by Nicole Fox
“What about Zoya?”
I’m so surprised to hear the maid’s name come out of my mother’s mouth that I freeze for a second. Long enough for her to clarify her meaning.
“The pretty brunette maid. The groundskeeper’s daughter,” she says. “Maybe she would know where Mikhail is.”
“I know who she is. The important question is why you know who she is.”
“She has lived in the cottage on the estate since birth,” she says. “I’ve seen her before.”
“But never with Mikhail.” As far as I knew, Mikhail’s interest in Zoya was recreational. He enjoyed taunting the maids and making them uncomfortable. Even if he did ever decide to fuck one of them, he wouldn’t be sticking around to pillow chat afterwards. Zoya won’t know anything about where Mikhail is.
She nods slowly. “I’ve seen them together a few times.”
I’m not sure why but something like jealousy rises up in me. “Well, you won’t see her around anymore. She was fired a few days ago.”
My mother’s attention snaps back to me, her eyes wide. “Fired? Boris fired her?”
“He did. On my recommendation.” I cross my arms on the table in front of me and lean forward onto my elbows. I try to remain relaxed, but my mother doesn’t move or speak or turn her attention from me. I feel her eyes boring into me, and when I finally look up to meet her gaze, horror is written on her face.
“Did you have a particular liking for the maid?” I ask.
She clears her expression and then narrows her eyes at me in warning. “I hardly knew the girl, but every interaction I ever had with her was pleasant. I can’t see why you would recommend she be fired. Did Mikhail put you up to it?”
The suggestion that Mikhail would put me up to anything was insulting. He could hardly take care of himself, so why would my mother think he spent any time considering my actions? “And I can’t see why you are insistent upon tying Mikhail and the maid together. They didn’t know one another. Not well enough for him to care about her or vice versa.”
My mother looks down at the floor, the toe of her shoe pressing into the tiles, and twists her lips to one side. She looks nervous.
I stand up. I have too much energy to sit. The last few days have been constant activity and movement and this is the longest I’ve gone without being productive. Clearly, it allows for too many unwanted thoughts to flood in. That is why I can’t stop picturing the defiant set of Zoya’s mouth and the way her angry fist pressed into the curve of her hip.
“What are you not telling me?” My voice is not kind or gentle. In the past three days, I’ve learned too many secrets. About the rival family in St. Petersburg and Mikhail’s unorganized dealings. I’m not going to allow myself to be left out of another one.
“Does Zoya have another job?” she asks without answering me. “Will she be allowed to live in the cottage?”
“Boris gave her until today to leave the property.” I sigh and run a hand down the back of my neck. “But that does not answer my question. Why do you care about this maid?”
Her eyes go glassy, filling with tears. “She is pregnant.”
I shake my head. “I just saw her. She isn’t—”
“She is too early to be showing,” she says. “But she is pregnant. I know.”
“How?” I growl, tired of walking around the secret. “You said you hardly know this girl. How do you know she is pregnant?”
“Boris told me.”
My brow furrows. Boris hadn’t mentioned anything about Zoya being pregnant when I’d called him to rage about her. If he knew then, he clearly didn’t care. Enough so that he had no problem firing her and kicking her out of her house. Everyone knows Boris can be ruthless, but even I have to admit dismissing a pregnant woman on one mistake feels harsh.
“That still doesn’t explain why you care so much,” I say. “Or why you seem to care more about this maid than your own son. He is missing, you know. I’ve called every one of his friends and dealers I can think of, but no one has seen him. I might have been the last person to see him. I know you and Mikhail aren’t exactly close, but he is still your son and—”
“The baby is Mikhail’s.”
The words die in my mouth. A tear slips down her cheek, and she quickly wipes it away.
“Mikhail is the father,” she says again in case I didn’t understand the first time.
“Did Boris tell you that, too?” I ask. If he did, I don’t care that he is my uncle; I’ll knock him on his ass. I am third in line to being the boss, and I shouldn’t be kept in the dark on important family matters.
She shakes her head. “I just know.”
I wring my hands at my side. “That isn’t something you can just know, Mother. Someone had to have told you. Mikhail or Zoya, maybe?”
“I haven’t talked to the girl. I was considering it, actually,” she says.
“Does Mikhail know?”
“I don’t know what Mikhail knows. He doesn’t tell me anything.”
“You aren’t making any sense.” I drop back down into the kitchen chair and roll my head on my shoulders, trying to ease the tension in my muscles. “If you haven’t talked to Zoya or Mikhail, and Boris didn’t tell you, then I don’t understand how you can be sure about anything.”
“Because I am.”
I throw my hands up and push away from the table. “I’m done. I came here to see if you knew where Mikhail was and clearly you don’t, so I’m leaving.”
“You don’t have to go,” she says quickly, stepping forward and reaching out for my arm.
I move out of her reach. “I do. You aren’t telling me anything, and I don’t have time to waste talking about nothing. I have to find Mikhail.”
Before she can say anything, I walk out of the kitchen and down the hallway towards the door. I know it will likely prove fruitless, but I pull out my phone to call the rehab facility again. Maybe Mikhail went on one final bender before checking into rehab. It wouldn’t be the first time. Maybe he has finally checked into the facility and all of my worry has been for nothing.
