving a moist trail. “Bozhe moi, bebe,” she said, sniffling. She leaned over and hugged me. “Na Katya, bebe.”
I held her tight, my own tears mixing with hers. “Bozhe moi,” I repeated after her. “My God.”
* * *
I walked out of Penka’s apartment feeling lighter. But it was more than just unloading a huge burden. We’d bonded over our shared grief and our hopes for the future of the baby growing inside me. I was surprised how much Bulgarian I remembered. And the more we talked, the more it was coming back to me.
I’d spent nearly two hours there, consuming copious amounts of tea and cookies while Penka told me stories about Katya’s childhood. Part of me found it painful to hear about the woman Tyler had had an affair with. But as a mother-to-be, I was eager to know more about the woman whose genes my baby would inherit. Penka lit up, talking about her daughter. Katya had been a very bright child. Always excelling in school, always far ahead of her classmates. She’d scored through the roof on the SATs and received a few scholarships that had made studying in the United States possible.
“She always took care of herself,” Penka said, her face glowing with a mother’s pride. “We were poor. I was working two jobs. There was no time to make her breakfast or help her with homework. And certainly no money to pay for school.”
Katya had been competitive and determined since she was very young. If she lost a board game, she had to play again and again until she won. “Until she got you back,” Penka said with the faintest of smiles, but a smile nonetheless. It was good to see her put her grief aside for a moment and remember the good times when her daughter was a stubborn little girl.
“She was feisty, too,” Penka added. “Never a crybaby.”
She told me how when Katya was in first grade, some boy pulled on her braid during roll call in the courtyard. Instead of crying out in pain, Katya clenched her teeth and waited. When the teacher let them go, she leaned over, grabbed a rock, and hit the boy on the head. He had to be rushed to the hospital to get stitched up. “It was the first time I was called to the principal’s office,” Penka said, the edges of her mouth curling up. “Over the years, I would become a regular.”
But Katya hadn’t just defended herself, Penka told me. If any of the other kids were bullied or wronged in any way, Katya jumped to help them, even if that meant getting herself hurt or in trouble. “The only reason they didn’t expel her,” Penka said, “was that she was their smartest student.”
I listened, nodding and smiling. Luckily, Penka didn’t ask about the baby’s father. She also didn’t mention anything about Katya’s untimely and mysterious death and I wasn’t going to ask her. This afternoon was about celebrating Katya’s life, not mourning her demise.
42.
TYLER
NOW
The moment I walked in, I knew it was a mistake to meet Rachel at the Hungarian Pastry Shop. I’d expected it to be empty on a Thursday afternoon, a week after commencement. It was the quietest time on campus, a short respite before summer classes started next week. Contrary to my expectations, the place was teeming with people. The day had turned sticky after the rain this morning but it was nice and cool inside, the AC unit above the door blasting cold air. Rachel was already there, sitting in the back at what seemed to be her favorite table.
“I’m sorry I couldn’t meet yesterday,” I said when I joined her with a plate of baklava and a cup of coffee. “Are you okay?”
“I’m totally freaked out. I can’t believe they’re writing all these things about you.” Her voice was low, strained.
I frowned. “Don’t worry about it.”
“I just want you to know that I didn’t say anything,” she said, staring at her cup. “I have no idea who spread the rumor about us, but it wasn’t me.”
“I didn’t think it was you.”
“I should have denied it.” She looked up. “But I was caught off guard. I thought that no matter what I said they could twist my words, make them mean anything out of context, so I thought it better not to comment.”
She seemed so nervous, scared like a little bird. “You have nothing to apologize—”
“You’ve done so much for me,” she continued, ignoring my words, “and this is how I repay you.” Her eyes were moist with tears. I wanted to reach over and take her hand and comfort her. But I knew better.
She must have sensed my thoughts because she sighed and, picking at her chipped nail polish, she said, “Most of all I want to apologize for that time.”
I shook my head. “It was entirely my fault. You were barely coherent with grief.”
Rachel had lost her mother just after the winter break. She was particularly devastated about not making it home in time. That her mother had died without her by her side. By the time Easter rolled around, between the stress of her thesis, her responsibilities as a TA, and the guilt around her mother’s death, she’d unraveled. We’d been sitting right here, in the Hungarian Pastry Shop, talking about her thesis when she’d folded over her notebook and started crying midsentence. I’d wrapped my arm around her and walked her out. The streets were empty, everyone gone for the Easter weekend. We’d wandered for a bit in the park by the river. It was an unseasonably cold Good Friday but she’d said the wind felt refreshing, it cleared her head. Eventually, we’d sat on a bench and I’d taken her hand and told her that everything would be okay. We’d stayed like that listening to the birds chirping in the trees, the light vanishing around us. And then she’d looked up and kissed me.