I’m halfway through dialing the number for the facility, which I’ve memorized by this point, when my phone begins to ring. It is a number I don’t recognize, but I answer it immediately.
“Aleksandr, wait,” my mother says, following me into the entryway.
I wave for her to be quiet. “Hello, Aleksandr Levushka speaking.”
“Mr. Levushka.” The voice on the other end of the line is soft and female. “I am Detective Petrov with the Moscow Police.”
I feel the blood draining from my face as she continues speaking. It takes all of my energy to remain standing, but as soon as I hang up the phone, I sag against the wall.
Chapter 8
Zoya
Boris actually fired me.
The son of a bitch fired me just because his asshole nephew asked him to. Years of good service and loyalty tossed aside in one decision. I wouldn’t be quite as angry if I hadn’t expected more of Boris. My mother had warned me to be more professional, but I’d assumed my relationship with Boris was stronger than that of any regular employer and employee. I’d grown up on his estate and worked for him for four years. Apparently, I’d been wrong.
And now, it had cost me everything.
“You should never have yelled at Mr. Levushka,” my mother says, wringing her hands in her apron while she stands in our small kitchen. Pots are steaming behind her on the stove. It is the first meal she has cooked for me since she found out I was pregnant. It is unfortunate that it took me getting fired for her to talk to me.
“There are so many ‘Mr. Levushkas’ that I can’t keep them straight,” I sigh, leaning forward to rest my head on my folded hands. “You’re talking about Aleksandr.”
“Yes, obviously!” she snaps. “I could hear the two of you arguing halfway down the hallway. It was unprofessional. You should have just done what he asked.”
“I’m not his servant,” I say, repeating the same argument I made to Alek
sandr. “I am a maid, and I have rights. It was my lunch break. I shouldn’t have to jump up and take care of him while my food gets cold.”
“Well, now you won’t even have food to get cold,” she says, shaking her head. Her hair is graying at the temples, wiry wisps of it sticking out in every direction. I don’t remember her having gray hair before Father died. “You don’t have food or a house or a job. And you are pregnant.”
“I’m well aware, but thank you for reminding me.”
My mother spoons me out a bowl of soup, slides it across the table, and drops a spoon against the ceramic edge. “Eat,” she commands, walking across the small kitchen to her bedroom door in the back corner. Just before she disappears inside, she calls over her shoulder. “And enjoy it while you can.”
Since I no longer had to spend my days working, I had two entire days to tour as many apartments in St. Petersburg as possible. The trouble is that, since I no longer have a job, I can’t afford anything on the nice side of town. And even in the shadier areas of the city, a studio apartment runs for half of what I make per month as a maid.
A dark-skinned woman with tight curly hair and heavy mascara stands in the corner of the studio apartment I am touring with her arms crossed tightly over her chest, looking as though she is doing her best not to touch anything. I can’t blame her. The yellowing tile floors are sticky with an unknown substance, the carpet has misshapen stains around the corners of the room that look like water damage or blood, and when I open the single cabinet in the bathroom, I find a roach belly-up inside. It shows how desperate I am that the fact that it is dead gives me great solace. Maybe it means they’ve recently sprayed for pests. I highly doubt that, though, so I don’t ask the woman. I’d rather remain in denial.
“And it is a month-to-month lease?” I ask.
She nods. “Yes. Our leasing program is very flexible.”
It has to be flexible. The only tenants a place like this would have are people so desperate and down on their luck that they’d live here rather than on the streets. Then, as soon as they are back on their feet, they get the hell out. That’s my plan, anyway. I have enough savings from my maid position to get me through two months—maybe three if I really skimp—and as soon as I find a decent-paying job, I’ll cancel my lease and find a place where I could actually imagine caring for a baby.
A baby. The thought sends a bolt of panic through me.
When my mother wasn’t speaking to me, I still knew I had a place to turn if I needed it. I knew that she would soften towards me and the child once she saw it. We would live in the cottage with my mom until I felt ready to get a place of my own. I would take my time and make sure I was financially secure. Now, however, that was all out the window. I was jobless and homeless and desperate.
And pregnant, I imagine my mother saying, making sure I didn’t forget for a moment how bad my situation was.
As much as I didn’t want to stand in this studio apartment let alone live in it, I didn’t have a choice. It was the only place I could afford to stay for two months without a paycheck coming in. So, if it did take me awhile to find a job, I’d at least have a roof over my head. For two months.
“I’ll take it.”
Almost as soon as the words were out of my mouth, the woman from the building’s front desk led me back down to the leasing office to sign paperwork, letting out a sign of relief once she stepped into the hallway.
My mother is too busy working to help me pack, so I do most of it by myself. Though, Samara stops by during her lunch break one day to say goodbye.
“This is so unfair,” she says, folding the comforter from my bed into a tight rectangle and then rolling it like a sleeping bag. “You are one of the best maids Boris has. Why would he fire you?”
“Because of cold soup.” I shrug and roll my eyes.