I chased the memory away and took a bite of baklava, then pushed the plate toward her, but she shook her head.
“I didn’t know what I was doing,” she said.
“It was only human. We both needed it.” It had taken me some time to disengage. It’d felt good. Different. Intoxicating. Lana and I don’t kiss like that anymore, I’d thought on the way home that night.
Rachel took a sip of her coffee and looked at me, biting her lips.
“It was a special moment,” I said, and smiled, hoping to reassure her. I couldn’t let her feel guilty.
She nodded. Thought about it. “I’m sorry about you and Lana. I hope I didn’t facilitate your—”
“Of course you didn’t. It was just a kiss.” I stared at her, hoping to cement the point. Not that Lana would have been thrilled to hear about it but, to our credit, we’d stopped there. Still, I’d felt so guilty about the intimacy I’d allowed to develop between the two of us that, like an idiot, I’d told Lana there had been someone else. She of course took it to mean a full-blown affair. But in many ways, such intimacy was a worse betrayal than a booze-fueled one-night stand. I should know after the other day with that girl. I barely even remembered what she’d looked like.
“Infertility is hard on coup
les,” I told Rachel. “Research shows that those who are unsuccessful break up at three times the rate of those who succeed.”
She studied me uncertainly.
“The irony is,” I continued, “if Lana and I had known when we met that for whatever reason we couldn’t have kids, it wouldn’t have destroyed us. We would have gone straight to donor egg or surrogacy or adoption. What killed us were the grueling years of ‘trying for a baby.’ Lana kept her eyes on the prize. She didn’t know how to stop and take a break. I used to love that about her. Ever since we’d first met.” I smiled at the memory. “It’s hard to believe that it ended up being the very thing that got in the way of our relationship.”
Rachel was listening, lips parted, hands folded in her lap. Her coffee stood abandoned to the side. “How did you guys meet?”
I told her about Kilimanjaro.
“Seriously?” Rachel leaned closer over the table. “That’s so romantic.”
“Lana had just finished her PhD at Columbia,” I said, “and I was about to start teaching there in the fall.” I shrugged as if that somehow explained it all. In our eyes it had. It was meant to be, we’d thought. The hubris of youth.
Rachel was nodding. I didn’t share that last bit with her. She had plenty of time to enjoy being young and foolish. I’d done enough damage as it was.
We reconfirmed our agreement to keep our distance. She would have to find a new adviser in the fall. In the meantime, she was teaching a philosophy intro course in the summer session. I recognized some of the titles I’d recommended in the pile of books by her mug. I wished her good luck with the course and a good summer and left without as much as a hug. We’d looked at each other awkwardly. Hesitated. There were too many students around, too many familiar faces, too many glances in our direction. It was better for both of us, I’d decided, opting for a pat on the shoulder.
I felt like such a schmuck.
And as one does in times like that, I walked straight into a bar, an old favorite dive of mine on Amsterdam.
* * *
It must have been past midnight. I was quite smashed. Not a bad feeling. The scratchy voice of Tom Waits came over the sound system. A moody Celtic-flavored ballad. It was the perfect soundtrack for the scene: dark, damp, and deserted. There were three other guys there, slouched over their drinks. The buff, middle-aged guy behind the bar was talking to one of them at the other end. The booths behind us were empty. It stank of fermented beer. The two TV screens were old and bulky, both showing different soccer games.
The music reverted to a mishmash of accordion, stomping feet and Tom Waits shouting in Russian raz, dva, tri, cheturie.
Ironically, the very reasons that had made Lana and me grow apart—the endless infertility struggle—had brought Rachel and me together. I took a sip. Tom Waits was singing “I’ll shoot the moon,” accompanied by what sounded like the plucking of a saw, a horn, and who knows what else.
They say intimacy is built on baring your soul. On making yourself vulnerable. That was where I went wrong. That was my original sin.
I should have come clean to Lana. Instead, I’d gotten deeper into it.
My tongue felt thick and heavy. I took another sip. Listened to the brooding, melancholic song. Something about November. I had a feeling we’d already heard that one. Great. The Black Rider album on a continuous loop. My head was already fucked-up.
Go away you rainsnout, Tom Waits sang, Go away, blow your brains out.
The room swiveled. Drinking is like falling for someone—you don’t realize you’ve gone too far until it’s too late to do anything about it. And you find yourself smooching on a bench like a horny teenager, wrecking your life and the lives of those around you.
* * *
I woke up curled up in the back of a cab, the driver knocking on the plastic partition: “Sir, we’re here,” he shouted in a strong Pakistani accent. “Sir?”
I sat up, feeling woozy, my head heavy. I glanced at the fare, pulled out my wallet, and handed him a $20. “Keep the change,” I said, and squeezed out of the car.
I took a step, then another. Paused to collect myself before tackling the stairs to the building’s entrance. I pulled out my keys and, after some juggling trying to find the right one, I managed to open the door. I got into the elevator and was about to press the fifth-floor button when I realized this was my old building. Lana’s building.
I’d given the cabbie the wrong address. I hesitated, my finger hovering over the button. I pictured Lana curled up on the right side of the bed—her side—the covers bunched around her waist, the silky pajama camisole hugging her skin. What if I simply let myself in and slipped under the covers next to her?
The very thought sobered me. I turned and walked out. I was in enough trouble as it was.
43.
LANA
NOW
Damian was sitting on a bench next to one of the cannons, facing the monument. As he’d predicted, there was nobody around. That had sounded like an advantage earlier but as I approached Riverside Drive, I started to feel uneasy. The sun wouldn’t set for another two hours but on this gray muggy early evening, the park looked dark and desolate. He stood up as he saw me and, following our awkward hellos, waited for me to sit down before joining me. He pulled a flask from his pocket, unscrewed the cap, and offered it to me.
I shook my head. “I’m good, thanks.” I wondered how much he knew about me.
He took a sip and said, “I think I know what happened to Katya.”
“You do?” My heart sped up. I leaned toward him. “Have you told the cops?”
He screwed the cap back on and put the flask away. “I can’t,” he said, staring at his feet. His brown leather shoes seemed expensive. “They don’t know about me and Katya.” He looked at me. “I used a burner phone.”
I cocked my head, confused, but before I could ask why he would do that, he flipped his palms up defensively and said, “I have a wife and kids in the suburbs. I don’t want any trouble.”
So he was one of those guys. An apartment and a girl in the city for “late nights at the office.” Still, a burner phone? He was a pro.
“The point is,” he continued, “I know Katya paid ten grand to some dude for a green card marriage.”
I sat up. “She did?” Nick hadn’t mentioned it was a green card marriage. That made more sense. And it explained what she’d done with the money.
Damian bit his lower lip. “I told her it was a bad idea to give him the money in advance. In cash, at that. But she wouldn’t listen to me. She thought I was being jealous. That I wanted her for myself.” He kicked the ground with his heel. “I’ve been following the news but haven’t seen anything about that guy.”
“You think he—”
“I think he got rid of her once he got the money. He works at an Irish pub in Washington Heights. Just a few blocks from the river. Katya used to hang out there until the wee hours. It wouldn’t be that hard.”
An image of Nick’s heavily tattooed arm clasped around her neck flashed in front of my eyes and I shuddered. My hands were cold and clammy and I tucked them under my thighs. “Why cash?”
“She was worried about leaving a trail and the government figuring it out.”
I sighed. “Why tell me?”
“Who else? You have an interest in finding the guy. Unless of course it’s your ex-boyfriend, the professor. But if I was going to bet I’d go with the bartender.”
I nodded, unsure if I should feel grateful that he didn’t think Tyler could have done something to her, or pissed at him for bringing up Tyler.
“How do you know all that?” Tyler had been on the news, of course, but there had been no mention of me except for a fleeting reference as his ex-partner in a Post article.
“Katya told me she was going dancing that Saturday with her new friend, Lana. She was so excited to have met another
Bulgarian, she wouldn’t quit talking about you.” He took a sip from his flask. “I didn’t know what to think when I found out she was missing. I did a bit of digging. Followed you a couple of times, hoping you’d lead me to her.” He paused, looked at me. “I knew you worked at the museum.”
I nodded, remembering the uneasy feeling of someone watching me on my way home through the park. I hadn’t imagined it after all.
“What I didn’t know,” he continued, “was that she’d been screwing your boyfriend.”
Makes two of us, I thought, suddenly impatient. “So, what exactly do you expect me to do with this information?”
“Tell the cops so that they can get the motherfucker.”
“What is it to you? Sounds like you can toss away the affair along with your burner phone.”
He knocked his heels against each other, looked up at me. There was hurt behind the steel of his gray-blue eyes. “Believe it or not, I was thinking of leaving my family for her.”
Katya seemed to have had that kind of effect on men. I felt the sting of Tyler’s betrayal with renewed force.
Before I left, I asked, “How can I reach you?”
“You can’t.”
I squinted at him, surprised.
He shrugged. “I told you. I don’t want any trouble.”
I stood up to go, then hesitated. “Did she know you had a family?”
“No. But she knew I was hoping we would move in together. Why?”
“Just wondering,” I said, and bid him good-bye.
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