“I can’t believe Aleksandr would get mad about something like that.” She shoves the rolled-up comforter into the corner of a box that holds a pillow folded in half and three of my old sketchbooks from my nightstand. “He was always the reasonable one. Not nice, exactly, but he didn’t order us around like the other men in the family.”
“There was more to it,” I admit. “His room wasn’t ready, and I didn’t jump at the chance to take care of it the moment he asked.”
Samara pinches her lips together nervously. “Yeah, I may have overheard some of the other staff talking about the argument. You all had a captive audience, apparently.”
My face flushes. “I didn’t realize anyone was listening.”
“Nadia said she walked into the kitchen during the fight and saw you two standing pretty close,” Samara says, her voice soft even though it is just the two of us in the cottage. “She thought you were going to start making out until you started fighting.”
The memory of Aleksandr’s hand wrapped around my bicep and his flat stomach and chest pressed against my body makes me feel warm from the inside out. I shake my head. “We definitely were not going to make out. He hates me.”
Samara sits on the corner of my bare mattress and sighs. “That doesn’t make any sense. Especially since Mikhail always seemed to like you so much.”
“Just because they are twins doesn’t mean they have the same taste in women.”
“I know that,” she says. “But you’d think Aleksandr would take his brother’s feelings into consideration when trying to get you fired.” Then, she gasps. “What if he did take his brother’s feelings into account?”
I raise an eyebrow and look over my shoulder at her. “You aren’t making any sense. Mikhail and I weren’t going steady or something. We barely ever spoke.”
“And what if Aleksandr wanted to keep it that way?” she asks. “What if Mikhail really liked you, but the family didn’t think him dating a maid would be a good look? What if he got you fired because of that?”
The insinuation that I am not good enough for one of the Levushka brothers stings more than I expect, but I brush the hurt away quickly. “Trust me, that is not the reason. It is definitely because I called him a spoiled brat and refused to follow his orders.”
“You called him a spoiled brat?” Samara asks, eyes wide.
“Not in so many words, but yes.” I bite back a smile. The insult likely cost me my job, but I’m still a little glad I stood up for myself.
“Wow.” Samara stands up and begins throwing shoes from my closet into a duffel bag. “I just feel bad because none of it would have happened if I’d been there.”
I spin around before she can even finish the sentence. “Your mom was in the hospital, Samara. This is not your fault.”
“She broke her wrist,” she says, rolling her eyes. “I should have known my mother was being dramatic about the entire thing. If I’d asked more questions, I would have stayed at work and been there to make the kurniks, which means you would have had your lunch at the normal time, so when Aleksandr came in looking for help with his room, you would have been available.”
“Even if that is all true, I probably still would have called him a spoiled brat. Because he was being a spoiled brat.”
Samara laughs and shakes her head. “God, I’m going to miss you.”
“I’m moving away, not dying.”
“I know, but it won’t be the same.”
I nod and do my best to fight back the wave of tears threatening to overcome me. I’ve been avoiding crying for days because if I cry, I’m not sure when I’ll stop. So, it is better to keep it all inside.
“Do you have a job yet?” she asks.
“Not yet. The only experience I have is cleaning up after people, but I’m not sure I want to get another maid job. I interviewed at a diner this morning, but they said I won’t hear back until tomorrow.”
Samara grabs a bundle of my clothes and throws them, hangers and all, on the bed. “Do you really have the time to be picky? You’ll start showing soon, and then nowhere will want to hire you.”
I know she is right, but settling for a shitty job and a shi
tty apartment is way too much shit to bear at once. “I have a little bit of time. I’m only nine weeks pregnant, so I have plenty of time on that front, and living with my parents has allowed me to put away a bit of money for rent.”
Even though I’m not showing, the nausea and exhaustion has been a killer. Just the thought of being on my feet all day, as a maid or a waitress, makes me want to lay down and take a nap. But those are the jobs I’m most likely to get, so I’ll just have to push through. If I can prove myself to be a valuable employee, then hopefully my employer won’t be upset when I need to take time off for doctor’s appointments and maternity leave—if I even get maternity leave.
“I’m glad it helped you out somehow,” Samara says. “No offense, but living with your parents sucks in just about every other way.”
I look around at the room I’d grown up in. Half of the stuff was packed away, but I’d decided to leave the pictures on the wall. I would let my mother decide what to do with them. My dabbling in graphic design seemed to mean more to her than it did to me, anyway. “It wasn’t so bad.”
Samara puts her hands on her hips and turns to me, eyebrows raised. “How many men have you been with in the last year?”
I hesitate like I’m thinking, but I don’t even need to. I know the answer immediately. “One.”
My answer must be worse than Samara thought because her eyes go wide and her shoulders slump. “One guy? You slept with one guy all year and got pregnant?”
I bite my lip and shrug. “I guess so.”
“That fucking sucks.”
“Tell me how you really feel,” I joke, kicking her softly in the ankle.
“Sorry,” she says. “But that is depressing. I hope he was a good lay, at least.”
I turn away before she can read my expression. If she knew I’d only slept with one guy all year, and I can’t even remember it, she would probably think I was the most pitiful thing she’d ever seen. And my life is pitiable enough without throwing the unknown baby daddy into the mix.